Chapter Four

CHAPTER FOUR

"D o you know what your problem is?"

These were the first words Fanli spoke to me the next day when he found me sitting alone by the lotus pond, my fingers skimming the water. The coolness of it felt divine, like silk against skin. It was a strange thing to realize that I might never have to wash silk again in my life.

I jerked my head up, then hastily wiped my wet hands on my robes. I had not been expecting Fanli so soon. The evening before, he had said he planned to see each of us alone, to better assess what our strengths and weaknesses were and tailor our training accordingly. I'd thought he was still with Zhengdan, who'd been away so long by the time I woke that her sheets had already turned cold.

"My problem?" I echoed, somewhat affronted. "What?"

He sat beside me, taking his time to smooth the layered fabrics of his robes before replying, "You wear everything you feel on your face."

I blinked. "I don't—"

"You do," he countered calmly. "For instance, right now you are wondering how I even came to such a conclusion."

"That's not—"

"And now, you are wondering how I read you so easily."

I felt a prickling of annoyance. Worse, he was right. "Those are just guesses."

"Is that so?" He cocked his head just so, a small smile flickering over his lips. "You are now contemplating how it is that I'm right. And you would not mind if I were to fall into the water."

"I'm not," I lied, biting the inside of my cheek. How did he know ? I was suddenly self-conscious of every shift in my facial muscles, every minor movement in my body. Was I giving something of myself away, even now?

"Don't be self-conscious," he said, smiling still. He reached over and placed his palm above the surface of the pond, in the very same place I had touched the water moments earlier. I watched the silvery light ripple over his skin. His hands were surprisingly slender for a swordsman, each bone as long and delicate as the shaft of an arrow. "You see how easily the water changes upon the slightest breeze, the faintest stir of the lotus petals, the lightest touch?" As he spoke, he skimmed his fingers over the water, and the pond rippled, our reflections distorting within it. "It is the same with your expressions. I do not have to look hard to tell if you are overjoyed; if you are homesick; if you are resentful. Only yesterday, I could see when the sight of a flock of geese soaring through the skies delighted you, or when the sound of the flowing creek reminded you of something tragic."

It was an unwelcome shock to know your most vulnerable thoughts were all but public to those who cared enough to read them.

"Then tell me," I said, angling my chin higher, willing my features to flatten, to prove him wrong, "what am I thinking at present?"

Perhaps it was a mistake to challenge him. To invite his full attention. As he searched my face, I could focus on nothing but the unnatural darkness of his eyes, the curious sensation of the air thinning between us. When his gaze drifted lower, down to my nose and lips, there came a fierce rushing in my chest, like the howl of wind over a sheer cliff.

In the same instance, something beneath his calm mask flinched. He drew back, just an inch, yet enough for the change to feel significant. "You are thinking," he said slowly, looking out at the courtyard instead, "of something you know you should not."

Warmth rose up the nape of my neck. "So what is your point?"

"My point is that it is a dangerous thing for a spy to wear their emotions so openly. If the king detects something off, the entire mission falls apart. But," he added, perhaps sensing my despair, "this can be controlled over time. As with anything, it is a matter of willpower and technique."

"How?"

"Look here," he said, gesturing to the pond. The water had stilled, and the surface served as a mirror. I gazed down at my own features. It is always difficult for one to see themselves with any objectivity, but I had come to understand that the slender column of my neck was pleasing, the natural cherry-red tint of my lips harmonious with my thick-lashed eyes and small nose. Yet when I looked closer, I saw for the first time how my lips were puckered at the edges, as if I had tasted something sour, and my brows were knitted together, as though in confusion. "Try to smile."

I tried. My mouth curved, but my eyes remained dark and heavy.

"If you smiled at me like that," Fanli said, a wry note to his voice, "I would think you were plotting to murder me."

I watched my reflection twist instantly into a scowl. A scowl which only deepened when I realized just how obvious the changes in my expression were.

Fanli laughed aloud.

The shock of the sound wiped my face free of any irritation. It was the first time I had heard him laugh; I'd been starting to wonder if he even knew how.

But he composed himself just as quickly. "Try again," he suggested. "This time, think of the mind and body as two separate entities. There is no connection between them. Your body is merely a tool, a canvas, a weapon. It is entirely subject to your control."

Again, I smiled at nothing, feeling more and more like a fool by the minute. The planes of my face remained stiff as ever. I could deceive nobody, not even myself. Had Zhengdan also been subjected to this? For some reason I doubted it; though she was blunter than I in many ways, she also did not experience such intense emotions.

"Perhaps we will find another approach," Fanli decided. "But I'd suggest you practice as often as you can with a mirror. Study your expressions. See how they change, what causes those changes. That is one place to begin, at least."

The fake smile slipped from my face. I sighed and massaged my cheeks. This was not quite the type of training I'd had in mind.

"Patience. There will be other things to come," Fanli said. "But I want you to practice this for the time being."

I was not as well trained in reading expressions as he, but even I could see the dismissal written over his features. I rose to my feet and began to leave—

"Are you not going to curtsy?"

I froze mid-step, then forced myself to turn back slowly, to lower my head and bend my knees. The position felt so unnatural that I feared I would topple over at any second. I was like a foal, just learning to stand. My legs shook beneath me.

"Yes," Fanli murmured, half to himself, "I see we will have to work on that as well."

"How was your meeting with Fanli?" Zhengdan asked from the doorway.

I was sitting before a bronze mirror in our chambers, assessing my expressions as critically as possible. I did not know how much control I could exert over my muscles, but I was growing rather tired of my own face.

"Lovely," I told her. "He believes I cannot hide anything."

"He believes I cannot charm anyone," Zhengdan said. She walked across the room and sat beside me, her head coming to rest on my shoulder. "I suppose that is further reason why you are the concubine, and not me."

I had to laugh. "So what does he propose for your training?"

Zhengdan's reflection glowed in the mirror, her eyes bright, her skin suffused with healthy color. We had only been away from our village a day, but already she looked more alive than I'd ever seen her. "He asked me to show him my hands instead."

"Your hands?"

She nodded. "It was quite astounding, really. He took only one glimpse of them and said that he knew I trained with a sword in secret. He even seemed to know how long I had been training for, and the general extent of my abilities."

I thought about the sharp, calculating look in his eyes, like he could see everything.

"I was worried he would give me the usual lecture," Zhengdan said, "about how it is unfitting for a young woman to fight, or how it would only scare men away. But guess what he said."

I shook my head, mystified. There was a smile sneaking its way up the corners of her lips.

"He's going to instruct me in swordsmanship. Proper swordsmanship." Her words tumbled out in a rapid, excited stream. "For one, it will allow me to better protect you. But he also wants me to focus on the Wu military. While you distract the king from his duties, I'm to observe the movements of their soldiers and watch their training. As a palace lady, it will be easier for me to slip in and out without people noticing."

I tried to smile at her. I was happy for her; I knew she was most herself when she had a sword in her hands. But at the same time, I was reminded again that the burden of bewitching the king fell on me and me alone. If I failed, everything would be rendered futile. All these people, all those lives, the weight of kingdoms balanced on my shoulders, and here I sat, unable to even school my features into an expression of false delight.

It did not help that Zhengdan peered at me then, and observed, "You look worried."

"I will fix that," I said, focusing on the mirror again. My brows were pinched, my mouth pressed into a tight, anxious line. "I just need to practice."

At night, I tucked myself into a foreign bed, miles and miles away from home—but still the old nightmare found me.

It was always the same. The same place, the same time. The same beginning.

Susu and I were alone in the house when they came; our parents had left for the forest to gather fresh wood for the coming winter. Already the air was so cold I could see Susu's breaths clinging to the air when she laughed. I was telling her a story about Nüwa, and how she had made the first mortals.

"She took great care, handcrafting them and shaping them from yellow clay," I said, smiling as Susu slumped against my legs, her small mouth open in mid-yawn. "These became the nobles and royals."

"And the rest?" She had only learned to speak the year prior, and her words came out in a mumble. Sometimes she grew frustrated when she could not express herself as clearly as we could. But that was fine, we reassured her, she had plenty of time to learn.

"And the rest were created when she was tired. She dipped a long rope into mud and she swung it, and the droplets that landed became commoners. Like us."

Susu frowned. "You're not made of mud."

"No?"

"You are made of flowers," she said decisively, crawling onto my lap. She was getting too heavy to do so, but I sat back without protest and let her anyway, stroking her soft hair, inhaling the sweet milk scent of her skin. I would protect her with my life, I thought to myself. "And rainwater. And silk. And lanterns. You are made of good things."

And that was when the shrieks started.

In my nightmares I felt my panic more sharply than I had even in memory, a feeling so intense it tore through my whole body. Because I knew how this ended. I knew there was no escaping it, even as I pulled Susu into the cramped closet with me, even as I buried us in old coats and tried to hold on to her squirming body.

"We must hide," I whispered into her ear. My heart was pounding so loud I could hear it in the dark space, its every strained, heaving movement, the rush of blood like wind. "Please—Susu, listen to me—you have to keep quiet—"

But she had started crying. "Mama," she choked out. "Mama, I want Mama —"

The crash of the door. The pounding of footsteps. Something cracking.

The soldiers were here.

"Mama," Susu sobbed, pulling back from my arms, her short legs thrashing. She was strong for her age; each kick was hard enough to bruise, but I didn't let go. "I'm scared . Mama, take me to find Mama—"

"She'll be back," I whispered, desperation squeezing my throat hoarse. I was trembling. Through the crack in the closet doors, I could see the soldiers storming into the room. Two men, their dark hair cropped, their swords stained with blood. "Just stay here, and we'll be safe, I promise. Don't go out."

Susu shook her head furiously and twisted her torso away from me, wrenching her arms free. The sleeves of my robes were damp with her tears. Her tiny fists pushed against the closet door—

"Susu—"

I tried to grab for her. I tried to reach for the doors. But my fingers curled around nothing, and in the instant she stumbled out from the closet, a terrible physical pain seized my heart.

No.

Not now.

The illness that had plagued me since childhood. The curse I could not cure. My body failed me; it felt as though someone had thrust a spear into my chest, the blade sliding between my ribs. I doubled over, gasping, useless, as Susu walked straight into the soldiers.

Please.

Don't hurt her. My mouth moved silently over the words, the pain burning through my blood. She is only a child. I promised to teach her how to ride a horse, and braid her own hair, and tomorrow our mother is making her favorite lotus root soup, which she has been looking forward to for weeks. This war—your territory—the difference between kingdoms—it means nothing to her. It means nothing at all. Just let her live.

When the sword rose, I searched the soldier's face. I did not know what I wanted to find—perhaps the faintest trace of hesitation, of remorse, of self-loathing. But it was like staring into a tiger's eyes as it mauled its prey. There was only darkness. The gleam of violence.

The sword streaked through the air.

Blood splattered the floor. Her blood. The blood we shared.

And I was screaming, screaming until my throat split open, until I could taste the copper on my tongue, until I couldn't see her anymore—

My eyes snapped open. I lay on the bed, my hand clutching my chest, remembering how to breathe. There was an ache in me, like a decayed tooth.

Susu.

Across the room, under a sliver of filtered moonlight, Zhengdan turned onto her side, snoring softly. Outside, the branches rustled, a cicada chirped, the river water flowed onward. All was peaceful. But something about it felt unreal, like this was the dream. Perhaps I had not been awake since Susu was taken from me.

For the rest of the night, I stayed staring up at the ceiling, my fingers itching with the promise of revenge.