Her father’s eyes widened. “Ah, I didn’t know. I am so sorry. He was a great colleague, and so kind. I knew you would be safe with him, that he would protect you.”
“A few months later a messenger arrived from Jiu Gong, carrying a letter from Master Tan. He didn’t know my father, but they shared a mutual acquaintance, who had spoken of me. He wondered if I was the same Chen Yong he knew of. I had to find out what he knew.” Chen Young rolled the jade beaded bracelet between his fingers, finally looked up to meet her father’s eyes.
“My life is indebted to you, Master Wen,” Chen Yong said, his voice steady as always. “But why—why did you risk your own life, your position at court, to save me?”
“How could I not help? You were an innocent newborn.”
“And did my birth father ever write?” Chen Yong asked after a pause.
Her father shook his head. “I suspect any letters addressed to me and sent to the Palace were confiscated and read.”
The disappointment showed so clearly on Chen Yong’s face. He tucked his mother’s jade bracelet back in his robe.
“Master Wen”—the uncertainty in his voice made him sound younger—“what else can you tell me about my mother and father?”
Ai Ling rose quietly and slipped out of the cozy study. She wanted to be alone—needed to prepare herself. Chen Yong was leaving the next day. When would she ever see him again?
20
Ai Ling tapped on Chen Yong’s bedchamber door at dawn. He was already dressed. She wasn’t surprised; he always rose early. His silk tunic was the color of wet sand.
They walked into the kitchen and pilfered red bean and lotus paste buns from the giant bamboo steamers. Ai Ling plucked out four buns with wooden eating sticks and wrapped them in a deep purple cloth for later. She also filled two flasks with hot tea and wrapped some salted pork with scallion flatbread in another muslin cloth. The persimmons in a cobalt bowl on the windowsill caught her eye. She grabbed two.
“Are we going far?” Chen Yong asked, laughing. Ai Ling responded by handing him the bundles and flasks to carry.
They passed her mother and father, taking tea in the main hall.
“You’re up early, Ai Ling.” Her mother smiled, her face beaming with pleasure.
Father sat beside her, with Taro nestled in his lap. “I’m sure Chen Yong and Ai Ling have much to catch up on.” He winked at his daughter as if they shared a secret. Ai Ling’s eyes widened in consternation.
“A peaceful morning to you.” Chen Yong bowed to her parents, saving Ai Ling from speaking.
“Enjoy your day together,” her mother said.
Her parents exchanged a glance. The twinkle in Father’s eyes and the small curve on Mother’s mouth were not lost on their daughter. Ai Ling spun on her heel and stepped from the main hall, before her parents did anything more to embarrass her.
The gravel in the courtyard crunched beneath their feet. Chen Yong pulled open the main door, and they slipped into the narrow alleyway, still damp and cold from the previous evening.
They strolled side by side toward the small gate of the town.
Ai Ling weighed her words before she broke their comfortable silence. “I’ve dreamed about her . . . Silver Phoenix.”
Chen Yong slowed his stride, turned to see her face. “What were the dreams about?”
“They’re hazy, unclear. I always wake with a sense of urgency.” With her hair damp from sweat, her heart galloping.
“You cannot draw meaning from them?”
She shook her head.
They walked past the rickety guardhouse, but a comment from the man on watch slowed her stride.
“Out early this morning, eh?” A dark, gaunt face peered from the hut. Ai Ling saw the familiar awe in his expression as his head bobbed in sudden recognition. “Mistress Wen! Out for another one of your strolls?” He cocked his head toward Chen Yong, then noticed her glare. “Enjoy yourself, miss.”
Chen Yong lifted one dark brow as they walked through the gates. “What was that about?”
“It’s been like this since I’ve returned. The town people consider me both martyr and oddity—someone they can gossip about at the markets.”
“What do they know of our journey?”
“Only that I wed a corrupt adviser to the Emperor, and that he died on our wedding night.”
“You’ve not spoken of what happened to anyone?” Chen Yong tilted his face to her, and she looked him square in the eyes.
“I’ve spoken to Father and Mother about it some. But who else can I tell? No one would understand, or believe me.”
“It hasn’t been easy,” Chen Yong said.
Ai Ling led him down a less traveled path, barely the width of a palm, winding between tall golden wild grass which reached beyond their knees. “It is fine,” she said and realized how terse she sounded. She drew a breath and turned, causing Chen Yong to nearly collide into her.
“They treat me with reverence, smile from a distance. The older women who knew me before my journey are kind. Their daughters, the few who are unmarried, try to befriend me, but”—Ai Ling gave her head a slight shake, feeling her single braid sweep against her back—“but I’m not interested.”
A small breeze rustled the grass. It undulated like waves, carrying the scent of burned rice fields. Chen Yong studied her in his quiet way, something that had always made the heat rise in her cheeks. This time, she simply met his gaze.
“Why not?” he asked.
Ai Ling’s eyes swept across the fields, to the dusty road that had led her away from home so long ago. How could she explain her need to be alone? To contemplate their incredible journey—to try and make sense of it. “How do I tell them that the feel of dragon scales beneath my hands is more real to me than the embroidery I’m working on?”
She saw a flicker of understanding in Chen Yong’s face. “They speak of betrothals, discuss bridal outfits and fertility recipes. Their life is nothing like my own.”
“You don’t wish to remarry?” Chen Yong asked.
This time, the heat did rise to her face. “Who wants a bride of such ill fortune?” Ai Ling turned and continued down the narrow path. “And you? Have your parents not arranged a betrothal yet?”
The silence lingered forever before his reply. “It’s too soon after Li Rong’s death.”
She released a breath, not realizing she had held it.
The grass gave way to slender birch trees, silver in the morning light. She stopped to arch her neck and look skyward; Chen Yong stood beside her and did the same. The sky was a deep indigo, reminding her of their chariot ride. A wild exhilaration radiated from her belly, expanded through her lungs and quickened the beating of her heart.
Ai Ling turned to Chen Yong, and realized only after he smiled at her that she grinned so widely her cheeks ached. They strolled through the trees, until they reached a small meadow with a moss-covered knoll. A stone figure no more than waist high perched on top of the mound, like a strange ancient ruler from another realm.
“What’s that?” Chen Yong nodded toward the statue.
“I don’t know, really. I found him during my wanderings.” She approached the rough-hewn figure, its lines smoothed by time, the crevices tinged green and brown. She ran her fingertips over the round head, bare except for deep grooves perhaps signifying hair. Her hands glided around the large, curved earlobes and generous nose.
“He’s my friend. I come here often, it’s a favorite place of mine.”
“You travel outside the town gates often?” he asked.
Ai Ling pursed her lips, amused. “I can take care of myself.”
“And your . . . ?” He traced a fingertip over the moss on the statue.
Ai Ling dropped to her knees and began to pull items from her knapsack—a bowl, gold- and silver-foiled spirit money. “My ability grew stronger after what happened. . . .”She did not want to speak Zhong Ye’s name. “I keep my spirit to myself; it’s too easy for me to hear others’ thoughts now, without some vigilance.”