Chen Yong kneeled beside her, and they filled the deep bronze bowl with spirit money—for Li Rong in his travels through the underworld. He brought his oval striker down against the flint, and after two strikes, a gold-foiled coin caught fire, curling around the edges. Soon the coins had turned into a small blaze. They remained kneeling, continued to feed the dancing flames with the foiled coins.
“I dream about him,” Chen Yong said in a low voice.
Ai Ling’s eyes snapped open. He was concentrating on the task of feeding the spirit money into the fire.
“I did as well. Once.”
“Was he well?”
She nodded. “He was himself—laughing, jesting.”
“I know my mother blames me for his death. I blame myself, too.”
She reached over to touch his shoulder. “He ventured to that dark mountain because of me—my duty. If anyone is at fault, I am.”
“It should have been me.”
Ai Ling leaned closer, not believing what she heard.
“Don’t you understand? I was in front of that wretched monster when his claws came down. If it had not made us switch positions . . .” Chen Yong punched the earth with a tight fist.
“Please don’t think that. Li Rong wouldn’t want you to carry this guilt.” She withdrew her hand and stared into the flames.
“He is at peace,” Ai Ling said after a heavy silence.
Chen Yong attempted a smile. He placed the last of the spirit money in the bowl and sat back on his heels, straightening, pulling his broad shoulders back.
“I’ll be leaving in a few months, on a ship for Jiang Dao,” he said.
Ai Ling could only stare. “Why?” she whispered.
“My father. I have to find him. I need to know if he’s alive.” He held himself still as a statue, in a pose of worship—or sacrifice.
“You can’t even speak the language. They won’t accept you there. You are Xian.” She spoke more vehemently than she intended. But Jiang Dao, across the wide expanse of turbulent seas? No. Please no.
“And you believe I’m accepted here?”
His measured tone stopped her short. “I accept you. You are more Xian than anyone I know.”
His smile reached his eyes this time. “But you know me. You simply see me as Chen Yong.”
The sun climbed above the tree line, casting warm rays into their small meadow. Chen Yong’s dark brows drew together as he spoke. “My features betray me. Each day I’m reminded I am half foreign by how others react to me—that I am something different from them.”
“You’ll let others tell you who you are?” Ai Ling spoke boldly, refusing to understand.
“You don’t know how it is. I’ll never find acceptance from strangers—no matter where I go.” Chen Yong shifted, drawing his knees up, resting his arms on them. “Those letters my father wrote to Master Tan, he spoke of me in each one, wondered how I was, what I liked, if I was diligent in my studies, if I grew tall . . .” His voice caught.
“I wish you wouldn’t,” she said.
“I’ll return. My home is here. I’ll bring a gift for you.”
Was he so thickheaded that he refused to see? Surely he knew, could guess, her feelings for him? If she loosened her hold on her own spirit just a fraction, she could hear his thoughts, feel his emotions. But it would be wrong—an intrusion. She had already betrayed his trust. And Ai Ling knew the inevitable truth; his heart belonged elsewhere.
They watched in silence as the flames slowly burned the spirit money into cinders. She said a small prayer for Li Rong, who would never have blamed them, even if they were unable to forgive themselves. And a prayer for the innocent servant girl at the restaurant, whose spirit had been overtaken by the night-worm fiends. Ai Ling watched as the last red ember flickered to darkness and saved her final prayer for Zhong Ye, the man who had held her father prisoner, coerced her to wed, and refused to die; the man who, she had discovered, loved her in his own twisted fashion, even as she was ending his life.
They ate a quiet meal on the knoll, sitting side by side, their backs pressed against the ancient carving. The meadow was a lush green, dotted along the edges with fallen leaves of crimson and gold. The scent of wet earth permeated the air.
Their food was cold, but fresh, the lotus paste buns sweet, the scallion flatbread thick and savory. The tea was lukewarm within the flasks.
“Eating like this reminds me of our journey,” Chen Yong said.
“I come here often with a snack. I think about it a lot.”
“And by snack, do you mean two sweet buns, a thick slab of bread, and lots of dried pork?” He laughed before she could retort. But the sound of it lifted her own spirit, and she chuckled despite herself.
“I usually just have a fruit myself,” he said.
Ai Ling tossed a persimmon into his lap. “I’m sorry if you don’t know how to eat properly.”
He threw his head back and laughed again. She tried to capture the moment like a sketch within her mind, the feeling of his shoulder pressed against hers, the warmth of the autumn sun on their faces.
Later, Ai Ling accompanied Chen Yong to the front gate. Her parents had said their farewells in the main hall, inviting him to visit again.
“What will you do now?” Chen Yong looked down at her as the birds trilled above them.
“Wed and have six children,” she said with a wry smile.
Chen Yong laughed. “I don’t think so. You were not meant to remain cloistered within the inner quarters.”
“No, probably not. Perhaps I’ll travel.”
His eyes widened, then he grinned. “I don’t doubt your capability to travel the world—and beyond.”
He extended his hand and she took it, did not pull back as he drew her to him in an embrace. She wound her arms tight around his back and pressed her cheek against his shoulder. He smelled of soap; the faint scent of sandalwood lingered in his clothing. She stepped back before he did. Ai Ling realized then she would be willing to leave her home, her family, everything, to be by his side—and the revelation stunned her.
“I’ll expect my gift,” she managed.
Chen Yong smiled and stepped through the door. He half turned to wave once, his golden eyes shadowed in the dying light—those eyes which were so strange to her at first, now as familiar as her own. Ai Ling struggled to keep her spirit anchored.
Look back again, she thought, and I will follow you.
Instead Ai Ling watched him walk away, with easy grace, until he turned the corner. She shut the heavy wooden door behind her and leaned against it, her chest tight with all the words she had not said, the tears hot upon her cheeks.
It was not until Taro came to wrap himself around her calf, purring a husky song, that she allowed herself to be led back to the house, lit brightly now against the twilight.
Acknowledgments
So many people along the way have helped to make the book you hold in your hands a dream realized. I’d like to thank my agent, Bill Contardi, who took a chance on a debut author with no previous credits. I couldn’t ask for a better advocate, with such sharp business acumen and wit. And to my editor, Virginia Duncan, who worked with me tirelessly to improve the story and prose. I’ve learned so much from our revisions together. Your insight amazes me. Thank you to Chris Borgman, who created a stunning cover, and Paul Zakris, for the incredible jacket and book design. And to all the wonderful people at Greenwillow Books—thank you, thank you, thank you!
I know I would not have made it this far without the encouragement and camaraderie of my talented critique group friends: Janice Coy, Rachel Gobar, Rich Walsh, Amber Lough, Eveie Wilpon, Kirsten Kinney, Mark McDonough, and Tudy Woolfe. There is a part of you in this novel. I look forward to our future journeys together as writers!
My gratitude to my Chinese brush painting teacher, Jean Shen, for sharing the dance of the brush with me. And my fellow brush painting classmates—I look forward to our time together each week.