Ming explained that if the deceased died within the amount of time that corresponded to the type of wound, it was determined to be caused by the wound, but if death came after the prescribed period, it was not due to that wound, and the person who inflicted it could not be accused of murder.
When Cí said he thought it was more sensible to treat each case individually, Ming shook his head.
“We have laws for a reason. Hasn’t your rebellious streak gotten you in enough trouble?”
Cí hung his head to signal he had nothing more to add. But he wasn’t so sure about the laws. Yes, they were surely crafted with good intentions, but the rules had also allowed someone like Gray Fox to become an Imperial official. The thought of it made Cí’s stomach hurt, but he continued with his work, speculating about what exactly had become of Gray Fox.
Winter went by in a flash, but when spring arrived, Cí was in turmoil.
He began waking up from nightmares so vivid he would search for Third in the darkness. He’d then spend the rest of the night trembling, terrified and alone, feeling the absence of his family. Feng came to his mind at points, and he wished he could be under his wing again.
One afternoon he decided to seek solace and company at the Palace of Pleasure.
The girl he chose was kind to him; Cí would even have gone so far as to say she was sweet. Her caresses didn’t avoid his burn marks, and her lips did things he’d barely imagined possible. In exchange for a few qián she gave him brief respite.
He began going back to see the same girl every week. And one cloudy evening as he was leaving, he ran into Gray Fox, who was drinking and being rowdy with a moronic little retinue but who sobered up when he saw Cí. The scar on Gray Fox’s lip from Cí’s punch had altered his face considerably. Cí made a dash for the door, but Gray Fox and the others got there first; they held Cí’s arms as Gray Fox laid into him.
And because he couldn’t feel the blows and didn’t pretend to feel pain, they hit him harder and harder, until he could no longer move.
He woke up at the academy. Ming was mopping his brow with a cool cloth, showing as much care as a mother would show her child. Cí could barely move, and his eyes were swollen almost closed. Blackness swallowed him again. When he woke again, Ming was still with him.
Ming told him he’d been out for three days; a girl who seemed to know Cí had reported his situation. Ming and several students had brought him back to the academy.
“According to her, you were attacked by strangers. At least that’s what I’ve been telling people here.”
Cí tried to get up, but Ming told him to rest. The healer who had been to see him had recommended a couple of weeks’ rest, at least until his fractured ribs were better. Cí’s first thought was that he’d be missing important classes, but Ming told him not to worry and took his hand with all the sweetness of a “flower.”
“What you need now are prayers, not classes,” he said.
Ming cared for Cí through his recovery and praised him for all his hard work. But he reproached him too—his powers of analysis had made him aloof and isolated him from his peers.
At night, Ming’s words, along with the doubts as to his father’s honor, preyed on Cí’s mind. If he really wanted to achieve his dream, he realized, he’d have to purge the ghosts from his heart.
He decided to confess everything to Ming.
When he was able to walk, he went to Ming in his private apartments. His master was shrouded in a cloud of incense smoke as he carried out his nightly prayers, and when he opened his eyes he looked far away, his face waxy and pale. He invited Cí to sit. Cí did, though then he didn’t know where to begin.
“Whatever it is,” Ming said softly, “it must be important if you’ve decided to interrupt my prayers.”
Ming knew how to turn the burnt ends of a branch into a fine brush, just right for the job.
Cí poured out his heart, revealing everything: who he was, where he was from, the strange infirmity that prevented him from feeling pain, his time at the university, his time as assistant to Judge Feng, the deaths of his family members, his solitude. He told Ming about his father’s dishonor. He confessed that he himself was a fugitive, and that the corpse from the prefect’s test had been that of the very sheriff who had been tracking him.
Ming listened impassively, delicately sipping at his steaming tea. He looked as though he’d heard the story a thousand times. When Cí finished, he put his cup down and looked Cí firmly in the eye.
“You’re twenty-two now. A tree must always be held responsible for the fruit it bears, but not the other way around. Nonetheless, I believe that if you look deep in your heart, you’ll find reasons to be proud of your father. I see those reasons in you, in your wisdom, in the way you carry yourself, in your manners.”
“My manners? Since I’ve been back in Lin’an, my life has consisted of farces and lies, one after another—”
“You’re young and ambitious, and that makes you impetuous sometimes, but I don’t see you as heartless. If you were, this remorse, which prevents you from ever sleeping properly, wouldn’t be a factor. And as far as your lies go…” Ming took a sip of his tea. “This might not be good advice, but I would say you just need to learn to lie better.”
Ming got up and made his way to the library, returning with a book Cí recognized only too well.
“A butcher who has memorized the Songxingtong? A gravedigger who, despite having only just arrived in Lin’an, knows where to buy something as rare as cheese? A poor country boy who’s forgotten everything—except for a detailed knowledge of wounds and anatomy?” He looked Cí in the eye. “Did you really think you could fool me, Cí?”
Cí didn’t know what to say.
“I saw something in you. Behind all the lies, I saw the shadow of sadness. Your eyes were innocent and helpless. And you were begging for help.”
That night, for what felt like the first time in his life, Cí slept. But the next day, news came that overwhelmed him.
PART FIVE
23
Cí was up early, honoring his dead and cleaning Ming’s patio, like any other morning. After breakfast he hurried to the library and immersed himself in the compendium of forensic procedures he’d been working on, and which he was scheduled to present later that day. Halfway through the morning he realized he hadn’t included certain passages from the Zhubing Yuanhou Zonglun, or General Treatise of Causes and Symptoms of Illnesses, and he wanted to be sure to add some of the information it contained. The volumes he needed were in Ming’s apartments.
Unfortunately, Ming had been called away at the last minute to a meeting at the prefecture. If Cí waited for him to get back, he wouldn’t have his compendium ready in time for the presentation, but he was strictly forbidden from entering Ming’s apartments without permission.
This is a bad idea.
He pushed open the door to Ming’s library and felt his way forward in the darkness. He ran his hands over the shelves, and then shuddered when he came to the place where he knew the volume should be. There was a gap.
It wasn’t easy in the dark, but he didn’t want to light a lantern. Cí kept searching, and finally he found the volume he was looking for on Ming’s desk, underneath another silk-bound book.