Li Lei continued her meaningless writing as if she had no idea the others were there, but she wanted to look up, to see who claimed this street. She didn’t know the voice, but that meant little. For all her father’s leniency when they were in the country, in the city he’d followed custom. She’d seen her male neighbors from time to time; she had never spoken with them.
Her focus didn’t let her avoid the kick he aimed at her side, but it allowed her to roll with it—roll like a log oddly determined to stand upright, for she ended up on her feet, staring blankly at the air directly in front of her. Not seeing the three young men so close.
She began writing in the air with her stick.
“Come on, Zhi,” the tallest young man said to his friend, taking his arm. “Leave the poor bastard alone. You need more wine, eh?”
“Not enough wine in the whole cursed city,” said the third one—the one whose speech wasn’t slurred. “Not enough.” But he, too, allowed himself to be chivvied onward.
Li Lei continued painting the air as they left, but her heart was pounding. She’d recognized Zhi. He was the youngest son of the merchant Jiao, who trafficked in salt and spices. Her father had invested with Jiao sometimes. She wondered if he was still alive. And his wife, the sharp-tongued Yi Mé—had she survived?
Most had, actually. Death and madness might stalk the city, but the sorcerer was canny enough to leave most of the population alive. He needed the people of Luan to continue in their usual paths, or what was his power for?
His lover needed them for other reasons.
Li Lei sank down onto the street once more, sitting cross-legged. Thank you, Li Lei told her father silently, wiggling her toes. Had it not been for his disdain for commoners who aped the nobility, she might be teetering around now on tiny lumps of flesh, their bones liquefied after years of binding. No one would mistake her for a youth then, no matter how clever her disguise.
Or perhaps not. Her mother had not believed in foot binding, and her mother had been . . . fierce, she thought with a smile, for that loss had faded enough for smiles. Qian Ya Bai had been fierce indeed.
Of course, she added with fair-minded practicality, had her feet been bound, she would not have been able to run off in the first place. Perhaps her father had regretted his decision to leave her feet whole. She’d hurt him, she knew. Surely he had understood why she left . . . She had told herself he would, once he traveled past his anger. Understanding did not always wipe away pain, but it helped, surely?
Her own hurt had been keen when he remarried so swiftly after her mother’s death, but she had grown into understanding. He had needed a wife, and grief had led him to choose one very different from the fierce and beautiful Ya Bai. In time, Li Lei had understood that, and if understanding did not eliminate troubles, it eased the sense of betrayal.
Li Lei had never grown close to her stepmother, but she had adored the babies—Ji Wun, the boy whose arrival thrilled her father so, and the girls, little An Wei and An Mei . . .
Pain struck like talons ripping her gut. She folded over that grief, bending up like an old man passing a stone. But this stone wouldn’t pass. She rocked herself as she could not rock An Wei, who had been only a baby when Li Lei left. Ai, little An Wei, who had always laughed for her big sister, reaching up pudgy arms . . . Ji Wun, who had strutted around so imperiously in his new finery on his birthday . . . An Mei, whose shy smile had surely charmed the flowers into early bloom. Each so different from Li Lei, and so precious . . .
Time passed. She did not know how much. Eventually she was able to straighten and resume her wait.
She owed them this much. It wasn’t her gift, the ability to speak with the dead. But if any of those dear ghosts lingered—if they could reach her and wished to scream their anger or cry or simply be close—why, she could give them this.
Such an easy gift, when she herself wanted it so much! Wanted it in spite of her fears. She couldn’t help but wonder if her father blamed her for what had befallen his family . . . but she did not think he would. Surely madness didn’t accompany the dead into their land, and in life Wu An had never been one to make a sauce of blame to serve others while leaving his own plate unsauced.
But she had thought so herself, when she first heard. When Sam told her what had befallen Luan, and that her family was dead, she had feared the sorcerer had struck them down because he sought her.
Li Lei’s mother had been beautiful and fierce, yes. And if she’d passed all that ferocity and very little of the beauty to her daughter, that was just as well, for great beauty could be a trap. But along with her nature, she’d passed a more rare gift to her daughter. Magic.
Ya Bai had grown up in the tiny mountain village near the mine that produced much of Wu An’s wealth. Many there had some trace of demon blood; it was not unusual. Ya Bai had had more than a trace. No one was sure the type of demon, or else they would not say; nor did they know how far back the mating had occurred. But Li Lei’s mother had carried strong magic in her veins.
The sorcerer would surely have killed Li Lei with the others who possessed magic, but she hadn’t been here. Anyone could have told him she’d been gone for some time. His own vision would have told him that. He hadn’t set the Chimei to destroy her family in an effort to kill Li Lei.
She was almost sure of that.
One year and seven months ago, Li Lei’s stepmother had brought to their house the man she meant for Li Lei to marry—a merchant’s son, bashful and dull. A man she could easily have ruled. That was her stepmother’s thinking, and it was kind in its way, for Li Lei would infuriate most men.
But he lived in Beijing. So far away! Yet even that she might have forced herself to accept, were it not for the other gift from her mother, one which was bound up in the magic. Li Lei had seen the man and known she could not blend her bloodline with his. Not would not. Could not.
Perhaps her stepmother could not have been expected to believe her. Her father should have. She’d told him she would never bear children to that man. Just as her mother had known she would bear Wu An’s daughter, and only the one daughter, Li Lei had known she would never have babies if she married as she was bid.
She had to have babies—at least one baby. Her mother’s blood demanded it. As did her own heart.
And bah, how tedious that she circled back through that stale story now. She’d learned better than to let her thoughts run her, hadn’t she? Li Lei settled herself, body and mind, to the moment. However bitter and hard, she had this moment.
Her left knee ached. She’d banged it yesterday while avoiding the blow of a carter who had at least given up beating his beast to aim a fist her way. Her middle hurt, tight with grief. Her mind slowed.
After a time, the acrid scent of smoke tickled her nose. Smoke was a common scent, with so many cook fires in the city, but along with the smell came another sensation. One she knew well, but had no name for.
Several streets to the east, the darkness glowed red. Another fire had bloomed, this one in a good quarter of town. It was still small, but it would grow, for neighbors would not act together to extinguish the blaze. They didn’t dare. What if the sorcerer himself had caused it? Instead they would bundle up what they could of their belongings and flee, hoping the fire was dealt with before their own houses burned.
They were right in one way—the fire would be dealt with. The sorcerer did not want his city to burn down. He did not object to a chance to strut his power, either, Li Lei thought. She’d been among the crowd who gathered to watch him attend the other fire, which was huge and roaring by then, having engulfed several houses.