At first light the next morning, Bihua and Layne were up and washed.
She straightened his collar, hung the little copper tag at his belt, and tied it fast with a strip of cloth.
"Come on—let's see if any boxing hall here will take you."
Layne nodded, eyes bright with excitement.
Following yesterday's route, they crossed two stone bridges on Middle Street and soon stood before the red-lacquered gate that read Liu Family Boxing Hall.
The doors weren't yet open, but several youths were already practicing inside the courtyard—breath and fists in clean, powerful rhythm. Layne watched, spellbound, back a little straighter by the minute.
A middle-aged instructor stepped out from the entry. He glanced at the mother and son, faintly puzzled.
"We're inquiring if the hall admits non-resident boys," Bihua said with a polite bow.
The man's gaze paused on Layne's thin arms and boyish face. He answered tactfully,
"He's a touch too young. Our hall doesn't accept under-tens. Besides… the head coach is strict about intake—mostly selects from local families. I'm afraid…"
Bihua inclined her head. "Thank you."
She didn't press it, just took Layne's hand and turned away. Layne, however, kept looking back, feet dragging.
They tried two smaller schools and a staff-work parlor listed by a broker on South Street; one was full, one demanded an absurd fee, and another accepted boys only—earning Bihua's cool retort: "It seems your hall has learned bureaucracy before martial virtue."
By late morning their legs ached, and the sheet of addresses in Bihua's hand felt heavier with every step.
That was when a lazy, laughing voice sounded behind them:
"Judging by your faces, you can't find a hall that'll take the kid, huh?"
They turned.
A woman leaned against the wall—clothes a bit ragged, sleeves smudged with mud, hair tied up any which way with a slanted bamboo sliver as if she'd just rolled out of bed. Tall and narrow-waisted, broad-shouldered, she stood with a slouch and bright, candid eyes. One hand hugged an empty food sack; the corner of her mouth was cocked in a told-you-so grin.
"Who are you?" Bihua pulled Layne subtly behind her.
Layne, curious, peeked around his mother.
The woman didn't mind; she winked at him.
"I'm Shui—er, Qingshui. Literate and handy with fists. Currently unemployed."
She looked Bihua and Layne up and down, chuckled. "A rough stone! The boy's a natural! Why not let me try him?"
"You?" Bihua's brow lifted.
"Yup!" Qingshui thumped her chest—thunk, thunk. "Let me teach him and you judge. If I'm no good, I'll scram quick as a blink!"
She said it breezily, but the street-dust and faint incense oil on her clothes didn't inspire confidence.
"You've been trailing us?" Bihua's voice cooled.
"Now, now," Qingshui laughed. "I just wander."
Bihua didn't answer, only tightened her grip on Layne and strode off. Qingshui drifted beside them, sing-songing, "I haven't eaten in three days. Oof—shouldn't have thumped my chest so hard—I'm gonna faint!"
She circled them, chattering without pause, looking nothing like a person about to pass out.
"Why not apply at Liu's hall?" Layne blurted.
"I did. They said I'm dirty." Qingshui snorted. "I can fight, but they were afraid I'd teach their kids to be grubby."
Bihua's side-glance was sharp, wary.
Qingshui patted her belly and sighed theatrically. "Look, there are bad folks in this world, sure—but not every grimy face is one of them, right? Do a good deed?"
"A good deed?" Bihua's tone was flat.
"Buy me lunch! I am starving."
Bihua stopped short.
Qingshui, still babbling, stopped with her, eyes gleaming, smile unchanged.
Bihua glanced at Layne. The boy said nothing, but curiosity flickered in his eyes.
"Are you following us to eat, to teach letters, or to teach fists?" Bihua asked.
Qingshui grinned. "Buy me a hot meal with soup and I'll eat and teach at once—trial included. Great bargain!"
"What do you want to eat?"
"Anything hot. Soup if you've got it." She rubbed her stomach. "I've been surviving on cold water."
"Come along," Bihua said.
They crossed two lanes and entered the familiar eatery Strangers by Chance. Bihua chose a window table near the door, ordered a pot of tea, wontons, salted-meat rice, and stir-fried greens.
Before Qingshui sat, an elderly townswoman bustled up to whisper to Bihua, "Girl, don't trust that one."
"Oh?" Bihua's gaze was calm.
"She turned up days ago bragging she can read and fight, cadging meals all over. Every time the yamen runners come, she slips away." The woman lowered her voice. "You've a child—be careful she doesn't latch on."
"Thank you," Bihua said mildly.
Qingshui didn't bother to pretend she hadn't heard. Rubbing her chopsticks together, she called toward the kitchen for "more meat," then flashed the old woman a smile.
"Who'd I seduce or rob, auntie? You make me sound like a midnight wall-leaper."
The old woman "tsk"ed and left.
"See?" Qingshui said, tapping the table. "There are plenty of bad eggs, but not every shabby one's rotten."
"I never said you were," Bihua replied.
"It's written on your face." Qingshui squinted. "Dirty, poor, talks too much."
"You do talk a lot," Layne muttered.
"That's called rhetoric," Qingshui declared, thumping her chest again, then wincing. "A teacher without persuasion—who'd listen to their sages?"
Layne stared, speechless.
The food arrived.
Qingshui truly was famished—she drank the soup in great gulps, steam fogging her face, smile never leaving. "Muyun's wontons are no worse than Youzhen's—clear broth, thin skins… hmm, chicken bones for stock?"
Bihua's brow twitched. "You can tell?"
"I can tell anything I eat." Qingshui lifted a wonton with her chopsticks. "The filling's got pickled mustard and tofu skin—gives the bite layers. Travel enough, you learn things."
Her voice slowed, tones suddenly crisp—like a teacher lecturing.
Bihua watched her in silence.
"Tasting food isn't special," Qingshui went on happily. "I can read and write, too—Spring rain gone; willow winds swift; a lone lamp over a solitary meal."
"Which book is that from?" Layne asked around a mouthful of rice.
"Not a book. Mine." She swallowed. "I write poems."
"Can you show me?" Layne brightened.
"After I eat." She grinned. "Muse needs fuel."
A commotion burst at the door. Two drunk patrons stumbled in; one lurched into a table, tipping a bowl toward Layne's lap.
Qingshui's forearm lifted; her wrist snapped.
An empty bowl spun across the tabletop, set itself before the spill, and took the splash cleanly—then pirouetted back to her hand.
Neat. Crisp. In and out.
Bihua's eyes darkened. "You can fight."
"If I couldn't, how would I dare offer to teach your boy?" Qingshui set her chopsticks down and belched softly. "Ahh. Full at last—though I rushed it. Should have savored it more."
"If the halls won't have him, let this grubby stray try." She smiled. "Today's meal is my fee—no silver. From tomorrow on, I teach letters and fists: one tael a month, with meals included."
She hesitated, then added, "And lodging."
Bihua drew a breath and set down her cup. "You've some nerve."
"I'm worth it," Qingshui said simply. "If you don't believe me—give me three days."
For a heartbeat she had the air of a hidden master. Then she opened her mouth again and the illusion shattered.
"Wait—don't waste that! I'll finish the greens—waste is a sin!"
Her chopsticks blurred.
Stretching with satisfaction, she fished a small, soot-black cloth pouch from her sleeve, produced a folding short brush and a half roll of paper, and—right before them—scribbled a few lines. The hand was free and old-school in flavor; not neat, but strong.
"Take this to the academy head and see if he recognizes the script."
Bihua didn't accept it, but for the first time she looked at the woman squarely.
"What are you, really?"
"Teacher, boxing coach, down-on-his-luck poet, wandering oddball." Qingshui ticked them off with a wink. "Pick any you like."
After a long pause, Bihua drew a slip from her sleeve: Southwest Market Ward, Willow Lane · Main Court, Side Room. She slid it over.
"Before noon tomorrow—if you're still in Muyun—come try. We'll be airing out the place anyway."
"Meals and lodging?" Qingshui asked.
"Three days. No more."
"Done!"
She tucked the address between her teeth, bowed, then winked at Layne. "Boy, come hungry tomorrow. I'll cram you with Three Histories and Five Classics—and teach you to make porridge. You cook, I'll drink."
Layne blinked, half-understanding, half-amused.
Bihua paid and led him out.
Qingshui didn't follow, only stood in the doorway watching their backs vanish around the corner. Then she turned down a quiet lane—no one there but a leaning locust tree and a broken wall.
From her robe she took a small bronze whistle and blew, soft enough to be nearly inaudible—yet the tone seemed to pierce the air, as if vibrating through some unseen veil.
A moment later, a little courier pigeon fluttered from the shadows and landed on her shoulder. Qingshui slipped out a strip of paper and wrote with startling speed:
"Close to target. Profile matches. Confirm formal contact tomorrow.
Should I verify whether the child carries the token? May probe."
— Li
She sealed the note in the bird's leg tube, stroked its back, and cast it skyward. The pigeon rose and vanished into the evening.
Qingshui watched it go; the smile faded from her eyes, leaving a trace of steel.
"So it's them," she murmured. "The ones the Water Envoy wants."
She wasn't sure what tied these two to that affair.
But once marked, few escaped.
She turned and walked on, a thin figure folding into the alley's shade.