Early winter dawn. The north wind isn't quite a blade to the bone, but it still scrubs any bare skin like a stiff brush.
Inside, Bihua feeds the fire; pale smoke and the scent of wood drift through the cold air.
Qingshui wakes with a headache.
Curled under the quilt, she rubs her temples; her throat's dry, her eyelids gummy.
"Ow…"
She pokes her head out. Dawn's white blur is spreading; from the yard come the splash of washing greens and the thump-thump of dough slapped against the board.
She groans, ducks back under, rolls over, and mutters, "So noisy… How much did I drink yesterday…? Feels like my head'll split."
Just as she's about to keep lazing, she hears Bihua outside, calling Layne to knock.
"Go drag your Aunt Qingshui up. Grown as she is, she's still lazing in bed."
Qingshui's mouth twitches. She sits up swearing, and before Layne can knock, she hops down—bare feet to floor, jolting at the cold.
"Whoa, that's freezing!" With one backward grab she yanks the quilt around herself again and shuffles to the door. When she opens it, Layne's there with his fist half-raised, looking awkward.
"Knock, knock, knock—every day with the knocking! I drank a ton yesterday; can't a lady sleep?"
Bundled head to toe, only half a calf and her toes peek out; her hair's a wild haystack. With the quilt bunched up she looks like a ripened corn cob.
In the yard, Bihua has finished kneading the dough and is packing the drained greens into a basket. She sighs at the sight.
"Go wash your face. Look at you—like a cornstalk spirit come to life…"
Layne lowers his hand, cranes his neck to check if the room's been puked in, and teases, "Auntie Qingshui, your fighting form yesterday was way scarier than when you 'spar' me!"
"Shoo—what are you peeking at? This is a lady's room. And I never 'hit' you; that's called practice!"
Shoving Layne out toward the yard, she flings the quilt back on the bed and heads to fetch water.
"Auntie Qingshui, hurry! We still have training today!"
"…What are you so worked up about?"
She squats by the door to splash her face. While rinsing, she gargles grumpily, "If my head didn't hurt, I'd be grinding your face on the floor right now."
Bihua hands her a towel. "Porridge's on the table. Dishes are covered. We've already eaten. I'm off to sell noodle soup in a bit—watch the house and mind Layne."
Qingshui takes the cloth, gives herself a few perfunctory swipes, eyes the bundles on Bihua's carrying pole—cooked noodles and broth—and rasps, "Headed out in the morning today?"
"Year's end is coming," Bihua says without looking up. "More people buy soup this time. If I don't earn extra, how am I supposed to feed you?"
"Okay, okay—you run the purse; you're always right." Qingshui twists her hair up, pins it with a chopstick, claps her hands, and dashes off to breakfast.
Bihua shoulders the pole; Layne follows with the vegetables. They'll haul things to the alley mouth—Bihua will sell there, Layne will come back to practice and do his copywork.
Early-winter alleys lack summer's heat and autumn's gentle breeze; there's more frost at the wall bases and beads of dew on the plaster. Few people pass, tightly bundled and hurrying along.
At the alley mouth the crowd thickens; peddlers have staked their spots by dawn, ready for the day's take.
"Layne, helping your mother again? Fine-looking young lad—you've got presence! How about a betrothal? Hm?"
A few aunties with hands tucked in sleeves swarm over the moment they see the pair. A month of vending here has made them all chatty with Bihua.
Layne sets down the basket, helps unshoulder the pole, then trots over to borrow folding tables and chairs from Old Liu's across the way. He props the table, lays things out, and finally answers:
"Auntie Cao, I'm too small! If I don't find anyone outside when I'm grown, I'll come back and marry your daughter, how's that?"
Auntie only laughs—this sort of banter happens daily.
"Mind your mouth," Bihua scolds softly. "Back home. Train."
Layne sprints off; glancing back, he sees Bihua already hemmed in by the neighborhood ladies.
In the courtyard, only Qingshui and Layne remain.
Qingshui leans in the sun by the gate, twirling a thin stick, eyes lazy.
"All right, let's start, kid. Something tougher today?"
Layne's eyes light. He snaps straight. "Teach me!"
A sniff. She lays the stick across his chest. "Report: where are you at?"
"I can draw qi in, guide it through the meridians, and pool it at the Heart-Sea like you taught me! I can feel the Heart-Sea now."
She nods. "So you've got a bit of talent. Watch closely—one demo."
Her stick kisses the table's edge—tch—and chips off a neat corner. Layne stares at the now-five-cornered tabletop.
"See? That's Qi-Enwreathing. Even a rotten stick, wrapped in your qi, can cut through iron—or at least split a guard."
"My mom's gonna scold you…" Layne mourns the table's lost corner.
"We are in class—can you not bring her up—did you watch how my qi moved?" So much for masterly gravitas; it evaporates in a flash.
He drags his gaze back, intent. "I saw it. Qi flowed from your Heart-Sea, along the arm into your palm, then clung to the stick and—covered it."
Something like pride flickers in her eyes, then vanishes. "Don't get cocky. Seeing isn't doing. If you release sloppily, you can blow your own hand off."
Layne swallows hard. "I'll be careful!"
"Careful my foot—I'm scaring you." She tosses the stick, rolls up her sleeve, and thrusts out her arm.
"There's also sheathing the body—for defense and for power."
A thin rippling sheen runs under her skin like water.
"Get hit, you can bleed it off, take it head-on, or borrow force to return it. The gulf between a cultivator and a plain brawler…"
She points at him. "Is the gulf between you and me."
"I want to learn that too!" He bounces on his toes.
"Early days yet. First try projecting onto the stick."
He puffs his cheeks; the tiniest wisp creeps onto the wood. He swings—poof—it scatters like fog.
She laughs. "Ha! Silly pup. Your qi's slack. Hit someone like that and they'll die laughing first."
Face burning, he grits his teeth. "Again!"
They work a long while. Then Layne rubs his neck, remembering.
"Auntie Qingshui… That time Lord Xuanhu grabbed my throat—my jaw felt unhinged. I couldn't talk or move. Was that qi too?"
Her eyes narrow; her tone cools. "Yes. Meridian-Severing. Driving qi into another's body to cut channels—cut nerves."
She taps his shoulder—just a whisper of a demo. Her voice drops. "For killing, you cut in an instant. One strike, no second."
Layne yelps and hops back.
She bends with laughter. "With that nerve, how're you going to practice? If you must kill to protect your mother, will you do it?"
He swallows. "I will."
She straightens, watching the little figure regrip his stick and tense till he's red in the face.
"Then you pay in sweat. A lot."
They drill all afternoon.
When Bihua returns with the pole at dusk, the wind slides through the gate.
"Sell out?" Qingshui's voice is hoarse.
Bihua doesn't answer. She sets the pole down, pulls a food carrier from the hanging basket, and opens it.
A puff of steam—glossy white sticky-rice dumplings bobbing in broth.
Qingshui blinks. The corner of her mouth lifts; she forces a put-out tone. "Didn't want to cook tonight? Bought out?"
A side-eye from Bihua. "You were wailing for it yesterday."
Layne claps. "Yeah! You were drunk and clutching my mom's sleeve—everyone laughed themselves sick."
Qingshui's face darkens. She grabs a spoon and gulps two dumplings. "Where'd you buy—still not as good as yours."
Bihua gives her a light smack on the head, sits—then frowns, stands, and stares.
"I'm sure the table in the yard was square. Why is it round?"
A loud gulping off to the side; Layne's already rolling on the ground, howling with laughter.
"QINGSHUI!!"