The first day of the new year still held yesterday's warmth.
Cold, yes—but not the knife-edged wind of days past. The air was dry and clean; a single cloak was enough to keep out the chill.
Red lanterns still hung under the shop eaves, bumping together with a hollow clack when the breeze passed. Corners of spring couplets curled slightly; the ink was still fresh. Firecracker scraps lay scattered in the seams of the bluestone road, red like blood-flowers, or like ribbons. Children stomped them to make them crackle, then scattered, chased off by shopkeepers sweeping their thresholds.
Laughter drifted through alleys with that easy looseness unique to the holiday. Even the constables slowed their patrols, leaning on walls to trade idle talk.
By noon, Bihua had the house and yard put in order with Layne and Qingshui, then set out to pick up a few more snacks and firecrackers.
Basket on her arm, she walked the street; behind, Qingshui gnawed a bamboo skewer—so Layne finally learned what his aunt chewed in winter when there were no grass stems to bite.
Qingshui grumbled the whole way: all she wanted was to lie at home and sleep—why did a shopping run require her presence—on and on without end.
"Can your mouth stop moving for a moment?" Bihua shot her a look.
"Nope. Too cold. Moving the lips generates heat."
Layne snorted. "If Auntie's so chatty, the warmest place on her is definitely her mouth."
Qingshui raised a hand to rap his head. "One more word and I'll hang you under the eaves for a lantern tonight!"
Layne dodged, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
When the shopping was mostly done, dusk wasn't far. Bihua thought about it and decided the first night of the new year should be eaten out. Layne cheered; Qingshui agreed with both hands—then the two squabbled about where to go until Bihua made the call: Chance Encounter on a Distant Road.
The place they'd first met.
The dining room was quiet. The round-faced waiter from before was gone, replaced by a quick-tongued beanpole, but the proprietor was the same. They had barely sat against the wall when Qingshui slipped like an eel to the counter and cleared her throat. "Two of the most expensive, and a pot of rich stewed beef broth."
"Qingshui!" Bihua slapped the table.
Qingshui turned, foxy grin in place. "What? A rare treat—your treat!"
Layne tried to copy her and scuttle over to order, but Bihua pressed him back into his seat.
"Don't make trouble. I scrimped half a month for this meal. You two will finish every grain—don't you dare leave me leftovers."
Qingshui snickered. "Bihua, stingy looks good on you. Smile for me and I'll order two more dishes to celebrate."
All Bihua could do was sigh and sit; Qingshui whooped and piled on the orders, even tore two drumsticks from a roast chicken at the counter and—magnanimously—offered one to Layne.
"Eat up. We're fleecing your mother tonight—tomorrow I double your lessons!"
"What lessons?" Layne said around a mouthful.
"Advanced uses of aura-wrapping, defense, and channeling—you might even notice new changes in your flow."
From the side, Bihua added softly, "Then I'll trouble you tomorrow."
"Hmph." Qingshui waved it off. "Considering how well I've eaten these two days, I suppose I should bleed a little."
They bantered in the cozy heat; dishes came one after another; outside the window the street roared with life, inside the air was spring-soft.
By the time they'd finished, night had fallen.
Lanternlight along the lane flowed like a red river, casting a warm glaze across every passerby. The wind against skin no longer felt sharp, replaced by the mellow after-scent of food and wine—warm, but not cloying.
They walked back to Willow Alley.
Layne, stuffed, rubbed his belly and hiccuped, echoes bouncing down the lane. "Hic—so full. You ordered so much I had to help you finish—"
Qingshui, bent under the weight of her own meal, hugged the wall and groaned. "Only because your mother wouldn't let us take it home! Had to finish on the spot!"
Bihua could only shake her head at the pair, basket in hand—pastries and snacks from the afternoon, and some firecrackers they probably wouldn't light tonight.
"I said no leftovers. Next time, order less."
Layne stuck out his tongue. Qingshui rolled her eyes. Both grunted their surrender.
The house was an ice cellar when they entered. Bihua went to heap charcoal on the brazier. Qingshui nudged Layne. "Early to bed. Up at dawn."
Layne mm-hmmed, burrowed into the main room, and wormed under the quilt, still shouting from inside, "Mom, I want noodle soup in the morning!"
"I know. Sleep."
Crouched at the brazier, Bihua stirred the coals bright. The flicker pricked at her eyes. She stood, turned, and looked at Qingshui.
Qingshui had a hand on her door. Seeing the look, she sniffed. "What? Your treat—don't try to dock my pay."
Bihua smiled, didn't argue, and said quietly, "Happy New Year. And… sweet dreams, Qingshui."
Qingshui blinked, smacked her lips. "Sappy… At most I'll chip in five j—and—three, then."
She slipped inside and eased the door shut.
Her room was dark. She didn't light the lamp. She sat at the table, palm resting on the knife's scabbard, fingertip tracing the old groove.
She heard Bihua's rustle of washing and changing, Layne rolling and groaning—too full for sleep. A breath of a laugh hummed in Qingshui's nose—half scoff, half at peace.
In the dim she whispered,
"Days like this… really are good."
Her fingertip moved along the cracked line in the sheath.
"So good I've almost forgotten who I am."
Night deepened.
Dozing under the quilt, the brazier had burned down to red pinpricks. The room was so quiet she could hear wind brushing the eaves, lanterns creaking on their hooks.
Then a soft cut of air over the courtyard snapped her eyes open.
—pat.
Wingbeats, sharp in the night.
On the table, the black jade flashed—dark light pulsing under the moon.
She didn't move, but her back pulled taut, gaze fixed on the window paper and the jade.
And then: a shadow.
A pigeon alighted on the sill. Moonlight carved its small, thin silhouette; its feathers looked honed like blades.
Qingshui swallowed; her jaw ached from clenching.
"…No way."
Her voice was dry and small, as if she feared even she might hear it.
"Half a year…"
She exhaled, crawled from the quilt, crossed to the window, and opened it.
The wind tossed her hair.
The pigeon cocked its head. Moonlight sparked cold in its eye. It squared itself to her; the bamboo tube on its leg clicked faintly.
Her fingers trembled as they touched the tube.
Carefully she untied it and drew out a small rolled slip. In the moonlight, the paper went translucent.
She unrolled it.
Few words. A handful of lines, strokes hard as knife-cuts.
Kill the target. Proceed to Yuntai. Cleanup will be handled.
So short. Not even a reason.
She stared at the line, eyes reddening, something lodging tight in her throat. Her mouth twitched as if to smile, but froze; no sound came out.
Her head filled like a sky of fireworks—old scenes bursting into the picture of tonight's meal: Bihua's quiet tenderness; Layne dueling her for food; her own ceaseless, shameless griping.
Memories sliced to shards—hot as the tears stinging her eyes.
She clenched the paper until her knuckles blanched; nails bit her palm. The knife sat at her back, that familiar weight suddenly heavy as a mountain.
She drew a long breath; her chest rose and fell. Her eyes held only those few words.
Her molars ground—a faint rasp like winter wind.
"You… really know how to give an order."
Slowly she lifted her gaze to the door across the courtyard.
No lamplight within—only the even rhythm of two sleepers' breath.
Bihua and Layne slept deep, soft, and safe.
Qingshui's throat worked. The wet in her eyes chilled raw in the wind.