When Mu Wanhua returned, she found Layne crouched by the stove, lost in thought.
"What's the matter? Why are you squatting there?"
She set down the bundle in her arms, knelt beside him, and stroked his head.
"Mother… now I finally have time to ask. Your real name is Mu Wanhua. Did Father know?"
Layne tilted his head, studying the mother he had known nearly ten years. Her profile was still beautiful, though at the corners of her eyes faint lines showed—perhaps from sleepless nights more than from age.
"Your father never knew. I only learned myself, not long ago. One day, when there's a chance… I'll tell him. But not now."
A pang lanced her chest. She had lived at Lai Su's side for ten years; even at his death he never knew that "Bihua" was truly Mu Wanhua.
"For now, don't worry about him. We can't stay here long—we must move soon."
From inside, Qingshui's voice carried. The medicine Xuánhǔ left worked well; she sounded steadier.
"The Water Envoy will soon learn we escaped. Perhaps he's already reported to the Chancellor. I'll try to regain movement in two, three days. Until then… Layne, I'll need your help."
Hearing his name, Layne leapt up so quickly he nearly toppled his mother.
"No problem, Aunt Qingshui! I can control much more qi now—I'll heal you faster than last time!"
He spotted the parcel by the door and a battered pot. Inside lay rice and two slabs of preserved meat.
"It was all I could find in haste," Wanhua said, feeding sticks into the stove. "I'll boil porridge with some meat. Fill our stomachs first, then plan."
She busied herself. Layne lingered a moment, then scrambled onto the bed. He tugged Qingshui away from the wall, pressed both palms to her back.
"Let's hurry, Aunt Qingshui. I'm not tired."
She glanced back at him—the boy's small face held a new steadiness, almost adult.
Qingshui breathed out, closed her eyes, and the faintest smile tugged her lips.
"You've grown… then as your aunt and teacher, I can't afford to slack."
Outside, snow hardened under the day's sun into crust; night froze it solid. Roosters crowed, dogs barked in twos and threes.
That morning, Wanhua planned to visit the village market again—buy more dry rations, in case they must flee at any moment. She would also call on the headman, at least to pay rent. Firewood was scarce, bedding thin. Yesterday they had collapsed into sleep, waking stiff and sore.
She opened the warped, leaking door. A blast of wind swept in, and she quickly stepped outside, pulling it shut behind her.
Inside, Qingshui and Layne sat cross-legged, healing. She must hurry with her errands.
The village road crackled beneath a thin crust of snow. Mud walls flanked her, with baskets of corn and strings of meat hung under the eaves.
Two elders stood at a crossroads, hands behind their backs, basking in weak sun. Their eyes lingered on her as she passed. She asked politely for the headman's home, thanked them. They turned away without reply.
She followed their direction to a larger brick house at the village center. Fish and meat hung from the eaves, sacks of corn stacked by the door.
She knocked. Fingers stiff with cold.
At length, a voice answered. The door creaked open a crack—an old man's face, wrinkled like dried orange peel, peered out.
"What is it?"
Wanhua bowed slightly. "Headman, we intruded last night. Today I bring payment for the house—"
His eyes flicked to the string of coppers in her hand. His expression revealed nothing.
"No one asked you for that."
"But we are borrowing—"
"Stay a few days and leave." His tone was cold. "This village isn't friendly to outsiders."
He slammed the door. Snow sifted from the lintel.
Wanhua bit her lip, turned away. From the window, the headman watched her go, silent.
At the market, the snow was trampled into gray-black slush. A few low tables held hardened radishes, potatoes, patched quilts, bundles of wood.
The stallholders—rough men in ragged caps—clustered together, eyeing her as she approached.
"That's the woman who lost her home?"
"There's another, both look fine enough."
"Shame… with a child. Else she'd be worth keeping here."
Her spine tightened. Pretending not to hear, she bent to examine goods.
She chose a bundle of firewood, a patched quilt, some coarse flour and broken rice, several frozen cakes, and a waterskin.
The vendor drawled, "All cheap. Just leftovers."
"Could one of you help carry the wood?" she asked softly.
He glanced at her, then at the coins in her hand. Clicking his tongue, he finally nodded. "Fine."
As he turned, another woman peered at Wanhua—curious, but guarded.
"Where are you from?"
Wanhua paused, gave no reply, only packed her bundle.
The woman's eyes narrowed. She muttered, "Pretending… who knows if she birthed a bastard and got cast out."
The man followed Wanhua, firewood on his back. She felt his eyes boring into her spine—hungry, heated, crawling with want.
Only when she saw Qingshui at their door, blade in hand, did relief crash through her. Her steps quickened.
"You came out?"
"Sharpening the knife. Thought to cut meat later." Qingshui's tone was casual, but her gaze lingered on the man.
Uneasy, he dumped the firewood, muttered farewell, and left.
"Thank you, Qingshui," Wanhua said sincerely. She had been frightened.
"No thanks needed. Don't go out these days. Make rations. When I'm better, we leave at once."
She took the bundle, carried it inside.
That night—
Hooves thundered into the village, straight to the headman's house. Lamps flared within. Long moments passed before they went dark again.
The hoofbeats clattered out, fading into the night beyond.