My hands fold the coin until my knuckles whiten.
"Are you sure?" Xiao Mei's voice is two shards.
"I'll go," I say.
Short.
Sharp.
She presses a small bag into my palm.
"Take this," she hisses. "It's all I have."
I slip the coin and the bag into my robe.
"Name," I ask.
"Li Heng," she breathes. "Market by the west gate. Old man with a limp."
"Good," I say. "Give him the red stitch."
"The red stitch?" she repeats, eyes huge.
"Tell him the price," I say. "Tell him it's for the family of Mei's village."
She nods with a dry sound.
"Promise you'll hide?" she pleads.
"Promise," I answer.
Four beats.
"Keep quiet."
I walk the market like someone who owns less than a breath.
Horses snort.
Voices snap.
Lanterns hang low.
Stalls crowd my path.
Spices hit my nose sharp.
I tuck the coin where skin meets cloth.
I find an old stall with faded silk.
A man behind it watches with a careful eye.
His leg is a limp; his hand is a map of past trades.
"Li Heng?" I ask.
He inclines his head.
"Who asks?"
"Red stitch," I say, voice flat.
He studies my palm.
"A name," he says. "Show the coin."
The coin slides into his hand.
He turns it like a priest.
"A mark," he murmurs. "That's not common."
"It buys discretion," I say.
"It buys more than silence," he replies.
"Can you move a family?" I ask.
"For a price," he says, fingers already calculating.
"Enough to pay?" I counter.
He snorts.
"For safety? Yes. For long safety? No."
"How much?" I demand.
"Gold," he says. "Name a number."
"Three months of wages of a small manor," he answers.
I swallow.
My throat tastes of iron.
"Wait," I say, calm as a ledger. "I do not have that."
He smiles like someone balancing accounts.
"Then what do you have?"
I slide the small bag across the stall.
He opens it.
A broken pendant.
Two silver coins.
A scrap of cloth.
He tastes the silver with his eyes.
"Cheap," he says.
"Cheap buys quiet," I answer. "It buys a night, or two. It buys distance."
He weighs the pieces in his palm.
"Protection across the road for two weeks," he says at last. "Then they scatter."
"Two weeks," I repeat.
"Two weeks," he agrees. "Not perfect. But enough for a start."
"Do it," I say.
He bows, careful and quick.
"You trust me?" he asks.
"I trust the price," I reply.
We set the terms like a business.
He lists names, routes, times.
I confirm each with a nod.
He pockets the coin and the bag.
His limp hobbles him away.
"Tell Mei," he says. "We'll move them tonight, at moon rise."
I hurry back, footfalls snapping.
Xiao Mei waits like a held note.
"You did it?" she breathes.
"Two weeks," I tell her.
She falls to her knees and grabs my robe.
"Two weeks," she says, teeth knocking.
"Two weeks," I echo.
"Why?" she sobs, voice jagged.
"Because I can buy time," I tell her.
Short.
She presses her forehead to my sleeve.
"Then be careful," she whispers.
"Always," I promise, the word flat and iron.
I leave her sleeping on a straw mat.
I step into the archive like a man who enters a den of numbers.
Shelves rise like cliffs.
Paper is dust that keeps secrets.
Gao watches with a face carved from neglect.
"You moved them?" he asks, dry.
"For two weeks," I reply.
"Good," he says. "Good."
"Where was the mark again?" he asks quietly.
"County ledgers," I say.
He nods once.
"High shelf. Right side. Second row from top."
"How do you know?" I ask.
"I read," he says. "Old habit."
He points with a calloused finger.
I climb the ladder and sweep the shelf.
My fingers find a diary bound in cracked leather.
A hand slips beneath the cover like a thief.
"Open it," Gao says, low.
I peel the pages.
Spilled ink, small numbers, complaints in cramped hands.
"The hand of a minor account keeper," I murmur.
Page by page the ledger is ordinary.
Then the last entries thin and quick.
My thumb sticks on the final line.
"Read it," Xiao Mei breathes.
I mouth the words before my voice.
"'The Great Project of the Phoenix Cycle was approved by the previous Emperor,'" I say, the syllables crisp.
Xiao Mei's hand clamps mine.
"'Seven twin souls will be offered to secure the dragon's eternity,'" I continue, voice low as a secret.
She stares, pupils wide and black.
"'Tomorrow I bring my daughter to the first rite. May the heavens forgive us,'" I finish.
The diary slips from my fingers.
Paper rustles like a thousand small fears.
Gao makes no sound.
Xiao Mei's breath catches.
"Tomorrow," she whispers.
"I think I have time," I say, short.
"The Rite," Gao repeats, face blank.
"Rite?" Xiao Mei asks, voice small.
"Yes," I answer.
Edge by edge.
"Who wrote this?" I demand.
"A clerk," Gao says. "A scared hand who keeps accounts."
"Why write it?" Xiao Mei croaks.
"Because someone keeps records," I say. "Because the ledger holds patterns."
"How many?" she asks, voice thin.
"Seven," I say. "Seven who bind to seven."
"Bind to who?" she asks.
"A debt," I say. "A currency we don't understand yet."
"Tomorrow," Xiao Mei repeats, sobs soft.
"Then we move faster," I say.
Gao turns pages like an old clock.
"Who is the previous Emperor?" I ask, sharp.
"Dead," he says. "Remembered."
"Who approved a project?" I press.
"The old court," he says. "Papers hidden in margins."
"How do we stop it?" Xiao Mei begs, voice cracking.
"We don't know yet," I answer.
Short.
"We find who wrote it," Gao says. "We find the list."
"Where is the list?" I demand.
"Not here," he says. "Not fully."
"But traces," he adds. "In export ledgers, in harvest reports. In places the court keeps small things."
"Then we'll follow the traces," I say.
"Careful," Gao warns. "Traces lead to traps."
"Then we lay false tracks," I say, voice cold and quick.
"False tracks?" Xiao Mei repeats, unsure.
"Send a note," I tell her. "Tell Li Heng to move the family earlier. Create a diversion with a merchant."
She nods, fury and fear braided tight.
"Will you?" she asks.
"I will," I say.
Gao closes the diary with a soft slap.
"Don't sleep," he murmurs.
"Don't sleep," I echo.
I fold the diary pages and tuck them into my robe.
The leather is rough against my skin.
The coin in my pocket hums cold.
Outside, lanterns flick like watching eyes.
Moon edges the roofs with pale light.
I count one, two, three and move.
"Who else knows?" Xiao Mei asks as we step into the yard.
"Only the market man and Gao," I say.
"Then it's enough?" she asks.
"Not enough," I answer, flat.
We move through the dark like two small animals.
Footsteps pass behind curtains.
A guard drops a note at a door and hurries on.
We reach the place where the family will hide.
The merchant's men wait with wrapped bundles.
A child peeks from a bale of cloth.
The family climbs into a cart with shaking hands.
An old woman clasps Xiao Mei's hand and whispers thank you.
"Two weeks," the merchant says, eyes bright with coin.
"Two weeks," I answer.
We walk back through the hush of the court.
"My hand aches," Xiao Mei says.
"My mind is full of names."
"Keep them," I tell her. "Remember the ritual's date."
She looks at me like a girl learning to speak adult.
"What will you do?" she whispers.
"I follow the script," I say. "I copy. I hide. I trace."
"Promise you'll come back," she says, again.
"Always," I reply.
The word is thin but heavy.
That night I fold the diary under the quilts.
My fingers do not stop shaking.
The coin presses warm against my side.
Outside, something moves beyond the garden wall.
At dawn a bell tolls once, twice.
A messenger in a dark cloak passes the main gate.
He carries paper folded and waxed.
He heads to Consort Li's pavilion.
"Who sends news at dawn?" Xiao Mei asks.
"Business," I say.
"Always business," she mutters.
We both know that business opens doors.
We both know that doors close.
At noon, I return to the archives.
I copy the last page by hand.
My wrist cramps.
Ink bleeds like slow rain.
I copy the names in neat columns.
The diary's last line sits like a trap.
I write it down with steady strokes.
"'Tomorrow I bring my daughter to the first rite. May the heavens forgive us.'"
My hand freezes.
Xiao Mei's breath is a whisper behind me.
"Tomorrow," she says.
"Tomorrow," I echo.
We fold the copy and hide it under my robe.
We lock the archive and leave.
A guard nods as we pass.
No one stops us.
Outside, the city hums.
People move like traders, unaware and blind.
The coin in my pocket feels heavier than before.
I pull a thin strip of paper from my robe and write three names.
"Fake notes," I say, folding each tight.
"Disguises?" Xiao Mei asks.
"Yes," I answer. "And a false ledger entry."
"How?" she breathes.
"Make the numbers wrong," I say. "Swap shipments. Create noise."
She stares, then nods.
"We can buy time."
"Time," I repeat.
I tie the paper into a tiny knot and slip it into the merchant's stall that night.
"Plant a rumor," I tell him. "Say the caravan went north."
"North?" he asks, suspicious.
"Yes," I say. "North, away from the river."
He laughs once, a small sharp sound.
"You risk a lot."
"Do it," I say. "For two weeks."
He bows.
"It will be done."
We make a list of small tricks.
Change a seal.
Smudge a date.
Drop a name.
Each trick costs something.
Each trick buys a heartbeat.
We trade coin for breathing room.
I look at Xiao Mei.
"Prepare to run at midnight," I tell her.
"At midnight," she repeats, voice steady now.
She nods and runs to the market to check on the merchant.
I stand at the archive door and listen.
Paper hums against wood.
The city breathes.
Later, in the dark, we will decide whose life to trade for the truth.
For now we only know one thing.
"Tomorrow," I whisper into the night, and the word tastes like a promise and a threat.
"Tomorrow," Xiao Mei answers, and the sound snaps like a thread.
At the edge of the paper, in the ink I just copied, the final line waits heavy and black.
"'Tomorrow I bring my daughter to the first rite. May the heavens forgive us.'"