As the day grew older and wearier and the light faded from the skies and coated the pastures in soft shadows, the farmers returned to their abodes with sweat-soaked backs. And Huijin of Ming passed them as he walked upon the dust-den road.

  His was a slow and deliberate meander. He kept his chin aloft. His eyes stared ahead, lost in the nebulous mirages of his own thoughts. To the vilgers was he a sight for sore eyes, for he carried a cultivator’s sword, and they thought he patrolled the pastures in Ming-zongzhu’s name. They did not see the desotion in his gray, empty eyes, or the salt-bleached wood of his spirit.

  The colder breeze of the evening could not freshen his skin. The rk’s song did not warm him. The plum blossom’s delicate fragrance could not rouse his cheer. But, freed from the restraint of his obligations, left alone with his thoughts and the verdant shades of spring, he mustered to find some sembnce of calm. As listened to the bees hum and watched a hare leap from shrub to shrub, he felt the ashes of his soul fall to rest.

  It was then, as he wandered on the road, that he caught sight of Qian Xuegang. In the distance, the man still bored with his talismans and his sheep, and the ashen one slowed his gait to watch him. Then, as if struck with an errant thought, he turned heel and hasted towards the hill on which the ndowner’s rgest farmstead stood.

  Prosperous was the Qian farmstead, with flocks of sheep both plump and hale. As he climbed the hill, he came upon the maid Song Xiaoying, the girl who had spoken with them that first afternoon in Caodi. Then as now, she swept the stones that paved the path to her master’s little courtyard.

  Huijin walked up to her with a light, quiet steps. His wayfarer’s garb was a coarse one; but for the length, it was no different than the duan da worn by farmers and craftsmen alike. Only his sword, hidden within a modest sheath, spoke of him as a man with some cultivation.

  “Good evening, gu niang,” he greeted, “I have come to visit Qian-gongzi. I expect he has returned by now?”

  The maidservant made a deep bow to him, so humble it was almost humorous. How could a servant bow so to another servant?

  “I regret to say it, gongzi,” she chirped, “but he has not! He has gone down the fields to put up the talismans which he got from Master Lu Yuxin himself.”

  “I understand,” answered Huijin, “you will all be safer for it. His sheep will as well. But I shall not decline to wait for his return, if you will allow it. The farmstead is old and prosperous. If it is as well kept as the master’s livestock, our Ming-zongzhu will be pleased to hear it. Will I impose if I ask to show me around?”

  “Not at all,” Song Xiaoying hurried to promise, a demure red on her cheeks. Here was a chance to earn another tael from Qian-gongzi for diligent service. She could have called for the eldest maid and pass her the honors, but as far as Song Xiaoying knew, humility had never won her any prizes. So she threw her broom into the nearest shrub and turned to the Ming cultivator with what her older sister called ‘a pretty pout.’

  “Here, gongzi, here,” she called, “what shall you wish to see first?”

  Huijin watched her with a lenient eye, a shadow of a smile on his mouth, faint as morning mist and just as mellow. For one beat of a heart did he remember the chirps of another meimei; remembered the chatter of half a dozen young voices under the same roof, all of them reted by blood. And each voice had ughed and shouted louder than the other until their good mother threatened with cold baths and all kinds of vile chores.

  “Gu niang,” he said, “you will be the judge of that. If you are unsure, show me how the master lives, how he cares for his chambers. Does he indulge in art? Or is he perhaps a collector?”

  The maid beckoned him to follow. As the birds sang their hopes to the sky, so did this sheep who believed herself a vixen bleat in the ashen one’s ear while she led him.

  Huijin followed her with a gentle silence of his own. Unfortunate was it, he thought, that such a woman, with no guile behind her clear eyes, should serve such an abominable man as Qian Xuegang. If she proved not complicit in her master’s misdeeds, he would ask Yin Yue to offer her a position as a maid at Yuchi Court.

  And why not? Worse creatures had been offered shelter within those gates.

  “Master is known to indulge in arts,” Song Xiaoying praised as she took him through the chambers. “And much fond of calligraphy, and fine poems and such lot. And he likes tapestries too!”

  Not long did it take her to show the farmstead’s fineries, though she did her best to extend it. Qian Xuegang had collected some calligraphy and painted pieces; here were snow-white peaks and cherry blossoms; the Vale of Repose and the Yellow River. A pque hung above his door and read “Prosperity Through Charity.” But beyond these ornaments, the abode was sparse as the cultivation halls of Cn Sheng.

  Huijin followed the maidservant like a shadow, quiet but for his modest, pleasant remarks of praise and interest. When the word ‘wife’ passed the girl’s mouth, he nodded and asked, “how long has the master sought a wife for himself, gu niang?”

  “Mm, a while now. Half a year or so?” answered Song Xiaoying, “but I think the ghost has tarred it all for him. Not many women would like to marry into a haunted vilge.”

  “Ming-zongzhu will send the ghost,” Huijin assured, “and Qian-gongzi can resume his pursuit of courtship, I think. Has he ever had any maiden in sights?”

  A most strange look dawned on the young woman’s face. For a brief moment, she resembled a cat about to sneeze, but she soon turned under the pretense of adjusting the brambles she called her hair.

  “The master has ever been fond of — of philosophy,” she tried.

  Huijin frowned. What kind of answer was that? And since he knew that Qian Xuegang could return to his abode any moment, he cut to the bone.

  “You have a dy in your thoughts, I think. Do you deem such a match improper, gu niang? Are you worried for your master?”

  The girl Song Xiaoying looked over her shoulder.

  “No,” she blushed, “Oh, no. It’s just — I think the master loves the thought of a wife more than a wife, gongzi. I do not think he pays much attention to his match as long as the dy is respectable. Though — come to think of it, he did not mean to take a wife this year. No, he must have changed his mind about six months ago. I remember now!”

  She offered a blithe smile. No one had ever taught her to be demure, so she sought this gray gongzi’s eyes and spoke without restraint. “Half a year ago, we had some rough men here. They passed through the vilge, a whole pack. Wolves, we thought them. Scared the sheep!”

  As she spoke, she peered at this cultivator of Ming. Might be that he was so curious about Qian-gongzi’s affairs because he too had courtship and marriage on his mind, she thought. And who could fault him? Quite thin and wearied was he, his robes modest and austere. But the face framed by his loose hair could draw a poet’s eye and inspire a painter’s hand. He too could need a wife, she decided.

  “So Master Qian Xuegang faced them,” she eborated, “with his prized Ming token in hand. Their chief — what was his name, I think he called himself “Lang” for “Wolf” — well, he took one look at the token and said—,” a thought seemed to strike her and tie her tongue. Her hand flew up to her mouth. “Eh, he said—,”

  “Come, gu niang,” soothed Huijin. “Don’t be ashamed to tell me. If there are brigands about, they must be driven away. Ming-zongzhu will want a report of this.”

  “I don’t remember!” Song Xiaoying blurted.

  Huijin waved her cim away with a gentle brush of his sleeve, as if it was but dust on the wind. His demeanor was ever gentle.

  “What did this wolf say about the crane token?”

  The maid reddened. “He said — I do not remember well,” she tried, “but he meant to say that he had no fear of that token, because, eh — the man who had given it to Qian-gongzi had been as much a brigand as he—,”

  What? Huijin’s face changed, though it it paled with bewilderment, not wrath. Great men were wont to be sndered by vile tongues; wont to be held in contempt by the lesser, spat upon by the envious. So it had been with Yin Zhaoyang. His radiance had cast long shadows over men who had envied, despised, feared him. Many an ill word had been whispered; each as worthless as sand and silt in the river. But to call him a brigand?

  “Did he ever expin himself, this wolf?”

  Song Xiaoying cast down her eyes, her shame pin even when faced with this most gentle of displeasure.

  “Well,” she stammered, “the te Ming-zongzhu had been executed by the Emperor, he said.”

  Huijin just shook his head as if the sudden reminder had not chased all breath from his chest, as if it had not been a knife thrust below his ribs, the agony so sharp that the pain needled his lower back when his stomach clenched.

  Even now, after the fall, the disgrace, the snder, he could not conceive that gege could ever be considered a felon.

  His hand shook a little; the tea he held soaked into his sleeve.

  “So he was,” he said, soft of voice, “but it gives brigands no right to his nds. Do you remember the looks of these men?”

  Song Xiaoying shook her head. “Gongzi, it was half a year ago. They looked like brigands, I suppose. Hides and swords and such. They went for the southeastern mountains.”

  Towards the nds Cn Ming once seized from Cn Mao, Huijin thought to himself.

  “Well, as it were, they gave master a scare, I think,” the girl mused. “So he cleared more nd and decided to build a new barn and find himself a wife.”

  Huijin bowed his head. “I shall report this to Ming-zongzhu.” He drank the st of his tea, then gave her a soft sigh. “I have kept you here too long, have I not? Don’t let me keep you from your work, gu niang. It was kind of you to show me the farmstead’s prizes.”

  “You do not at all keep me,” Song Xiaoying promised, “Shall you want more tea? I am quick and diligent, you know.”

  Huijin dared not smile. “I do not want you to work te into the night. Not while a spirit beast haunts Caodi.” He took the pot and poured more tea for himself, and with st, quiet farewell, sat down to wait for the master.

  Pin was young Song Xiaoying’s disappointment. She watched him for a brief while and wondered what it was like to wield a sword as he did, to fight and vanquish the horrors of the night rather than hide behind talismans and locked doors, to dismiss servants with a word and drink tea in a master’s house.

  “Gu niang,” said Huijin as she turned to leave. “I know what it is to serve. If your master is stern, do not let him scold you. If he is lenient, do not disappoint him. But thank you all the same for allowing this one to distract you for a while.”

  Song Xiaoying smiled then, her face as bright as the river’s ughter, if not quite as fair as the blossoms by the riverside.

  “My pleasure, Huijin-gongzi!” She stole one st look, then closed the door and scurried downstairs.