Yumi and the Nightmare Painter(72)

Though he’d gotten them close, the tent the scholars had set up was still a good fifty yards away. Over hot stone, past the fence around the place of ritual. A set of three large trees had been chained to the ground near the rear of the scholars’ tent to provide shade. That would give cover once they approached—but first they had to cross fifty yards of open ground.

Painter gazed down at the day’s ritual tobok. The dress was bright yellow and red. “These stand out rather a lot, don’t they?” he asked.

“That’s deliberately the point,” Yumi said.

He nodded. Then pulled his dress off.

Yumi gasped. Not for the common reason—they did bathe together every day. In addition, there were three more layers underneath. But those were undergarments.

“What are you doing?” she demanded as he shucked the second layer of skirt too. “Stop!”

He grinned and gestured to the final layer of clothing: thin silken trousers you might find reminiscent of pantaloons, dyed light brown, and a loose green overshirt. Also silken, shimmering, and way too revealing of his figure. Underneath that was the wrap around his chest, and that was it.

She silently prayed he wouldn’t go any further.

“This,” he said, “is remarkably similar to what men wear around here.”

“Except not,” she said. “Their outfits are completely different.”

“Close enough. I think that from a distance I’ll just appear like a worker leaving the orchard.”

“If someone looks closely, they’ll see me, practically naked and absolutely deranged! It’s not going to work.”

He gazed out at the tent, as if he was going to go striding out anyway, but didn’t move. He glanced at her.

“I’ll pull out now if you want,” he said. “This is your life I’m playing with, Yumi. If I get caught, you’ll have to live with it—assuming we swap back eventually. So…do you want me to stop? It’s your choice.”

Her choice? What a terrible idea.

But she felt reckless. And determined. Somehow at once. So before she could think about what she was doing, she threw off her overdress and second layer too, standing in her silks. “Go!” she said.

“Why…did you strip?” he asked. “You’re invisible.”

“Solidarity!” she shouted, then—taking a deep breath—started out across the stone.

Once, she would have assumed that she couldn’t hide, no matter how good the disguise. She would have assumed that people would instantly know a yoki-hijo.

But she had lived in Painter’s world. She’d been normal for a week and a half at this point. Well, at least during the half of each day she spent in his world. Perhaps…perhaps he was right and no one would notice.

She still felt like a field mouse. Yes, a little mouse that had dropped from its nest in the rice plant and fallen to the hot stones during the day, having to scurry for high ground in full sight of all the giant hawks and crows above. Burning up with each step.

She mistook every sound in the distance for a cry of alarm. She was certain every figure moving through the town was dashing to get Liyun. Everyone would soon hear that the yoki-hijo was crazy and running around in her underwear.

Painter just plodded along.

“Hurry!” she hissed at him.

“Hurrying ruins the illusion,” he said. “Trust me. I’ve seen this at least three times in the dramas.”

“Three times? That’s the extent of your experience?” She jumped, looking toward a shadow cast by several rice plants moving overhead.

This was misery. Intoxicating misery. And despite his apparent calm, Painter seemed unable to stop himself from speeding up as they neared the hiding place. He practically ran the last few yards and pulled up against the trunk of one of the shade trees.

The little stand of trees, as she’d hoped, provided some cover. They kept snapping their chains taut in the thermals—since this was near the place of ritual, the stones were extra hot. Painter wiped his brow, then shook his hand, the beads of sweat evaporating quickly on the ground.

“How you people survive in this place,” he whispered, “I’ll never know. But we…”

He trailed off as he saw Yumi, her heart thundering like the ritual drum, her nerves dancers contorting before the spirits, her eyes the blazing bonfires of a night festival.

“You all right?” he asked her.

“That was the worst thing I’ve ever done!” she said, throwing her hands into the air. “It was wonderful!”

“Girl,” he said, “you really need to get out more.”

“I’m trying!” she said, with an uncontrolled grin. Then she pulled her arms tight up beneath her chin, her eyes going even wider. “We could run away. Escape together. Off into the wide world, like in the stories Samjae used to tell me…”

“Usually,” he said, with a dry smile, “I prefer to go on at least one date with a girl before I elope with her. Call me traditional.”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she snapped (lowly). “It’s just…this feels so liberating. And terrifying. They don’t care. The spirits don’t actually care.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. He pointed around the trunk toward the tent, hovering a few feet above the ground on its platform. “The spirits give you things like that platform, right? No cost? No price?”