Too bad the thief is not one of Father’s patients, usually weak from illness or delirious from pain.
They react swiftly, grabbing my right wrist and thrusting it in a direction it’s not meant to go. I howl and loosen my grasp. In one fluid motion, they’re up on two feet before I can even brush the hair from my eyes.
I scramble less gracefully to my feet, too, and we assess one another. The moon shines bright above our heads, illuminating us both. Their body is lean, a head taller than me. Darkness obscures their features, a figure from a nightmare—a piece of wood covers the upper half of their face. Horns curve out from slashed, angry brows. They appear as the God of Demons, able to slice off the head of troublesome ghosts with one swipe of a broadsword.
A mask, hiding the face of the terror stalking Dàxī.
They pick up a sack that was dropped in our tussle and secure it over their shoulder with a knot. Their gaze burns from behind the mask, mouth settling into a hard line.
Behind me is freedom, down to the docks where the warehouse workers receive their deliveries. They can steal one of the boats or disappear down the alleyway. The other way leads to the center of the village, with a greater likelihood of being caught by the patrols.
They run at me and try to use brute force to knock me aside. But I duck down and barrel toward their legs, trying to throw them off-balance. They sidestep and push me out of the way, but I grab onto the sack as they pass, causing them to stumble.
They whirl around and kick my knee. My leg crumples and I fall onto my arm, sending a searing pain down my left side. Another kick thrusts me down to the dirt. This thief knows exactly where to strike. I am no match.
They try to leave again, but I flop onto my stomach and claw at their legs, forcing them to drag me behind. I can’t let them get away with the poison. I suck in a deep breath to scream, but before any sound comes out, a swift punch lands at my temple. I fall back, the pain exploding in my head like firecrackers.
I try to stagger after them, but I can’t seem to catch my breath. My vision wavers in front of me, the buildings undulating like trees. Catching myself against the wall, I look up just in time to see a dark figure leap off a few stacked barrels and land on the rooftop.
The thief disappears into the night, with no proof anyone was even here at all. Except for the blood seeping through my hair and the ringing, still echoing through my ears.
CHAPTER THREE
I walk—limping, my ankle and face throbbing in pain—until the barest hint of dawn peeks over the horizon, and a farmer passes me in his wagon. He gives me the once-over and offers me a spot in the back. I doze between bags of millet and rice, with a squawking duck for company. The duck remains outraged at the rough ride until we get to the town of Nánjiāng, which sits on the southern bank of the Jade River, several hours from Sù by horse. It would have taken most of the day if I’d had to walk.
I sell my necklace at a pawnshop in order to afford the ferry ride to the capital. Another memory of my mother, gone. But it isn’t until I step on the boat that afternoon, jostled by the crowd, that a sudden pang of loneliness strikes me. In my corner of Sù province, I know all the villagers by face and most by name, and they know me. Here, I am no longer Dr. Zhang’s willful daughter. It’s like I’ve put on someone else’s face.
I retreat to the back of the ferry and sit down, holding my belongings close. Around me, people laugh and mingle with one another. The air is filled with music from wandering musicians, playing for coin. But I remain anxious, afraid that Shu’s lies have not worked and I will be discovered before the ferry leaves the dock.
I feel Father’s inevitable disapproval like a heaviness around my neck. He never understood me, even though we slept under the same roof. He would not have permitted me to leave for the competition. He would have found reason to discourage me from this foolish endeavor—I’m too young and untrained to travel alone, Shu is too sick to leave in the care of someone else, he would never leave the village because of his duty to his patients …
A girl starts to dance in front of me, a welcome reprieve from my worries. The elegant sweeping gestures of her arms are accompanied by the sweet sound of her voice. Delighted claps begin in the crowd as they recognize “The Song of the Beggar Girl.”
It is a story about mourning. An orphaned girl with no name. A city lost to war. She walks through the streets, hungry and alone.
Emotions fill the faces of my fellow travelers as the strands of music weave around them. The dancer’s swaying movements, the gentle rocking of the boat, the longing of her words, all intermingle into a bitter taste at the back of my throat.