She grimaced. “Archery is my bane; I’ve practiced so much and still can’t hit the center. Swords, I prefer. Or spears.” She peered at me, not to be diverted. “Are you a Celestial? Is your family from here?”
I stared ahead with feigned concentration. “My family is no more.” The lie came easier to me now, though the shame burned just as hot. I had little choice but to maintain the pretense, as Liwei believed my parents deceased.
She was quiet for a moment, before reaching out to pat my shoulder. “I’m sorry. I’m sure they would be proud of you.”
My chest tightened. How wretched I was to claim her sympathy under false pretenses. And yet, how desperately I wished her words were true. I could not help wondering how my mother would feel, now that I served the household of the emperor who had imprisoned her.
“The courtiers were grumbling about a ‘nobody’ winning the position with Prince Liwei,” she added. “Highest compliment in my opinion. How did you do it?”
“Luck,” I said with a flippancy I did not feel, irked at the same time. I would not be a “nobody” forever. They would know my name one day, and those of my parents.
“Where is your family?” I tried to shift the conversation away from me.
“We’re Celestials, but my parents don’t serve at court. My father claims it’s too dangerous. Fractious, with everyone scrambling for favor. He prefers a quiet existence.” She wrinkled her nose, adding, “Although with six children, our home is anything but peaceful.”
“Six!” I gasped.
“It’s not as horrible or wonderful as you might think. When we get along, my brothers and sisters are the best friends in the world. But when we fight . . .” she shuddered, her features twisting into an expression of horror.
“Perhaps your father should have escaped to the Celestial Court after all,” I told her.
A wide smile stretched across her face. “My mother wouldn’t let him.”
For the rest of the afternoon, we practiced together. The youngest of her sizable family, Shuxiao had been surrounded by companions since birth. She possessed a vitality about her, an ease of manner which drew others close. Many soldiers called out or waved to her as they passed by. Some included me in their greeting, believing Shuxiao and I were friends.
And indeed, after today, we were.
By the end of the day, my fingers were blistered. My arms ached and my back hurt. I had not touched a sword or uttered a whisper of magic. Nevertheless, as we left the field, I could not wait to come back.
In Liwei’s room, I set out the books for our lessons tomorrow. When he returned from his bath, he wore just a short white robe draped over loose-fitting black pants. His long hair, still damp, hung down his back. I expected to be dismissed, but he sat down at the table and looked at me expectantly.
“Which song will you play?”
His earlier request had flown out of my mind. I was tired, my sore limbs longing for bed—but I sat beside him and took out my flute. A lilting melody rippled through the air, of spring awakening, the rivers thawing and flowing with life once more.
When I finished, I laid the flute down.
“It’s amazing how this small instrument can bring forth such music.” After a moment’s hesitation, he added, “This song is happier than the one you played before. Does it reflect your mood?”
“Yes. This has been one of the best days of my life, and I have you to thank for it.” My words were plain, but heartfelt. I missed my home, my mother, and Ping’er still—yet I no longer felt I was drifting alone and untethered in this world.
Liwei cleared his throat, the tips of his ears reddening. Rising to his feet, he strode to his desk. A scroll painting of a girl hung on the wall beside it. Dark eyes gleamed from the perfect oval of her face. She sat beneath clusters of blooming wisteria, holding a bamboo embroidery frame.
“Who is she?” I asked.
He stared at it in silence for a moment. “She used to live in the courtyard near mine. When I was a child, I visited her often. She was patient, even when I tangled the threads which she wove into her embroideries.”
I imagined a young Liwei, brimming with mischief. “You said ‘used to.’ Where is she now?”
A shadow fell over his face. “One day, I came to her courtyard and found it deserted. The attendants told me she had moved away. No one would say where she had gone.”
I wished I could ease his sadness. He sat down at his desk where a tray of drawing materials was laid out: a few sheets of crisp paper, a large purple jade inkstone, and a sandalwood stand from which brushes of bamboo and lacquered wood hung. I watched curiously as he selected a brush, dipped it into the glossy ink and drew on the paper with deft strokes. After a few minutes, he offered it to me.