I massage my jawbone, smearing blood across my sleeve.
Madam Himura waves at the waiting maids. “Help the doctor!”
They move forward reluctantly. Mariko lashes out when they get close, catching Lill in her ribs with an elbow. At once, Madam Himura whirls forward and slaps Mariko so hard it sends her cheek into the floor with a sickening crunch.
“Struggle all you want, girl,” she spits. “You’re just going to make the scarring worse.”
It’s not until the next moment, when Doctor Uo takes a knife from his bag, that I understand what is happening.
The doctor holds Mariko’s face still. “Someone quiet her!” he orders as she starts to scream.
A maid brings over a wad of fabric. The doctor stuffs it into her mouth, muffling her cries. He raises the blade to her forehead.
The first incision heightens her shrieking. But by the last, her sobs are silent.
When he finally moves away, I see the bloody strokes of the character cut into Mariko’s forehead: Lan.
Rotten.
“Now everyone will know what you did,” Madam Himura hisses. She turns to us. “Remember this, any time you think you can defy the King.” Her eyes land on me. “You will not get away with it.” Then she flaps an arm, barking, “Back to your rooms! You have classes to get to. Don’t think this has changed any of your duties.”
I hesitate, and Wren draws me away. “Don’t push it,” she whispers.
“What’ll happen to her?” I ask in a weak voice as we head down the corridor.
The rest of the girls are silent. As Blue shoves past her, practically running, Chenna stares down at the floor, her lips forming silent prayers. Zhen and Zhin walk hand in hand, shoulder to shoulder. I try to catch Aoki’s eyes, but she’s staring glassily ahead, absently picking at the sleeves of her robes.
“Mariko’s marked now,” Wren explains under her breath. “She won’t ever be able to get a job, be married. She’ll either starve to death or find work in the only places that’ll take her.”
“Prostitution houses?”
She nods, and I press my lips tight, battling the urge to retch.
When we get back to our rooms, I knock on Blue’s door. She doesn’t answer, but I go in anyway.
She’s standing by the window, staring out. Morning light filtering through the half drawn shutters frames her outline in pale gold. There’s something so painful about the stiff way she’s holding her body, as though to keep herself together. As though she’d fall apart—literally, piece by piece, limb by limb, joints unraveling in an inelegant dismantlement—if she released herself even the tiniest fraction.
“Blue—” I start.
She interrupts, quiet. “Go away.” Her voice breaks on the words. She repeats it, louder, with a jerk of her neck: “Go away!”
“I’m here,” I say, moving closer. “I just wanted you to know. If you ever need to talk or anything, I’m here.”
Blue spins round, her face streaked with tears, her eyes manic. “I said, go away!” she shrieks, and lurches toward me.
I stumble out, not stopping until I get back to my room. Inside, I stagger to the window and gulp in air, fingers shaking where they’re twined around the latticed woodwork. It takes me a long time to get my breathing to slow, and even then I can still hear the ghost of Mariko’s screams.
That night, I write home.
For months I’ve kept my letters positive, cracking jokes as if it were just another day in the herb shop. But tonight I can’t do it. Outside, the wind howls, making the building creak and groan. There’s the growl of thunder in the distance. Winters are even harder in Xienzo, and I picture my father and Tien in the garden, wrapped in furs as they brush frost off our dying plants with frozen fingers, their breath curling before them.
It’s not right. I should be there. I should be with them, my own fingers chilled, my own exhalations making clouds in the air.
It takes me a while to come up with a way to express myself in the letter without giving too much away, but I get it right on the third attempt. I have no idea if my father and Tien will even read this. I’ve still not heard a thing back despite writing regularly all this time, and if I’m honest with myself, I know why. It’s not hard to notice how Mistress Eira evades my questions whenever I ask her about the letters.
Still. Something keeps me writing.
Maybe it’s the feeling of connecting with my father and Tien, even just in my imagination. Or the knowledge that this is my last link with home, and if I stop writing it’s like acknowledging that I’ve given up hope of ever returning.
Tonight, my letter is short.
Dear Baba,
Do you remember that day we went to the stream where you found Bao and we stayed until sunset, our toes dipped in the water, the air so still and quiet, and there was just that one lonely bird singing?
Well, today’s been just about as good as that day.
Missing you more than ever.
All my love,
Lei
Tears cloud my eyes as I roll the letter closed. That day was the first anniversary of the raid on our village that stole Mama away.
It was one of the worst days of my life.
I’m just about to lie down when I sense movement in the hallway—and somehow, I know it’s Wren, leaving Paper House.
Anger hurtles down my veins, so sudden and strong it surprises even me. I jump to my feet. How dare she. How dare she, of all the days, when she knows exactly what could happen to her if she’s found out.
What that would do to me.
I wait as long as I can bear before following her. Wind lashes my skin as I charge across the dark gardens. The air is frozen. Before I left, I threw a heavy brocade coat over my nightdress, but my feet are bare, the frosted ground numbing my toes. My hair whips around my raw cheeks.
It takes me longer than I anticipated to reach the pine forest where I’ve seen Wren disappear to before. I trudge through it, keeping to a straight line in the hopes that it’s the right direction. After a few minutes I start to worry that I won’t be able to find her, but as I pick my way over mossy roots and brambles of thorns, sounds rise from up ahead. Half hidden under the noise of the wind, I make out grunts, panting, the crush of leaves. Something dark and awful flares to life in my belly. It—it couldn’t be.
Could it?
A few seconds later I emerge into a clearing. The long trunks of pines close in tight, a leafy canopy overhead. And in its center: Wren and the wolf. Not doing what I feared, but something else, something worse.
Fighting.
My heart bounces to my throat. I’m about to dash forward to tackle him off her, when I notice how none of their blows are followed through, just quick contact to indicate they’ve landed. Their movements seem practiced and familiar, dancelike almost. Wren’s hair flies around her as she ducks a sweeping kick. She retaliates with a jab of her hands, the wolf’s powerful haunches propelling him back. They’re training.
Just then, Wren makes a leaping turn—and spots me.
Her eyes are the same icy white as that night under the theater. It takes a second for them to drain back to their usual fawn-brown. She lands messily but is upright at once, brushing down her clothes. “Lei,” she says, breathless, starting forward.