writing table and seated herself. A scroll had been placed beside a blank length of paper. Fei Long had arranged it so they wouldn’t need to speak at all. Clearly she was to practise copying the characters. She prepared the ink against the inkstone, taking comfort in the ritual when there was little comfort to be had.
It was hard not to be disappointed.
She took the brush from its case, settled into the proper posture and dipped the tip of the brush into the ink, drawing lazy circles to keep her spirits up. A quick glance at Fei Long showed him unchanged, head bent, writing with furious intention. His eyebrows slashed downward in a frown.
With a soft exhale, she positioned her brush and started to write as well, though at a much slower, deliberate pace than Fei Long. With each character, she tried to discern if it was one she knew. She had memorised nearly a hundred of them. It always pleased her when she recognised parts of a simpler character combined to make more complicated ones.
Today the composition seemed to be about rice and farms. Just a report of some sort that Fei Long had pulled from the elder Lord Chang’s papers. She preferred it when it was a passage from a story or a poem.
Yan Ling frowned as she smudged the top of the next line. Her stroke had been too heavy and it ruined the beauty of the whole piece. And so early in the task, too. She hated that. Even reports about rice and millet could still look pretty, in their own way. There was nothing to do but continue.
At the end of the page, she set the brush down in its holder. Her hand was stiff from gripping the brush too hard again. She shook it to try to loosen her fingers, using her left hand to massage the knuckles. At the same moment, she heard Fei Long get up from his chair.
Her eyes flickered to him. She couldn’t help it.
He was packing some items into a leather satchel: a wooden case, some papers. It wasn’t even an hour into their afternoon, yet he was preparing to leave.
‘Should…should I go?’ she asked uncertainly.
He was standing over his desk and staring at the tidy surface as if in a trance. When he turned, it took a moment for him to focus on her. She was far, far from his thoughts.
‘No. Stay.’
He came to her and her pulse quickened, but he was only there to look over her work.
‘Better,’ he pronounced.
She nodded. All she could see was the smear of ink on the ruined second column. She wondered if he really even cared and why it mattered that her characters had to be perfect anyway. Of course, Fei Long was meticulous. He always cared that things were in order. That everything and everyone was in their proper place.
‘Here.’ His voice softened by the tiniest of notes. ‘I’ll show you how to write your name.’
She shifted her chair over to accommodate him and he moved in beside her. With measured grace, he took hold of the brush, dipped it into the ink and started to write on the edge of the practice paper.
Two characters emerged in Fei Long’s bold script, one on top of the other. There was no hesitation in his strokes. It was as if her entire name flowed out as one spoken verse, each lift of the brush a mere pause between words.
‘Yan Ling,’ he said when it was done.
Her name looked so much more elegant and complex than the girl it represented. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
He set the brush down, but remained beside her. Was he any closer than usual? Was his voice just a touch warmer when he addressed her? She couldn’t know. She would never be able to know for certain.
‘Now you,’ he said.
She tried to mimic his technique in her own deliberate manner. Fei Long waited patiently for her to finish with his head bent close to watch her work. This was his subtle, silent apology. No words. Just a small bit of gentleness to counter his earlier harshness.
‘Good,’ he said once she was done. He straightened abruptly. ‘Keep practising.’
She fought very hard not to watch him leave.
* * *
Old Man Liang was overseeing the porters out front as they loaded the cart. The steward didn’t meet Fei Long’s eye. Instead, he watched over the proceedings as if he were directing a funeral. The crates were lifted and lowered with sombre ritual