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The man rises, his face hidden under the shade of the cypress, dark shadows flowering over his body. It's mine, he says. It looks familiar, she says. She bites her lip. What was the name? Who was the man who had …? What a pathetic turn of events, she thinks. How can she not remember? I've heard about you, the man says. The Peach Blossom House. Struck with a chill, she digs her hands into the pockets of her cloak. Are you in need of service? Everyone knows about the zither woman. Scourge of rebels anywhere. Are you a rebel? Or a mercenary?  |
No. Just tired. The master stands in the doorway leading from the house to the garden, a tray of piping hot tea in his hands. He looks at the woman, then the man. He dare not move, dare not make a sound, and yet seeing the two of them addressing each other, both so unspecific in their appearances, unstuck in time, has left him transfixed. I have business with this old man, the stranger says. Now she is at the old man's side, and she lays a hand on the hunched shoulder. I'm taking care of him. You can see he's not well. He's never been well.  |
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