On the morning of the sixth week since she began Bomen’s conditioning, Dan’er stood hunched furtively over the mezzanine railing, clutching a thin blanket around her shoulders and coughing intermittently. Her faux-glazed look regarded the outdoor scenery through front-facing, second-story windows. When she spied the magistrate's entourage entering the street that led to Hundred Flowers House she turned back into her room, exchanged blanket for satchel, and bolted.

The quiet tense exit through the back door went unnoticed. The few mile walk through town passed in a single-minded blur: apothecary, marketplace, public vault–empty since the incident and left to molder.

Finally, she arrived at the solid bricked walls of the magistrate’s residence. The woodchopper’s son trundled his pushcart of firewood into view upon her approach. Dan’er relinquished her satchel and the boy cursorily appraised its contents–jangled the copper coins, sniffed the leaf-wrapped lotus seed buns–before sliding it out of sight. He threw Dan’er an olive vest to minimize her server browns, and heaved bundled stacks of wood onto her shoulders to obscure her face. The boy then picked up two more bundles and carried them through the front gate, with Dan’er following close behind, ducking her head under the nose of her old door attendant. Inside the walls she dropped her stacks and discreetly scarpered off as an argument over agreed-upon payment rose to a heated frenzy.

Through the outer courtyard, past the ancestral hall. Trying to ignore the spot where guards threw her faceless father to the ground, where her mother begged for mercy on bloody knees. She traveled in zig-zag spurts to avoid familiar staff; low, mad dashes from statue to bush to niche. Skirting the well-remembered daily household routine from childhood. Spring was yielding to summer and the day had grown hotter and brighter. Sweat dampened Dan’er’s forehead and her clothes clung to her body. The humid jasmine-scented air had to be taken in shallow breaths, but the high-pitched buzzing of cicadas muffled her scuffling footsteps.

In the inner courtyard, surrounded by family apartments, Dan’er paused to consider the eastern suite. It had been a testament of the high esteem in which her father had held Bomen, to grant him rooms usually reserved for a son. Bomen was always meant to succeed the old magistrate, Dan’er mused sourly. Which made his clumsy machinations and obvious guilt–“bedridden” during the inventory theft on through to the subsequent investigation and court proceedings, where every endorsement of her father mattered, only to appear in good health at the provincial governor’s arrival for his own promotion–such an insult. Dan’er’s anger thickened; her purpose resolidified.

Bomen would've vacated those rooms by now, however. Dan’er turned to the larger, northern suite and stalked up to her father’s old sanctum. She peeked through a cracked window to make sure it was empty, then opened the door and stepped inside.

Shutting out the wide ray of sunlight behind her, Dan’er stood in the cool dark foreroom and let out an involuntary sigh. She couldn’t be sure if the space seemed smaller because she had been gone for so long, or because Bomen had moved about two dozen assorted trunks of personal belongings into the room. Regardless, she had returned to walls that enclosed like a paternal hug, among furniture perched like old expectant friends, and was home.

Dan’er stepped to the writing desk and lifted the bronze qilin paperweight with the long beard and sage face she used to pilfer as a child. She trailed fingers over the intricately carved chair back her younger self had hung from to compel the old magistrate’s attention. A smile rose unbidden.

Sudden laughter drifted through the window and Dan’er ducked under the desk. She held her breath until a maid servant pair passed the suite, their shadows stretching across the darkwood floor. She replaced the paperweight and forced herself to focus. Time was finite. Bomen would only stay away for an hour, if even that.

She unlocked the cabinet beside the desk with her key and meticulously pulled out account books spanning the last few years, spreading them open in an arc along the ground. Working as carefully as she dared under hurried circumstances, she cross-referenced entries across months and years, searching for abnormalities. Hoping for evidence even those who didn't care about the truth could ignore. But when she finally stopped it was only to sink back on her heels in disappointment. If money had been skimmed from here to fund a frameup it was not obvious to her novice eyes. Something else then. Delivery receipts, or correspondence. It was impossible to move five hundred fifty-four bags of grain without leaving some sort of record.

But where to look? She gazed at all the trunks scattered around the room, with edges of more peeking out of the adjoining bed- and dining rooms, growing daunted.

The first chest picked at random contained a full winter wardrobe. The second, duplicates of the magisterial black silk cap with rounded wings. The third held cotton scraps and the fourth empty containers: boxes, jars, baskets; ranging from ornate to mundane.

Come on, you fastidious bastard. Where is it?

The fifth contained mixed odds and ends: a worn-toe shoe, a slashed butterfly kite, a crude ink painting of a boy and girl eating osmanthus cakes under a pavilion signed in her childish handwriting, and a stack of letters. Further inspection of the letters revealed nothing of import. Mere missives between Bomen and his aunt. The kind of short, polite inquiries from a recent guardian: Did you arrive? Are you in good health? Have you eaten? Do you need money? Dan’er could just imagine the then twenty-year-old’s responses: Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Dated eight years ago from when he first arrived and nothing since.

This was nonviable. Bomen kept everything.

Dan’er turned from the trunk and slumped to the floor in dejection. Maybe she should accept Madame Mudan’s advice and leave town. Maybe she should utilize Sister Lianhua’s gift and kill Bomen. Just drop the gu victor, whichever creature it happened to be–she was still too afraid to open the jar–under his mattress. Dan’er glanced towards the canopy bed but it was not what she remembered. The elaborately carved base from her father’s time was replaced by a monotonous brick facade, with a small arched hole at its center. A gift from the Wu brothers? She moved in for a closer inspection.

The kang bed would have been built recently in the temperate spring months and left unfired. The small alcove beyond the hole, which she took to be the firebox, the empty flue space that ran under the mattress platform, and the diagonal smoke shaft connecting the two were pristine. By crouching and tilting her head, Dan’er thought she spied an angular metallic object sitting just past the left turn of the flue entrance. She pushed back one sleeve and stuck her arm in, fingernails grazing the object’s rough surface. Interest piqued, she rose in search of a tool and turned around to face Bomen.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

He stood with arms crossed, thick brows knit together, pointed lips pursed. After a moment’s shock, Dan’er drew her face into an equally indignant scowl.

“What are you doing?” he demanded quietly.

“Saving my family.”

Bomen’s eyes flitted towards the kang hole, then back to her. He surveyed his suite, considered the gaping trunks before settling on the ravaged cabinet with the litter of hardbacks disgorged at its feet. Wordlessly, he walked over and started to pick up account books.

Dan’er initially stood her ground with chin lifted. However, time stretched righteous defiance into thin petulance until ingrained habits prevailed. She inevitably trudged across to help.

When they were both squatting on the floor, Bomen nodded to the leaf-wrapped package newly placed on the writing desk, bound in the silver-white and purple strings of Hundred Flowers House. “Where were you?”

She shrugged nonchalance. “Been busy.”

They continued working in silence. After all the books had been returned to their proper places Bomen relocked the cabinet door with his key, and paused. He held out a hand.

Dan’er straightened and feigned ignorance.

His gaze hardened and he twitched his hand once, insistent.

She scoffed and looked away, but removed her key copy–forgotten by the governor’s administrators during the hectic handover–from around her neck. She slapped it into his palm.

A brief glimpse at the item and Bomen rolled his eyes, grumbling, “Those idiots.” He pocketed both keys while appraising her, then inquired impassively: “Are you all right?”

And Dan’er couldn't stop the smile from spreading across her face. The culminating drop in the bucket, spilling its contents of wrongs into the realm of the absurd. She chuckled and shook her head. “Fine.”

She watched Bomen march to the bedroom, methodically closing all opened trunks along the way. From a locked wardrobe he procured a plain drawstring bag, which he returned with and thrust into her chest. Dan’er caught it awkwardly in her arms. Curious despite herself, she tugged apart the hemp fabric to find a paper map, travel permits, and a handful of gold and silver ingots–easily several weeks’ spending money. Understanding dawned and she glared up at him balefully.

“Leave this place.” His voice was firm. It was a magisterial command.

“I will not,” she snapped, shoving the bribe into his abdomen.

“Do it.” Bomen pushed her hands back, strong enough to make her stumble.

Dan’er dropped the bag and slapped him. Then she advanced and continued swatting his face, forcing Bomen to retreat with both arms raised. He pivoted sideways and she hooked her right arm around his lowered neck, scrabbling for a chokehold. Interlocked, with his vise-like hands impeding her grip, they staggered and crashed into the writing desk, sending equipment clattering.

By brute force Bomen managed to shove her arms up from behind. He wrapped one leg around her waist and dragged her to the ground. A cold wetness seeped along Dan’er’s left shoulder blade. While Bomen brought his other leg up she writhed out of his hold and grabbed a small knife fallen within reach. She twisted around and held it at his throat.

Momentary disbelief flashed across Bomen’s countenance before he deflected her wrist and slammed it against the wooden floor, breaking her grasp on the weapon and eliciting a frustrated exclamation in their heretofore near-silent scuffle. He picked up the knife and aimed it at her throat in retaliation.

“Do it,” Dan’er hissed, and meant it in the moment.

“I will not,” he huffed out. Panting heavily, he hurled the knife and pushed away.

Dan’er remained where she lay, among scattered brushes, paper, and inksticks. She closed her eyes and reduced the world to fiery red pounding, vaguely aware of Bomen swearing and rustling in the periphery. Ultimately, bloodlust ebbed to mere dissatisfaction: the tussle having ended up more reprieve than release. She pulled herself to her feet and was confronted by Bomen rushing back into the room with an armful of cotton rags, looking as bedraggled as she felt: sweaty face, disheveled hair, powdery gray inkstick spots ground into several places on his torso and a wet black ink stain seeping from shoulder to hip of his light blue pifeng.

Bomen threw the rags upon a pile already soaking up a large ink puddle on the writing desk, dripping still out of the rinse water container and inkwell both tipped sideways. The liquid charcoal mass enveloped various paraphernalia in its spread, including–to her horror–the bronze qilin paperweight. Splattered from the nose down, the horned creature’s kind smile was streaked forlorn as Bomen wiped at it with a cloth, managing only to smear the ink further.

She would not suffer Bomen to ruin her father’s house by his incompetence. Dan’er snatched the qilin from his ministrations and inserted her body between him and the desk, stomping one foot aggressively down. “Leave this place!” she snarled.

“Fine,” Bomen muttered, throwing stained hands up and backing off to her surprise.

Engrossed in blotting up the black fluid mess before darkness set, it was some time before Dan’er took notice of Bomen again. When she finally glanced his way he had sloughed off his ink-splattered casual robes like outgrown skin, having matured into the oriole-badged indigo robes of office with hair tucked neatly under a black silk cap. He stood hunched over a metal wash basin, frenetically scrubbing pink hands with a towel, then rinsing, drying, and repeating. She had never seen him this upset.

“Are you all right?” Dan’er asked uncertainly.

Abruptly Bomen stopped mid-rinse. His head tilted towards the door, focused and alert.

Dan’er’s ears pricked at familiar voices from outside–the Wu brothers, words muffled by distance but their lilting tones distinct. Bomen gave her a meaningful look and her eyes widened in disbelief. “Those idiots?”

Bomen dried his hands and crept to the cracked window. He pressed one cheek against the casement, staying well-hidden behind the wall. What he overheard Dan’er was not privy to, but after a while his eyebrows raised and his lips quirked. “Been busy,” he remarked sardonically.

Another time Dan’er could've quipped a response and they would've bantered cooperatively for a stretch. But now she didn't even understand the joke, let alone knew the reason for her exclusion. Some days the unspoken hurt more than the acted betrayal. Half a lifetime shouldn’t be allowed to walk away without explanation. Who had he fallen in with and what did they hope to achieve? When did this begin and–

“Where were you?” she demanded, voice cracking. On Distribution Day, she didn't say. And these past three months…

Solemnly, Bomen turned his entire body to face her, offering his undivided attention as consolation. “Saving my family,” he replied without hint of parody or scorn.

He picked up the drawstring bag from where it lay abandoned on the ground and placed it in her hands once more. Dan’er made to speak but the brothers started calling for the magistrate, sounding louder, nearer. Bomen dragged her by one elbow into the inner recesses of the suite.

“What are you doing?” she whispered anxiously.

Bomen held up a finger for silence, then pantomimed for her to wait. He left her concealed behind the bedroom partition, slipping outside to hail the imperial advisors. Dan’er listened to the door close on their jocular exchange. She stayed for some time after their footsteps faded completely away.