In her room rimed by moonlight, before the glow of a single candle, Dan’er knotted and snipped free the last green stitch on Sister Lianhua’s pifeng. A profusion of leaves now unfurled among the colorful lotuses in parting. Flowers of Madam Mudan’s house always acquired their self-sustaining foliage last. She set aside the embroidery with an inward sigh, then stretched her upper back and attempted to flick the tension from her right wrist and forearm.
Her father sat across the small table, portly frame only slightly taller than herself, garbed in a similar pale brown set of short-coat and trousers, gray-streaked hair drawn up in a simple knot. His position was carefully chosen for its capacity to receive sunlight throughout the day without being seen from the windows. He remained as she had left him that morning: straight-backed, big hands on lap, square face a uniform swath of seamless skin with slight mounds where eyes, nose, and lips once protruded, since sealed shut.
What must it have been like for her father after Distribution Day? Imprisoned in his own apartment, denied visitors, forced to wait impotently for investigation results. Cored hollow by self-denigrating thoughts within, ground down by angry chants without. So many meals left untouched at the threshold, and yet it had still been a shock when guards dragged out a disheveled, blank-faced demon after weeks of strain for the verdict.
Tell a man he’s not worthy to be human enough times and his mind starts to conform, body following. If angry chants could wear away face would love songs coax it back? Dan’er contemplated. Did the songs have to be sincere? There was little hope of proving her father’s innocence now that Bomen had caught her prying. But if she couldn't sway then she had to force and that required money and power. Could she truly remake herself into an influential figure elsewhere? Quicker yet, could she stay and sacrifice Bomen for his wealth? Doom him with black magic for a far-fetched cure? She didn’t know how to feel about the new magistrate these days.
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Dan’er’s eyes lowered to the paper map on the table, unfolded and held down by the qilin paperweight. A black circle demarcated a small section of forest, the name “Kalan'' inked next to it in Bomen’s neat strokes. If anyone could restore her father it would be the Demon Undying. But that was a perilous journey through baigui territory, and would take months or even years. And where was the urgency? She regarded her father’s plump physique and smooth skin, looking quite hale for not having eaten in months. Her own lack of appetite only resulted in jutting bones, thinning hair, and patchy red sores. She winced trying to roll the tightness out of her neck. She was tired.
“Come Baba, it's time to rest.” Dan’er blew out the candle and took her father by the hand. He stood reflexively and allowed himself to be led across the room. At the low wooden bed she bent him like a puppet to sit on the edge, took off his shoes, then pushed him down flat. She didn't know if he slept, if it even mattered, but this was a habit she wasn't yet ready to relinquish. She kissed him on the forehead.
The floor underneath her own sleeping mat pressed particularly hard that night. After much tossing and turning Dan’er finally gave up, got up. She knelt before the trunk at the foot of the bed, removed the gu jar, and brought it to the table where she relit the candle and sat. Pressure clamped tightly around her skull as her fingers drummed nervously on each side of the celadon container. She cracked open the lid and peered within.