Chapter 423 — The Answer

CHAPTER 423

The Answer

Ling Qingzhu brought the tea again the next night, and the night after that.

The Valley noticed. In the kitchens the cooks said that a toad lusting after swan meat was staying in the guest court. A pair of junior disciples now found reasons to sweep the guest court's corridor at the second watch, and Lin Yue had been seen glaring at them from the garden wall. Su Wanning had been seen doing worse. Ling Qingzhu walked past all of it with a tray and a straight back.

On the third night she didn't pour it. She set the tray on the table, sat down across from Shi Feng, folded her hands in her lap staring at the clay pot while she gathered her courage.

“I'm going to ask you something,” Ling Qingzhu said. “And you're going to answer.”

“Why?” Shi Feng asked, looking up from the ledger.

“Because you're sitting on the floor with one arm. You can't run,” Ling Qingzhu replied, her voice softer now, determined not to leave without asking.

“I can stand,” Shi Feng pointed out.

“Then stand and answer,” Ling Qingzhu said.

He put the brush down. The lamp flickered. Beyond the paper window, the Valley was quiet, and a night insect was making a small, stubborn noise in the garden.

Here it comes, Shi Feng thought.

He had known it was coming for three nights. Each evening she had talked about herbs, and each evening her thumb had pressed a little harder on the cup. He knew this wasn't another question about herbs.

“Ask,” Shi Feng said.

Ling Qingzhu took a deep breath. She was nervous, but she'd decided to ask him directly.

“I sent you a letter,” Ling Qingzhu said. “A long time ago. A Valley courier brought it to Qingyun City before the tournament final, with a green thread seal. He said you took it with your own hand.”

“He was right,” Shi Feng confirmed.

“You never wrote back,” Ling Qingzhu said, watching him closely.

“No,” Shi Feng admitted.

“Not one line,” Ling Qingzhu continued, then slowed her hurried words. “I wrote four pages, both sides of two sheets. I rewrote them nine times. I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty. I'm saying it because I want you to understand how much of a fool I was. I sat at the Valley gate every time a courier came. I told Su Wanning I was checking the herb deliveries.”

“Were there herb deliveries?” Shi Feng asked quietly.

“Not that day,” Ling Qingzhu said. “Or any other day. Su Wanning knew. Everybody knew. I'm a very bad liar when I'm waiting.”

She stopped. For a moment she seemed to hear herself.

“So,” Ling Qingzhu said, more quietly. “My question. When you took the letter, did you ever mean to answer it?”

The insect outside stopped.

Shi Feng didn't answer at once.

He could've said something clever. Sima Lan had taught him a dozen ways to turn a debt into a joke, and Lin Langtian had taught him a dozen more. He could have said the roads were bad, or the courier was slow, or that he was busy. He had learned to lie well. Ling Qingzhu herself had said so, at Cuiping.

But she had dug for three nights in glass-fused rubble with her bare hands, and she had told Lin Langtian not to tell him.

He wouldn't lie to that.

“I read it every month,” Shi Feng said.

The lamp burned. Ling Qingzhu didn't move.

“Every month?” Ling Qingzhu said.

“Yes,” Shi Feng answered.

“The same letter?” Ling Qingzhu asked, stunned.

“Yes,” Shi Feng answered.

“Why?” Ling Qingzhu asked, her voice softer now.

“I didn't know what to write,” Shi Feng said. “So I read it again.”

It was a poor explanation after so much waiting, Shi Feng thought. But it was the truth.

He first read it in his Qingyun inn room. Later he read it in hut nine. He had read it on the road to Duanyang, and in the cold week at Qingtong, and once in the dark at Ashen Lake, by the light of a spark. Each time he had told himself he would write an answer. Each time he had folded it along the same worn creases and put it back.

Ling Qingzhu's thumb had stopped pressing her cup.

“Where is it?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“In my ring,” Shi Feng replied.

“Where in your ring?” Ling Qingzhu pressed.

“Under the blue cloak,” Shi Feng said.

Ling Qingzhu lowered her gaze to her hands. She was deeply moved, but couldn't find an answer. After a moment, she lifted the clay pot and poured their tea. The pot trembled. A little tea splashed onto the table, and she wiped it with her sleeve without looking.

“It's bitter,” Ling Qingzhu said unsteadily.

“It's supposed to be,” Shi Feng said. “That's how you know it's working.”

She made a noise that was almost a laugh and almost something else.

Shi Feng said nothing more. He had given her the truth, and what she did with it was hers to decide. He wouldn't demand an answer before she'd had time to think.

Then she set her cup down. She set it down so carefully that it made no sound at all.