“Sis, look—Shihu from Deji Hall sent me two new dresses!”
Before Li Ying could weigh the words, Ahman came running over, eyes bright, clutching two skirts patterned in the latest fashion.
“Sis, on Qixi let’s wear them together, okay? This plain one would suit you perfectly!” she gushed.
Li Ying smiled at the girl’s guileless face and reached out to flick her nose. “You fool, Ahman. If I actually wore that, Shihu would be heartbroken.”
Ahman paused in mid-twirl, puzzled. “Heartbroken about what?”
“He saved his coin to buy a dress for the girl he fancies,” Li Ying said, amused. “And then—by some accident or mischief—that girl gives it away to somebody else. You tell me, wouldn’t that sting?”
The red skirt in Ahman’s hands stopped motionless. She stared at Li Ying, wide-eyed. “You mean… Shihu… fancies me?”
Li Ying only grinned and kept quiet, enjoying the way color rushed to the younger girl’s cheeks.
“But I…” Ahman stammered, helpless and suddenly shy—no older than a blossom just about to open. Li Ying dropped the teasing and grew serious.
“Ahman, what do you think of Shihu?”
Shihu had proven himself steady. In the months since he’d arrived at Deji Hall, Manager Du had come to rely on him more than anyone else. He still had an ailing mother at home and was older than most boys, but he was honest and hardworking. If Ahman’s heart leaned that way, it wouldn’t be an ill match.
Ahman could barely form an answer; her face was the color of cooked shrimp as she nodded dumbly to everything Li Ying said. Li Ying told her not to rush, to follow her own heart, and never to bet her life on a single flutter of feeling. Ahman nodded again, helpless but obedient.
It was a small matter and Li Ying let it go. What troubled her more in the last few days was Lu Xunguang’s sudden absence. He’d been gone from dawn to dusk, and she hadn’t a clue where he’d disappeared to. Li Ying felt as puzzled as a blind monk groping for an answer—until Granny Sun, who saw more than she let on, broached the subject gently.
“Ah Ying… are you planning to go to Qixi?” Granny Sun asked.
Li Ying blinked. “Of course. I promised Ahman. One must join the customs of the place.”
Granny Sun hesitated, then said, “I don’t mean to pry… but Qixi is for unmarried girls to pray for a match. You and… Lu Xun—”
Li Ying laughed softly. That night on the sand—she had kissed him, yes—but there had been no vows, no promises. She had taken their closeness for what it was: something natural that needed no labels. She hadn’t considered that Lu Xunguang, who kept to proprieties like a man of old, might think otherwise. If she went to the festival to “pray for a husband,” she could see why the man had been put out.
“You’re right,” she said. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. I only wanted to see the festival so I could make the event more interesting for everyone. I never meant to pray for marriage.”
Granny Sun relaxed. “That’s a relief. Little Lu’s been obsessed with building the Qixi tower on the beach these last few days—no sleep, no appetite. I was afraid he’d fall ill from the worry.”
Qixi tower? The phrase tugged at Li Ying’s memory. The Qixi festival—the night when people looked to the stars of the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl and girls prayed for skilled hands and true hearts—had its own popular ritual: the building of a tower, a place to admire the constellations and offer wishes. It was one of the capital’s most fashionable entertainments—though this small fishing village could hardly be expected to match the capital’s display.
She felt a pang. Lu Xunguang had misunderstood her, and yet he hadn’t sulked—he’d set his mind to helping her, pouring himself into making the Qixi event perfect. The thought of him working so quietly, concealing his disappointment rather than unloading it on her, made something tighten in her chest.
“I’ll go find him and explain,” she said. She asked directions from villagers and soon found the makeshift construction site.
They’d built the tower from green bamboo—elegant and simple, but sturdy—and it was nearly finished. Li Ying scanned the busy laborers but found no sign of Lu Xunguang. She set down her lunch box and greeted the men; they looked sheepish under her gaze.
“Boss Li,” one of them mumbled, eyes down. “We—well, we wanted to do something to repay you for your kindness. We thought building the Qixi tower might be a way to show our gratitude.”
Li Ying merely smiled, seeing through them.
“It wasn’t us trying to steal credit,” another blurted, wringing his hands. “It was Lu Xun. He said not to tell you. He didn’t want you to feel obliged—didn’t want you to feel you had to reciprocate…”
Li Ying felt a sharp, unexpected ache. All the private things she had said that night with Ahman—the little confidences—had somehow been overheard by him. Lu Xunguang, who anticipated every need and wrapped it up in silence, had heard her words and chosen restraint over claim. He would rather hide his feelings than turn them into a burden she might feel compelled to answer.
A sudden tenderness came over her. How much had he quietly endured for her sake? He gave everything and let her remain free.
She took a breath, intending to find him at once, but the town was too large to search in a single sweep. She had no luck and was about to ask another passerby when the world behind her erupted in the thunder of hooves.
“Make way—make way! The horse’s frightened—get out of the way!”
Li Ying turned on instinct. A carriage was careening toward her, the driver’s hands a white tangle on the reins as the horse bolted. For a reckless instant the animal’s massive head lunged straight toward her. Li Ying’s feet left the ground and she fell—only to land solidly into a familiar embrace.
Lu Xunguang. Relief flooded her, scented with the faint soap-smoothness on his coat. He pulled her to one side, out of the horse’s path, his voice calm and steady.
“Ying, careful.”
He barely spoke before leaping like an arrow onto the runaway carriage. He shoved the driver aside and clasped the reins in both hands. The horse reared, shrilling, lifting its forelegs high. Lu Xunguang didn’t flinch; he braced and pulled, his strength measured and sure.
At last the dust settled, and the carriage skidded to a stop. Lu Xunguang dropped down and stood a moment before a trembling hand reached out from the carriage interior.
“Thank you—thank you,” an elderly man breathed. He was roughly sixty, face kindly but strained from fear; he forced a smile and a bow toward Li Ying and Lu Xunguang. “My horse is usually so gentle. I don’t know what came over it today. If you hadn’t acted, young sir, it could have trampled many innocents.”