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T he following weeks went by in a blur.

Shao Qing was tucked into a carriage with Magistrate Li, Lady Bu, and the man who was his father. When they arrived at Magistrate Li’s manor—through the front gates this time—a woman ran out and embraced him, weeping. The servants called him “Young Master Li” and dressed him in fine silk robes. He was given a room and enough food to fill his belly ten times over. He took baths weekly in clean, hot water.

When the bewilderment had worn off, it was as if he had taken a knife to his chest and everything he had suppressed rose to the surface like an unforgiving tide. For days he thought of Su Su and cried himself to sleep.

They hadn’t been blood-related after all. Yet she was just as dear to him.

He recalled one night when they had lain on a bed of dry grass, their stomachs tight with hunger, gazing at the stars through a canopy of overgrown bamboo. Su Su had been fussy and restless, still at the age where she needed to be entertained.

Half-asleep, Shao Qing had pointed to the night sky and drew invisible lines with his finger, connecting made-up constellations.

“That is the great hero, Mu Chen. He rides on an eight foot tall horse and saves all the starving children from the streets,” Shao Qing said. “One day he’ll come for us and take us to his giant mansion.”

Su Su gasped. “An eight foot tall horse? How will we ever get on?”

“Mu Chen has very long arms,” Shao Qing said haphazardly. “He won’t even have to dismount to grab us.”

“I wonder what the mansion will be like,” Su Su said, her large eyes glimmering. “Do you think we’ll have a feast every day? And a great big peach tree to climb and pick from?”

“I think it’ll have whatever you like.”

Su Su sighed dreamily. “I can’t wait.”

Shao Qing mussed her hair and told her to go to sleep. She had curled herself against him, her breathing soft and even as she dreamed about great heroes with inordinately long arms. Shao Qing spent the rest of the night wide awake, anxiety roiling in his gut, wondering if they would make enough coin to eat tomorrow.

Now it seemed that his made up hero Mu Chen had taken the form of Magistrate Li and his father. Shao Qing had been swept into a giant mansion that had everything he could ever want. Yet he could not share any of it with Su Su, who had believed the story with all her heart.

It was a cruel joke.

Some days Shao Qing fell back into numbness. It was a different sort than what he had been used to. This numbness was bitter and persistent, like a dull ache from an old wound, muffled yet acute. It hurt to inhale. It hurt to pretend everything was fine when it hadn’t been for so long.

His parents threw him worried glances. His mother visited him daily, wishing to get to know him even when Shao Qing barely knew himself.

He did learn more about her, though. She liked wisteria flowers, hated embroidery, and preferred her bird’s nest soup atrociously sweet. His father Wen Jun, true to his name, was studious and handsome. He was soft-spoken and liked to watch birds in the garden, often referring to a book with illustrations of different bird species.

The sparrow on the first page reminded Shao Qing of Zhi Lan.

It seemed the only times he wasn’t numb or in pain, it was when he was thinking about her. During the days he would replay the conversations they had, smile at the things she had said to him and cringe at some of the things he had said to her. Some nights he grew unbearably warm, his body stiff with wanting, until he coaxed himself to climax with the memory of their kiss. He’d fall asleep, dazed and flushed. Shao Qing had thought pleasures of the flesh were not to his taste, but this was different from the night of false intimacy with the faceless courtesan. He knew Zhi Lan. He knew how kind and passionate and generous she was—he knew her soul.

And he missed her.

Two months passed. When Shao Qing was well enough to leave his room, his father began teaching him how to read. Whether he was horrified that his son barely recognized ten characters in all, he didn’t show it. Instead he demonstrated the proper way to hold a brush and the six basic strokes that constituted a character. He read him classic books, folktales, and poems. There was an eager earnestness to Wen Jun. He treated Shao Qing gently, as if he were still the infant boy who had been spirited away. Shao Qing did not inherit his father’s love of study, but he applied himself nonetheless, practicing his writing and listening attentively when Wen Jun read. He found that he did not want to let his father down.

When Shao Qing had learned enough characters, he composed a letter to the newly appointed magistrate of Zhu City, requesting him to look into the city’s orphanages. He was sure they had not ceased their exploitative practices since he had left. Shao Qing felt more at peace when the letter was received, knowing that for now, he had done what little he could for the neglected orphans.

Some weeks after the summer solstice, Shao Qing and his father sat beneath the pavilion that overlooked the pond, in the middle of one of their lessons.

“Are you happy here, son?” Wen Jun asked.

Shao Qing was copying a sheet of characters. He paused his brush, a drop of ink splashing over his work. He had made his brush too wet again. “I’m content, Father,” he said.

“I know you left a life behind,” Wen Jun said. “It is not our...it is not my intention to isolate you.”

Shao Qing had only left the manor once since he arrived. A servant had gone with him all the way to the bamboo forest in Zhu City, laden with incense and a basket of perfectly ripened peaches. Shao Qing had knelt in a clearing and made a mound of dirt and fallen bamboo leaves, withdrawing a small wooden spirit tablet he had carved himself and sticking it into the grave. He arranged the peaches before it, then burned the incense, its fragrant smoke curling and dissipating in the air. Three times he kowtowed, his forehead touching the earth where he and Su Su had lain under the stars all those years ago. His tears wet the ground—as potent an offering as wine.

Shao Qing had been selfish in his grief. But now, he vowed to provide for her in the afterlife, something he’d failed to do when they were both living, and hoped that her soul would be at peace.

When he returned, Shao Qing felt that he could breathe again. He never ventured out since. After all, where was there to go? There was food and clothing and shelter inside.

“It wasn’t much of a life,” Shao Qing told his father. He thought back to his days on the streets, then his days with Yao’s gang. He’d spent most of it in squalor, numb to almost everything. The heists were the only high points he could remember. Sometimes he missed Yao and the others for their banter, but he didn’t mind his newfound peace.

With his soul back, the quiet life at the Li manor was more interesting than anything Shao Qing had ever experienced. He had forgotten there was a whole spectrum of colors to see. He felt the wind acutely on his skin. There were notes of earth and forest in the air. And the willow trees seemed to sing when a breeze blew by, its boughs swaying like the hem of a silk skirt. He wondered if this was how Zhi Lan saw the world in her artist’s rapture.

“That painter girl. Do you think of her?” Wen Jun said.

Shao Qing shifted uncomfortably. Where his thoughts strayed regarding Zhi Lan was not exactly something he wanted to share with his father.

“You are allowed to have visitors, son. As long as they’re the respectable sort.”

Shao Qing nodded once and returned to his writing. If there was one thing he missed about being a thief, it was his freedom. Respectability had been far from his thoughts—a bothersome thing for the nobility. He found that he chafed under such considerations now.

After a moment of silence, Wen Jun finally said, “I’ve taken the liberty of inviting her and her master.”

Shao Qing looked up at this. “Father, I—”

“They will be arriving today. Very shortly, if I’m not mistaken.” A slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth, making him look several years younger. “I have a previous commitment. I trust you’ll handle things.”

Shortly? How short was shortly?

Wen Jun stood and left before his son could begin to ask, disappearing into the main wing.

Shao Qing stood and paced the pavilion. He considered changing his robe. It was a dove gray, drab compared to some of the other things in his wardrobe. His sleeves were marked with a few ink stains.

He sat again, feeling foolish. Zhi Lan had seen him unwashed in black rags. This hardly signified.

But he knew better now. And he realized he wanted to look his best for her.

Shao Qing made it to the edge of the pavilion before he stopped. His breath caught. Across the courtyard was a girl in white.

She was being led to the pavilion by a servant. Her shoulders were hunched slightly, and she was throwing glances at the wall the two of them had climbed over all those months ago. Shao Qing felt a grin split his face.

Zhi Lan reached the end of the garden path that led into the pavilion. The servant bowed and left her. Her gaze fell uncertainly on him, and she bowed formally.

“Excuse me, young master, have you seen...?” Her inquiry trailed off when she straightened. Her lovely eyes widened. “Shao Qing?”

He tucked his hands beneath his sleeves, not quite sure what to do with them. She looked radiant, her cheeks and lips flushed pink. Her hair was done up in silver pins instead of wood, and she wore a chiffon outer robe, which fluttered in the breeze like transparent wisps of mist.

“Zhi Lan. It’s good to see you.”

He took an involuntary step toward her, as if his impetuous soul had jumped out before him and was tugging his body along.

Zhi Lan took a step back. “Funny being back here,” she said with a nervous laugh.

Shao Qing wondered if he had frightened her in his eagerness. She was a sight for sore eyes. He couldn’t believe it had been over two months since he had seen her last, kneeling on the cold floor of Magistrate Bu’s yamen .

Belatedly, he realized he was being rude. “Where is your master?” he asked. “I was told he was invited as well.”

“Master Dan? He didn’t come. He’s in the middle of a painting and didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Shao Qing secretly celebrated this. “Do you want a tour?” he said eagerly. He suddenly wanted to show her everything, from the orange koi fish in the pond to the sturdy bristles of his new toothbrush.

Zhi Lan gave him a hesitant smile. “I’d like that.”

He led her on a leisurely walk across the courtyard gardens, through the kitchen, along the east wing’s veranda, and finally toward the main house where his own rooms lay.

When they had passed through on their heist, Shao Qing’s suite resembled little more than a haunted storage closet. Now, the old crib was gone and hangings decorated the white walls. Magistrate Li thought Shao Qing had a taste for dragon paintings, so he frequently gifted him scrolls depicting the creatures. The shelves were now full of books. Wen Jun had lent Shao Qing a few volumes from his collection. And along the latticed walls, the windows were propped open, letting in fresh air and sunlight.

“It’s like a completely different place!” Zhi Lan turned in a slow circle, her gaze marveling.

She wandered to his alcove bed and ran her fingertips over the soft bedspread. The absentminded gesture made Shao Qing grow warm.

“Do you sleep well?” she asked.

There was a concerned undertone to her words, and he knew she wasn’t only speaking about the comfort of the mattress.

“I do,” he said quietly. “I think...I am as well as I can be.”

Zhi Lan smiled. “I’m glad.”