When the sweet melon was brought in, Xi Yu was still sprawled on the low couch, his face buried in the soft cushion, his long hair scattered across the entire pillow.
He had actually woken up a while ago, but after hearing the sound of Que Zhi pushing the door open and leaving, he closed his eyes again and stayed put—since someone was bringing breakfast, what was the rush?
Back in the Cold Palace, the first thing he did every morning upon opening his eyes was check that the door latch was still in place, that there were no footsteps outside the window, that he was still alive.
Now, the first thing he did upon opening his eyes was catch the scent of breakfast.
“Get up. The melon’s cut.”
His voice came out muffled from between the pillow folds: “Don’t wanna move. Just leave the melon on the table. I’ll lie here a little longer.”
Then he rolled over, pulling the blanket up to his chin, and cracked one eye open to see the bowl of sweet melon in Que Zhi’s hand.
The melon was cut into bite-sized cubes, the orange-yellow flesh glistening with droplets of juice.
Beside it, on a small plate, was the cheese curd drizzled with fermented milk and sprinkled with raisins—exactly the way Batu had described it at the hunting grounds.
He noticed that the number of raisins was completely different from what he’d casually complained about yesterday—”last time there weren’t enough.”
Xi Yu kicked off the blanket and sat up, reaching for the melon bowl.
Before his fingers even touched the rim, Que Zhi had already placed the bowl into his hand.
He set a spoon beside the bowl and said, “Use the spoon. Don’t use your hands. It’s just been cut—lots of juice.”
Then he sat down beside him and picked up the wooden comb Xi Yu had left by the pillow last night.
Xi Yu scooped up a piece of melon and popped it into his mouth. He chewed, his eyes narrowing with sweetness. He took another piece, this time with a bit of the yogurt curd, stuffing his cheeks full as he mumbled that there were more raisins than last time.
Que Zhi gathered the hair spilling over Xi Yu’s shoulders and began to comb it.
His movements were more practiced than last night—left hand holding the hair behind Xi Yu’s ear, right hand gripping the comb and drawing it from root to tip. When he hit a tangle, he paused and worked it loose with his fingers.
Xi Yu ate a piece of melon, Que Zhi combed a section. The faster he ate, the faster the combing went.
He set down the empty bowl, said he was still hungry, picked up the cheese plate and set it on his lap, continuing to eat. He took a spoonful of the yogurt—this time it had honey in it, much sweeter.
He asked Que Zhi if he’d told the kitchen to add extra honey. Que Zhi neither confirmed nor denied it.
Xi Yu scraped the last bit of cheese curd to the edge of the plate, looked up to tell him to sit down,
then scooped up the largest piece of melon from the plate. With one hand cupped beneath the spoon to catch any dripping honey, he raised it to Que Zhi’s lips.
Que Zhi lowered his head and ate it from his hand.
Then he took the spoon, scooped up a piece of melon from the plate, and—one hand cupped beneath the spoon—raised it to Xi Yu’s lips.
When the spoon came back, Xi Yu noticed a smear of honey on the edge of Que Zhi’s bracer at his thumb—probably from when he’d taken the spoon just now.
He pulled a cloth from his sleeve, took Que Zhi’s hand, and bent down to wipe the honey clean.
Just as he tucked the cloth away,
an attendant announced from outside the door: “Young master, the Khan requests your presence in the study for a discussion.”
Que Zhi stood up and ruffled Xi Yu’s hair. “You eat first. I’ll be back soon.”
He reached the door, paused, and looked back at the low couch—
Xi Yu had already collapsed back onto the pillow with a yawn, his perfectly combed hair spilling over his shoulders, gleaming softly in the morning light.
A faint blush had spread from the tips of his ears to the corners of his eyes and all the way down his neck.
He picked up the honey bowl, scooped up another mouthful, and held the spoon between his lips as he raised half his hand in a lazy wave,
mumbling indistinctly to come back soon—they still had the market this afternoon, and Batu said he was bringing the sheep.
He stood at the door, watching as Xi Yu carefully licked the last of the honey from the spoon. His hand lingered on the doorframe for a moment before he softly replied: “Mm.”
After Que Zhi left, Xi Yu finished the entire plate of melon and yogurt by himself on the couch. It was sweet, but not as sweet as that spoonful from earlier.
He pushed the plate aside, pulled the dagger out from under the pillow, and turned it over in his hands. Then he picked up the wooden comb, wound a few strands of his hair around his fingers, and got up to walk out to the old poplar tree in the courtyard. He leaned over the stone well—its rim worn smooth by years of rope friction—and looked at his reflection in the water.
The well water mirrored his face. The faint flush at the corners of his eyes seemed deeper than when he’d left the palace, and that tear-shaped mole still clung to the corner of his eye like a grain of black sand.
Once, he’d thought that hiding this face was the only way to be safe.
Now he didn’t want to hide anymore. No one here was trying to catch him. No one here needed guarding against.
That afternoon, Batu did come.
He was wearing a new robe today—a blue cotton one he’d bought at the market, with a new leather belt at his waist, and his hair combed back slick and shiny. He didn’t look like a shepherd at all.
But the flock he brought was still the same old crew—Khalbara leading the way, that tuft of black fur on his forehead still sticking straight up.
Batu tied the sheep to the old poplar tree,
then pulled a wrapped bundle from his chest and shoved it into Xi Yu’s hands. It was air-dried mutton his father had brought from the Helian tribe,
for “Que Zhi-ge’s partner,”
and his father had said that a partner was still a guest, and you don’t greet a guest empty-handed.
Xi Yu took the dried meat, thanked him, and asked: “Did you tell your father it was for ‘the partner’?”
Batu jabbed his herding stick into the ground. “My father rolled his eyes and didn’t believe me. He even cursed me for not learning to speak properly and making bad friends—but he still gave me the dried meat.”
Then he pulled out a second bundle from his chest—a small oil-paper package, wrapped tightly—and pressed it into Xi Yu’s hand.
“This one’s for you. It’s not the same as the other one.”
His brows curved with a simple, honest smile, his tone sincere and warm.
“It’s my own stash of snacks—dried apricots, honey-preserved.”
His gaze dropped slightly, carrying a hint of quiet pride from having paid attention, and he added softly: “Last time at the market, I saw you stare at the dried apricot stall, walk a few steps, then look back. That’s how I knew you liked them.”
Xi Yu took the honey-preserved apricots and smiled down at them.
This was the second Shuo herder he’d come to know—and he’d already learned to press snacks into Xi Yu’s hands.
Batu scratched the back of his head, looking a little awkward, his cheeks slightly flushed with shyness.
“Actually, there’s one more thing today—I wanted to ask Que Zhi-ge for a favor. Could he help me write a letter?” His eyes dropped, his fingers unconsciously twisting the hem of his robe, his tone earnest and a bit flustered.
He looked up at Que Zhi, his gaze full of helplessness and sincerity, and spoke honestly: “I can speak Han Chinese, but I can’t write it. My father told me to write to the sheepskin trader in Liangzhou to ask for payment. But I don’t know anyone in Liangzhou who can write, so I had to come beg Que Zhi-ge.”
“He’s not back yet—the Khan called him to the study for discussions. But I can help you write it,”
Xi Yu tugged at Batu’s sleeve. “I’m from the Central Plains too. I can write.”
Batu slapped his forehead: “Right! You’re from the Central Plains!”
The two of them spread out brush and ink on the stone bench under the poplar tree.
Xi Yu wrote the letter according to Batu’s words—polite in tone but clear in demanding payment. His handwriting was neat and elegant, the strokes fine and refined—the result of disciplined practice from his days in the Cold Palace.
Batu watched in awe: “Your handwriting is really beautiful.”
“Way better than that fortune-telling blind man’s in our tribe. His writing looks like ants crawling.”
Xi Yu sealed the letter and handed it to Batu: “Stop praising me. If you keep going, I’ll start charging.”
When Que Zhi came out of the study, he saw the two of them sitting on the stone bench under the old poplar tree from afar.
The stone table was covered with paper, brushes, and an opened package of honey-preserved apricots.
Xi Yu had a dried apricot in his hand, half-bitten, his cheek puffed out as he bent over the letter, explaining to Batu that lines should be separated and not all crowded together.
His other hand hung by the stone bench, his fingertips absently tracing the dappled tree shadows on the stone surface.
Que Zhi walked over to the stone table, casually picked up the apricot that had fallen into the inkstone and splattered half a drop of ink, held it up to the sunlight, then set down the inkstone beside the clean paperweight.
He carefully moved the freshly written letter away from Xi Yu’s hand, keeping it a half-foot from the ink and brushes.
With his handkerchief, he wiped the ink stains from Xi Yu’s fingers, then firmly took his hand: “Your hand’s all stained with ink. Come on—Batu still needs to drive his sheep back, and we’re supposed to go to the market this afternoon.”
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