Page 12 of A Song to Drown Rivers
I blinked. “I don’t—”
“You do,” he countered calmly. “For instance, right now you are wondering how I even came to such a conclusion.”
“That’s not—”
“And now, you are wondering how I read you so easily.”
I felt a prickling of annoyance. Worse, he was right. “Those are just guesses.”
“Is that so?” He cocked his head just so, a small smile flickering over his lips. “You are now contemplating how it is that I’m right. And you would not mind if I were to fall into the water.”
“I’m not,” I lied, biting the inside of my cheek. How did heknow? I was suddenly self-conscious of every shift in my facial muscles, every minor movement in my body. Was I giving something of myself away, even now?
“Don’t be self-conscious,” he said, smiling still. He reached over and placed his palm above the surface of the pond, in the very same place I had touched the water moments earlier. I watched the silvery light ripple over his skin. His hands were surprisingly slender for a swordsman, each bone as long and delicate as the shaft of an arrow. “You see how easily the water changes upon the slightest breeze, the faintest stir of the lotus petals, the lightest touch?” As he spoke, he skimmed his fingers over the water, and the pond rippled, our reflections distorting within it. “It is the same with your expressions. I do not have to look hard to tell if you are overjoyed; if you are homesick; if you are resentful. Only yesterday, I could see when the sight of a flock of geese soaring through the skies delighted you, or when the sound of the flowing creek reminded you of something tragic.”
It was an unwelcome shock to know your most vulnerable thoughts were all but public to those who cared enough to read them.
“Then tell me,” I said, angling my chin higher, willing my features to flatten, to prove him wrong, “what am I thinking at present?”
Perhaps it was a mistake to challenge him. To invite his full attention. As he searched my face, I could focus on nothing but the unnatural darkness of his eyes, the curious sensation of the air thinning between us. When his gaze drifted lower, down to my nose and lips, there came a fierce rushing in my chest, like the howl of wind over a sheer cliff.
In the same instance, something beneath his calm mask flinched. He drew back, just an inch, yet enough for the change to feel significant. “You are thinking,” he said slowly, looking out at the courtyard instead, “of something you know you should not.”
Warmth rose up the nape of my neck. “So what is your point?”
“My point is that it is a dangerous thing for a spy to wear their emotions so openly. If the king detects something off, the entire mission falls apart. But,” he added, perhaps sensing my despair, “this can be controlled over time. As with anything, it is a matter of willpower and technique.”
“How?”
“Look here,” he said, gesturing to the pond. The water had stilled, and the surface served as a mirror. I gazed down at my own features. It is always difficult for one to see themselves with any objectivity, but I had come to understand that the slender column of my neck was pleasing, the natural cherry-red tint of my lips harmonious with my thick-lashed eyes and small nose. Yet when I looked closer, I saw for the first time how my lips were puckered at the edges, as if I had tasted something sour, and my brows were knitted together, as though in confusion. “Try to smile.”
I tried. My mouth curved, but my eyes remained dark and heavy.
“If you smiled at me like that,” Fanli said, a wry note to his voice, “I would think you were plotting to murder me.”
I watched my reflection twist instantly into a scowl. A scowlwhich only deepened when I realized just how obvious the changes in my expression were.
Fanli laughed aloud.
The shock of the sound wiped my face free of any irritation. It was the first time I had heard him laugh; I’d been starting to wonder if he even knew how.
But he composed himself just as quickly. “Try again,” he suggested. “This time, think of the mind and body as two separate entities. There is no connection between them. Your body is merely a tool, a canvas, a weapon. It is entirely subject to your control.”
Again, I smiled at nothing, feeling more and more like a fool by the minute. The planes of my face remained stiff as ever. I could deceive nobody, not even myself. Had Zhengdan also been subjected to this? For some reason I doubted it; though she was blunter than I in many ways, she also did not experience such intense emotions.
“Perhaps we will find another approach,” Fanli decided. “But I’d suggest you practice as often as you can with a mirror. Study your expressions. See how they change, what causes those changes. That is one place to begin, at least.”
The fake smile slipped from my face. I sighed and massaged my cheeks. This was not quite the type of training I’d had in mind.
“Patience. There will be other things to come,” Fanli said. “But I want you to practice this for the time being.”
I was not as well trained in reading expressions as he, but even I could see the dismissal written over his features. I rose to my feet and began to leave—
“Are you not going to curtsy?”
I froze mid-step, then forced myself to turn back slowly, to lower my head and bend my knees. The position felt so unnatural that I feared I would topple over at any second. I was like a foal, just learning to stand. My legs shook beneath me.
“Yes,” Fanli murmured, half to himself, “I see we will have to work on that as well.”
