Page 40 of A Song to Drown Rivers
“I am seeing you now, aren’t I?” I said, all innocence and poise. He could not know how fast my heart was beating.
He took another step. Lifted a hand to a stray strand of my hair, then brushed his knuckles gently over the side of my cheek. His hands did not feel like a killer’s hands. They were smooth, unscarred. Warm. “I have been thinking about you,” he told me, agitated, in the tones of a drunken confession. Or perhaps he really had been drinking. I could smell the faint notes of yellow wine clinging to his robes. “I cannot stop thinking about you.”
I smiled. “Then don’t.”
His features blazed with wanting. It made him look younger, less cruel. He leaned in, and I shifted back, just slightly, just out of reach. His hands curled as he tried again. This time I let his lips brush mine before I moved, angling my face away from his.
What is desire?
Absence.
He stared at me in the stillness, his eyes burning.
Fear knotted my throat. If he really wanted to, he could overpower me now, kiss me without asking. Kings never needed permission. But though his breathing was uneven, his hands still clenched, he withdrew. “We don’t have to,” he said at last. “There is no point, if you aren’t willing.”
I did my best to conceal my surprise. This was not what the rumors had warned me of.
“May I stay here tonight?” he asked, then, following the direction of my gaze, clarified, “Only to sleep beside you.”
My attention drifted to the shadows waiting outside the windows. Guards. If Fuchai left now, word would flow through the corridors that the king was uninterested, that I had failed to gainhis favor. But if he stayed, it did not matter what we did or didn’t do. The assumption alone would be enough.
“If you wish,” I said, careful not to sound too eager, nor too dismissive. It was like walking along a cliff’s edge.
As Fuchai unfastened his cloak, I picked up the comb again, praying he couldn’t see the tremor in my fingers.
I fell asleep long after he did. And when I dreamed, I dreamed of blood.
Susu’s blood, trickling from her mouth, pooling over the floor. The terrible gurgling sound in her throat. Her small, tiny fingers clutching feebly at the air. Her skin, so soft and tender only in the way of children who had not lived long enough to be marked by the world. Until now. How easily the sword tore through it. I remembered my mother fussing over her when she had scraped her thumb on the corner of a wooden toy; the thinnest red line, barely more than a scratch, but even that had been too much. We gathered around her, my mother squeezing her wrist, my father gathering fresh water to clean it, wiping her tears away, humming to make her laugh. She was the sun in our family, the source of all our light.
I shouted for her, even though it was useless.Susu. My sister, my life.The blood was spreading, smearing over the wood. I could undo it, I kept telling myself. It was only a few seconds’ difference. One single movement. How could that be enough to take her away from me?
But I couldn’t move. I could only watch.
The same nightmare, the same ghosts, the same terrible, unforgivable ending.
The soldier tightened his grip on the sword hilt. His face wasblank, shrouded in darkness. Then I blinked, and his features morphed into Fuchai’s.
No.
My eyes flew open. I was drenched with cold sweat, my chest heaving as though I had run the distance here.Here: tangled in silk sheets in a luxurious canopy bed, in the enemy’s palace, next to their king.
He was still sleeping.
I gazed across the dark stretch of pillow between us, at the moonlight gliding over his skin. His lashes cast shadows over his cheekbones. His brows were smooth, his lips slightly parted, his breathing slow. He looked so peaceful I almost could not fathom it. I found myself staring at the hollow of his throat.One single movement.All that had been needed to rip Susu away from me. All that I needed now, to jam my hairpin into his vein, to end him for good.
The temptation was so strong it formed a jagged stone in my belly. I knew, with a cool certainty, that if he were gone, everything would be made right again. But I couldn’t, just yet. That was not part of the plan.
Be patient, I reminded myself, holding my breath. Outside, an owl hooted into the night, and the clouds moved silver across the sky, and the palace grounds lay in utter stillness, while inside, the king went on sleeping soundly beside me.
He visited my chambers every day after that. Some nights I would rise and smile to greet him, teasing him lightly about the extravagant robes he’d chosen, or the countless servants who followed him everywhere. Other nights I would pretend to be absorbed in a scroll, or an ink painting, and make him wait. To him this must have been the greatest novelty, for nobody ever denied himanything. And it was this that compelled him to come back, time and time again. At the end of the evening, he would blow out the candles and lie down to rest next to me, and whisper, “Goodnight, Xishi.”
There was always a trace of anticipation in those words. I would lean in, close enough to watch his eyes widen, but no farther. “Goodnight.”
While I filled the king’s mind with thoughts of me, Zhengdan filled her schedule with the other palace ladies. She accompanied them to watch the soldiers train every morning, pretending to admire their strength and power while really noting their sword techniques. Often, she would gather critical information just from the ladies’ gossip, about which general was due for a promotion, or which skilled soldier had suffered a bad injury. They sometimes spoke about Fuchai too—his likes and preferences—and whatever she learned, she would report back to me.
“They say he’s particularly fond of the scent of jasmine,” Zhengdan said one morning. We sat together in the dining room, cushioned by furs and silks.
“Is that so?” I mused. “Perhaps I’ll dab some jasmine perfume on my wrists tonight… Or my neck.”
