Mu Fengqie sat on the bed clutching her quilt for a long while. Voices at the door made her look up. Jing Xunche stood there with a bowl in one hand and a little stool in the other. When he saw her watching him, his face tightened.
For some reason, the memory of his lonely back as he left earlier kept replaying in her mind, and she found herself speaking more softly than she intended. “What is it?”
“I—you haven’t eaten. I made you some porridge.” He hovered awkwardly in the doorway, bowl and stool held like an offering.
“Come in.” The words felt strange on her tongue; she turned her head a little, too embarrassed to meet his eyes. Her small, hesitant gesture read as rejection in his expression. He took that as a rebuff—so much so that he wouldn’t even give her a look.
He set the stool beside the bed, put the bowl on it, and hurried away. “I’ll be out—go ahead and eat,” he said in a rush and then he was gone.
She almost called after him—ask him if he’d eaten—then stopped. He wasn’t a child; if he was hungry he’d know what to do. After that small scene she felt more at ease. She reached for the stool and, by the weak light of the candle, realized the “porridge” was mostly wild greens with a scant scattering of rice. It wasn’t watery, but it wasn’t solid either.
She was hungry enough to ignore appearances. She lifted the bowl to her lips and took a mouthful.
“Ugh.” The taste nearly made her spit it back into the bowl. The dim straw-thatched hut around her seemed to shout “poverty” in every corner; she forced the porridge down.
Bitter. The wild greens—where had he found them?—were so bitter they made swallowing a battle. Still, her belly was empty, and there was another life inside it. She pressed her hand to her abdomen and, nose pinched against the taste, she downed the medicinal-tasting broth like something she had to endure. She put the empty bowl back on the stool and sat, staring at the candlelight, lost in thought.
Time flowed and with it the small sounds of the hut—someone taking the red lantern down at the door, the candle burning low. Outside, Jing Xunche’s footsteps had faded; only insects called back and forth in the dark. The porridge churned in her stomach, rising; she knew it wasn’t the porridge itself but pregnancy nausea that tried to turn everything back up.
“This body is too weak,” she muttered. The vomiting was worse than she expected. She steadied herself and went to the table. On it sat an ugly earthenware pot with water. She poured a cup and hesitated when she tasted it: honey water. It was a kindly thing to give, but the sweetness made the nausea worse, thick and cloying.
She stepped outside to get some air and was surprised to find a well in the small yard. In Mujia Village there were only two shared wells for the whole place; the sight of a private well was unexpected. A water bucket sat by the rim. A small cat sat beside the bucket.
He even kept a cat? she thought, crossing to the bucket. As she reached for it, the cat—suddenly alert—sprang up and swatted at her with a paw.
“Ah!” she stumbled back. Even at full speed she was no match for the cat. Just as the paw was about to catch her, she collided with a solid chest. The world spun. She smelled iron—blood—on the air.
She hadn’t been hurt. “Are you hurt?” she looked up into the man who had caught her.
“Are you—are you all right? Did you get scared? Are you hurt?” He pressed every question on her at once, his eyes frantic.
Mu Fengqie stared, a little stunned. After a moment she shook her head. “I’m fine.”
The metallic scent grew stronger. She blinked and asked, “Hey—are you the one who’s hurt?”
He hesitated, then answered, “My name is Jing Xunche.”
“That’s a good name.” She said it without thinking. Then, remembering, she asked the question she’d meant to: “No—are you hurt?”
He looked at her, then only then reached down to his forearm. There were three red lines where the cat’s claws had raked him. The cat lay nearby, motionless in the moonlight.
“You keep a cat that scratches its owner?” she said, half amused, half annoyed, and led him back inside. She eased him onto a chair by the table.
“That’s not a housecat,” he said. “It’s a wildcat—appeared today. I didn’t know it was here.”
She made a sound of understanding. Cats, after all, were wary by nature; she had been careless.
“You have herbs at home?” she asked. As a hunter, he’d likely have first-aid on hand.
“Yes.” He left and brought back a flat basket from the woodpile. Herbs were spread out to dry in it. “See if there’s anything you can use.”
By the candlelight she sorted through them and picked out a few. She crushed the leaves between her fingers and rubbed the poultice onto the scratches, then tore a strip of cloth to bind them. As she worked, an odd noise reached her ears.
“Do you hear that?” she asked.
His gaze stayed fixed on her as she leaned over his arm, the concern in it unblinking. When she mentioned the sound, he faltered. “Oh—um—”
The rattling came again—only this time it was unmistakable: his stomach growling. “Are you hungry?” she asked. “You didn’t eat tonight, did you?”
“My… there’s not much left at home.” He sounded embarrassed. The handful of rice he’d scooped out for her had been all they owned; he’d had just a little broth himself that was long gone.
She got an intimate sense of what “utterly poor” meant. She sifted through the herb basket, plucked a few sprigs and said, “Cook these then.” In the kitchen the grain jar was empty—not a single grain remained. A few of the same wild greens from the porridge lay on the cutting board.
She hesitated, then added them to the pot. Those greens could reduce inflammation; they’d be good for his wounds. She sat on the tiny stool by the stove and watched the flames. Jing Xunche leaned against the doorway. They said nothing; the quiet between them felt like a small, precious peace.
“Almost ready!” she called and lifted the lid. “Wild-veg and medicinal broth—one and only serving, exclusive!” She went to fetch a bowl.
Before she could, Jing Xunche stepped forward and took the bowl from her hands. “Let me—go sit over there.”
She blinked, and by the time she came to her senses the bowl was already in his hands.