“Here is his birth certificate,” Madam Duan said.
Her housekeeper stepped forward and offered it to the stranger.
Duan Ling was short, sickly-looking, and skinny. He struggled weakly in the man’s arms in fear, and was put down again; once settled back on his unsteady feet, he leaned against the man for support. He noticed the stranger was wearing black robes, damp martial boots, and had a jade pendant in the shape of an arc fastened to his waist.
“Name your price, Madam,” said the man.
“Honestly, the Duan clan should never have accepted this boy in the first place,” Madam Duan said with a smile. “But when his mother came back with child, it was the middle of winter and she had nowhere else to go. As the saying goes, heaven cherishes life. I took her in. But once she settled down here, there was no end to it.”
The man said nothing, only gazing with steady intent at Madam Duan as she paused. After a long moment, she sighed. “I’ll put it this way: He was entrusted to me by his mother, Duan Xiaowan. She even gave me a letter. Would you like to see it, my lord?”
The housekeeper brought him the letter as well, which he tucked away without so much as a glance.
“I don’t even know your name,” Madam Duan continued. “If I just hand you the letter and the child without asking any questions, how will I explain myself to Duan Xiaowan when we meet in the afterlife?”
The man, once again, remained silent.
Madam Duan spread her sleeves and said in a more flirtatious tone, “Duan Xiaowan’s pregnancy was mysterious to begin with. I assumed the past could be left well enough alone after she was gone, but if you take this child away tonight…what if his father sends someone looking for him in the future? I wouldn’t be able to tell them anything. Isn’t that right?”
Still, the stranger said nothing.
Madam Duan smiled at him once more, conciliatory, then turned her gaze on Duan Ling. She beckoned him over, but Duan Ling shrank back instinctively and hid behind the man, clutching tightly at his robes.
“Ah.” Madam Duan scoffed lightly. “Still, my lord, you should offer me some explanation.”
Finally, he spoke: “I don’t have one. I only have money. Name your price.”
Madam Duan was speechless.
As the man fell into stern silence again, Madam Duan realized he would provide her nothing aside from payment for raising Duan Ling. He would not tell her who he was, regardless of any trouble it might cause for the Duan clan. The pair watched one another quietly for a short while, and then the man reached into his robes and withdrew several colorful banknotes.
“Four hundred taels,” she said, finally naming her price.
The man passed over the appropriate banknote.
Duan Ling watched the housekeeper accept the payment, and his breathing stuttered to a halt. He had no idea what this man wanted to do with him. He’d heard the maids say before that on bitter-cold winter nights, there were people who would come down the mountain and buy children to bring back as offerings to be eaten by monsters. A terrible fright rose within him.
“I’m not going!” he yelled. “No! No!”
Duan Ling turned to run, but only made it a single step before the maid grabbed him painfully by the ear and dragged him back.
“Let go of him,” the man said in his deep voice. He laid a hand on Duan Ling’s shoulder, and that hand felt like it weighed more than a thousand pounds. Duan Ling couldn’t move even when the housekeeper released him.
The housekeeper carried the banknote to Madam Duan, who frowned slightly when she accepted it.
“Keep the change,” the stranger told her. To Duan Ling, he said, “Let’s go.”
“I won’t! I won’t go!” Duan Ling cried.
Madam Duan still hadn’t lost her smile. “Where are you going in the dark? Why don’t you stay the night here and set off in the morning?”
Duan Ling wailed at the top of his lungs as the man looked down at him with a furrowed brow. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked.
“I don’t want to be fed to monsters! Don’t sell me! Don’t—” Duan Ling wriggled free and tried to dive under the table, but the man was much faster. He grabbed the boy and flicked several acupoints with his slender fingers, sealing Duan Ling’s voice; Duan Ling promptly collapsed. The man picked him up again, and under Madam Duan’s suspicious gaze, carried him outside.
“You don’t have to be afraid,” the man said quietly, holding Duan Ling under his arm. “I won’t feed you to any monsters.”
Outside the residence, the knife-cold wind blew snow flurries into their faces. Duan Ling’s throat seemed obstructed by an odd barrier of air—he opened his mouth but couldn’t make a sound.
“My name is Lang Junxia,” the man said. “Remember it: Lang Junxia.”
“Won—tons!” Lao-Wang called into the night from the stall to which he’d returned.
The wonton stall’s yellow lamp shone through the falling snow; Duan Ling’s empty stomach clenched as he gazed at it desperately. The man—Lang Junxia—came to a stop, paused, then set Duan Ling down and tossed a couple of copper coins into the bamboo tube at the front of the stall with a jingle.
Somehow, this simple action calmed Duan Ling. Who was this man, and why had he taken him from the Duan residence? Lang Junxia pressed on Duan Ling’s back to unseal some acupoints; his throat was suddenly free of obstruction. He was about to scream again when Lang Junxia shushed him. Duan Ling watched as the old man brought them a steaming bowl filled to the brim with meaty wontons, sesame seeds and crushed peanuts sprinkled on top. A small piece of fat was dissolved in the soup, giving off a tantalizing fragrance, and potherb mustard garnished the bowl.
“Eat,” Lang Junxia said.
Duan Ling immediately forgot everything else and grabbed the bowl, scarfing down the wontons despite how they scorched his tongue and throat. His hunger overcame his fear, and he kept his head lowered to wolf the whole meal down as quickly as he could. As he slurped a mouthful of soup, a fox-fur coat fell across his back.
When he had drunk every last drop from the bowl, he put down his chopsticks and sighed before turning around to look at Lang Junxia. The man’s complexion was tan, like a person in a painting, and his nose was tall, his eyes deeply set. The lights in the alley and the flying snow reflected in his pupils. The fall of his clothes hinted at an upright, strong figure, and his black outer robe was embroidered with ferocious monsters baring fangs and flashing claws. His fingers were long and beautiful, and he carried a shining sword at his waist like a hero in an opera.
Duan Ling had seen people return from the capital in splendor, riding high on their horses through the streets of Runan. From his hiding spot in the crowd, he’d watched the commotion, observing the young men dressed in silk and satin, flushed with their own success.
None of them had been as good-looking as this man—yet Duan Ling couldn’t have put into words what made him so handsome.
Suddenly he was incredibly frightened once more. Perhaps Lang Junxia was a monster turned man, who would soon bare his fangs and eat him alive. Lang Junxia, on the other hand, merely stared at him intently.