Fox and Phoenix (31 page)

Silently, I retreated from the front room and crept up the stairs to my room. The light was dim there. Afternoon was falling toward night. Snow pattered against the wooden shutters, interrupted now and then by the
tick-tick
of sleet. A whiff of cold air filtered into the already chilled room. Even as the door swung closed behind me, a magic-powered heater clicked on.

I still clutched the envelope in one hand, the leather cylinder from Lian in the other. I set the cylinder on my desk and lit an oil lamp. By its light I examined my father's packet of letters. It was thick, stained with water and wine and dirt. He had used the cheapest paper. No doubt a soldier couldn't take his finest writing kit to war.

My legs went limp and I sat heavily on my bed.

This is scary, Chen,
I whispered.

My hands shook as I broke the wax seal and lifted the flap.

There were a dozen thick parchment sheets crammed inside. They were just as dirty as the outside, and stiff from waiting ten years. It took me several minutes to unwedge them without ripping the envelope. I laid them on my lap and stared down at the top sheet.

It wasn't the letter I expected. But it was the letter I needed right now. My father wrote about a spring day in Lóng City, how the clouds were like great white birds soaring over an ocean of mountains. How the sun glinted off palace and plain red tile roofs alike. How the warmth felt good on his back, how the fresh snowmelt tasted. He was going off to war, he said. And he wanted to fix the good memories of home, of his wife and son, in his mind to keep on the dark nights and in the midst of battle. The day's light faded as I read through all twelve letters. When I looked up, I saw Yún sitting on the floor, gazing up at me. She must have arrived while I was lost in the world of my father's letters. The golden lamplight made her eyes shine like ebony and her skin like polished bronze.

“How are you?” she asked.

My throat hurt. “Better,” I managed to say.

“I'm glad.” She hesitated. “This is selfish, I know, but ... I was afraid that everything had changed once we got back.”

Changed—as in, what happened on the road had vanished with our homecoming. I didn't blame her for wondering. All those hours spent running away from Mā mī meant I hadn't spent much time with Yún, either.

I set my letters next to my cylinder and faced Yún.

She is my future,
I thought.
If she wants me.

Then tell her,
Chen said.

He was right. Whatever her answer, I had to speak.

“Yún. I have something to say. To ask.”

She tilted her head. There was a faint smile on her face. “Then ask,” she said.

A tight cord around my heart frayed and burst. I reached out and took Yún's warm hands in mine. Pulled her next to me. She came willingly.

 

When I sit down to write, it's me and the computer. (And sometimes a cat.) But after that first mad rush of prose, I depend on editors and friends to keep me honest and my story clear. Many thanks go to Delia Sherman, Lisa Mantchev, Shveta Thakrar, Celina Summers, Sherwood Smith, and Fran Wolber for their sharp-eyed critiques and their encouragement. I also owe a great debt to Li Zhao, Anna Shih, and Kelvin Shih for their help with Chinese names and phrases.

A huge thank-you also goes to my editor, Sharyn November, for guiding me to a better book.

And last but not least, I am grateful to my husband and son. You guys make the writing possible.

BETH BERNOBICH comes from a family of storytellers, artists, and engineers. She juggles her time between working with computer software, writing, family, and karate. Her short stories have appeared in publications such as
Asimov's
,
Interzone
,
Postscripts
, and
Strange Horizons
. Her debut adult novel,
Passion Play
, was published in the fall of 2010; its sequel,
Queen's Hunt
, is forthcoming.
Fox and Phoenix
is her first novel for younger readers. She lives with her husband and their son in Bethany, Connecticut.

Visit her Web site at
www.beth-bernobich.com
.

BOOKS
BY
BETH BERNOBICH