The tremors running through the ground were faint, but Chen Wuya could tell they were not aftershocks from wind stirring the trees. His fingertips still rested against the edge of a bluestone slab, the pads feeling out the subtle vibrations—three long, two short. It was a variation of the covert signal Old Wu Tou had taught him. Someone was approaching the courtyard gate, deliberately slowing their steps, yet unable to conceal the rhythm of blood and qi coursing as their inner force circulated.
He withdrew his hand, dusted the dirt from his trouser legs, and turned to the two children. "Go inside and practice your writing."
Chen Xuan had just arranged his branches when he froze. "Now? I haven't finished comprehending that move from earlier..."
"Listen to me." Chen Wuya's voice remained calm. He neither raised it nor offered further explanation.
Chen Yao was already on her feet, silently gathering up the diagram of sandy ground patterns she had drawn on paper. She glanced at her father, then took her brother's hand and led him indoors. Bai Zhi stood beside a porch pillar, her eyes sweeping over the crushed remains of the copper whistle in the corner. She lightly kicked them, sending the fragments sliding into the crack of the drainage ditch.
A muffled thump came from beyond the gate as a sedan chair touched down. Its wooden wheels rolled over gravel and came to an exceptionally steady stop.
Chen Wuya straightened the collar of his coarse cloth robe and went out to greet the visitor. A small sedan chair stood outside, its curtains of black cloth and its four corners adorned with faded red tassels. The bearers wore grayish-brown short outfits, standing with bowed heads at either side, hands gripping the carrying poles, even their breathing suppressed to the