At about twenty past three on an autumn afternoon, the impertinent sunbeam in Zhao Yunlan’s office slipped from the padded chair next to the coffee table and followed its customary course onto the floor behind the chair. Da Qing had the dignity of a ten-thousand-year-old royal, but a sunbeam was a sunbeam, immune to status. When he woke to find the golden warmth had slid away, he stood up, stretched out his front legs, and hopped down to curl up on the floorboards in the irresistible pool of light. Its soft fingers stroked into his fur. He rolled over, extending his back legs, soaking solar heat into his belly, then curled up again with his tail tucked over his nose and let his eyes fall shut.
The door opened with a rattle of blinds, and Wang Zheng said, “I don’t know what you expect to find in here. Why would Chief Zhao have information about Professor Shen?”
“Professor Shen has secrets, obviously.” Zhu Hong’s high heels clip-clopped across the floor. “And Lao Zhao has been strange about it since the trip to the mountains. You’ve seen him mooning over his notebook. Something happened. He’s figured something out.”
“Even if that were true, he wouldn’t leave clues lying around for you to find.”
“You never know. And if he has anything of Shen Wei’s here, I’ll scan it with this. We need to know more about that professor. I don’t trust him an inch, and he’s beguiled Lao Zhao.”
“The professor is unusually self-possessed,” said Wang Zheng, tactfully neutral. “Did you ask Lin Jing before you took his detector?”
“I’m just borrowing it.” Zhu Hong’s footsteps skirted the desk.
Da Qing cracked an eye to watch her poke through Lao Zhao’s things. Should he stop her? He wasn’t on duty during sunbeam time, and besides, he was curious too. They’d been back for nearly a week, and Lao Zhao hadn’t gone prowling around the professor once. And Professor Shen, who only a month ago had made a point of moving in across the hall, and who had insinuated himself into any number of cases up till now, hadn’t called Lao Zhao or visited or so much as left a dead mouse on the doorstep.
They hadn’t fought. Lao Zhao wasn’t sulking or stewing. His tail was twitching, not lashing. He was deep in thought and waiting, but waiting for what? An engraved invitation? He’d never needed one before.
Da Qing should visit the professor himself and see how the land lay. Or shadow him and gauge Lao Zhao’s reaction when he reported back. That would be a clue in itself. He’d do it—as soon as his sunbeam had run out.
Zhu Hong was nosing through Lao Zhao’s desk drawers now. Da Qing would absolutely have stopped her, except he was comfortable, and Wang Zheng was supervising, and Lao Zhao never kept anything personal at work anyway.
“What’s this?” She plucked a small bottle of orange liquid from the top drawer, opened it and sniffed. “Liniment?”
“Zhu Hong, you need to stop rifling through Chief Zhao’s personal belongings,” said Wang Zheng, making a token show of propriety.
Zhu Hong ignored her. “Why does Lao Zhao have liniment? Was he hurt?”
“All offices should be equipped with first aid kits and—what are you doing?”
Zhu Hong pointed the dark energy detector at the bottle and looked disappointed when it only hummed disinterestedly. “There must be a clue here somewhere.”
“If Chief Zhao were hiding something, what makes you think he’d—”
“Aha!” Zhu Hong had opened the little drawer where Lao Zhao kept his lollipops. “This will hold some answers.” She held up his notebook.
“Zhu Hong!” Wang Zheng tried to take it off her. “I’ve changed my mind. This is wrong. It might be private!”
“It won’t be private—it’s just his case notes!” Zhu Hong hung on tight. She was holding the dark energy detector in her other hand, but she managed to pinch the corner of the notebook around the detector’s handle, to reinforce her main grip. “Someone needs to add them to the relevant files.”
“You can’t read Chief Zhao’s notebook!” They struggled over the little leatherbound book like puppies playing tug-of-war. A pen fell from between its pages and skittered across the floor. Then Wang Zheng’s fingers slipped and the book sprang open between them. Still wrestling, they both stared at the turbulent pages. “Are those drawings of Hei Pao Shi and Professor Shen?”
Zhu Hong looked vindicated and pulled harder. “See? If Hei Pao Shi is in there, it must be SID business. Let me—”
“Where is everyone?” Lao Zhao’s call resonated up the hall. “Doesn’t anyone do any work around here?”
Zhu Hong jumped. Wang Zheng flinched. They both let go of the notebook, and the dark energy detector leaped out of Zhu Hong’s grasp and arced through the air towards Da Qing, whose reflexes were dulled by napping. Lao Zhao’s notebook followed on the same trajectory.
The detector was heavy and travelling fast. It hit the back of his cat skull like a knobbly brick, ricocheted off the wall behind him, hit him again in the same spot and crashed to the floor. Meanwhile, the notebook smacked him right in the face and flopped down, falling open. Da Qing yowled.
Through his pain and indignation, he vaguely heard Zhu Hong and Wang Zheng exclaim in dismay. From the doorway, Kunlun said, “What the hell is going on here?”
Da Qing’s vision swam. The two sketched figures in front of him merged into one. He hastily covered them with his paws and closed his eyes for good measure. The ringing in his ears subsided, but something like a hairball was trying to escape his stomach and something like guilt was standing his fur on end.
No, it was all right. Da Qing was half behind the chair where Kunlun—no, what? Lao Zhao! Where Lao Zhao couldn’t see. He wouldn’t know Da Qing had let him down. But then Wang Zheng bent over, blocking out the rest of the room but drawing attention to his presence. “Deputy, are you all right?”
Deputy. That’s right, Da Qing was deputy chief of the SID. It was a position of great importance, as befitted the king of the cats. He’d accepted it because Kunlun had—no! He hissed at his slippery thoughts. Because Lao Zhao had asked as a favour and promised him board and a ready supply of fish on top of his meagre salary. Kunlun wasn’t here.
Footsteps, Wang Zheng hustled aside, and then, “Damn Cat, what is it?”
A familiar face looking down at him, two people in one.
Da Qing’s back legs squeezed in, his stomach heaved, and his last fish snack landed half-digested on Lao Zhao’s sheepskin boots.
“Ugh!” Lao Zhao took a half-pace back, reconsidered, and stepped out of the boots altogether, leaving them where they stood. “Damn Cat, if you’re going to make a mess, do it outside. What’s that under your paws?”
Da Qing hardly heard him because his head was going to explode, but he definitely felt it when Lao Zhao reached down and jostled him by yanking the notebook away.
“Don’t!” croaked Da Qing, unsure if he were protesting this rough treatment of his delicate state, or something bigger, a memory trembling on the verge of revelation. A memory that was going to hurt. He needed to talk to Fu You, but this was now, and she—
“Hey, brat,” said Lao Zhao, being very Lao Zhao—tense and rude, his jeans torn and threadbare. His socks were full of holes, too, and his toenails needed cutting. He glanced at the open notebook pages, snapped them shut one-handed and glared down. “Who said you could look through my stuff?”
“I didn’t!” said Da Qing, injured by this lack of faith. “I was—” He broke off. What had he been doing? His head hurt, and his memories were tangled yarn. There’d been a sunbeam—its warmth lingered in his fur.
“You expect me to believe that when I caught you red-pawed?” asked Lao Zhao into the silence. “Don’t make me cut off your fish allowance.”
Da Qing sprang to his feet. “You wouldn’t!”
It was their unspoken agreement that Lao Zhao couldn’t manage him like he did the others. It would be unseemly—Lao Zhao was barely more than a kitten himself, whereas Da Qing had seen every corner of the planet in his long life, no matter that he couldn’t remember. Besides, Kunlun had never threatened Da Qing like this, which made Lao Zhao’s tone even wronger. How dare he look the same but be so mean?
“Chief Zhao,” said Wang Zheng, “by any chance are you in a love triangle with Professor Shen and Hei Pao Shi?”
“What?” Lao Zhao’s head whipped round. “What nonsense is that?”
Zhu Hong was glaring at Wang Zheng. “With Hei Pao Shi now? Why would you even say that?!”
“They both saved Chief Zhao in the mountains in their own way—Hei Pao Shi in the caves, and Shen Wei from the wine. They could be vying for his affections! And didn’t you see the doodles? Just because Chief Zhao hasn’t festooned them with hearts, doesn’t mean he’s not entertaining feelin—”
“Wang Zheng, Zhu Hong,” barked Lao Zhao, “whatever you were doing here in my office, stop it and clean up my boots. I don’t want to hear any more of these childish fantasies. Do you think we’re living in a daytime soap?”
“It was the cat that made the mess. I don’t see why we should have to,” grumbled Zhu Hong under her breath, but Lao Zhao jabbed his finger at her, sliding his notebook into his pocket as he did.
“Boss, I need to requisition more vitrines for the Hallows.” A new voice, irrefutably Lin Jing’s, but for a flicker, when Da Qing peeked around the chair leg, he was a different scientist, long-haired and in old-fashioned clothes, chewing his lip as he bent over his workbench.
“My baby!” The mirage vanished. Lin Jing had seen his detector shattered on the floor. He rushed forward and snatched the pieces up to cradle them to his chest. “Who did this?”
“Zhu Hong,” said Wang Zheng.
Zhu Hong began to defend herself. Lao Zhao raised his voice.
None of them were paying attention to Da Qing, and it was all too loud and mixed up. Relinquishing his sunbeam, he slunk under the chair and out the door to lick away his injured pride in private.
In the main room, he unfolded into human form for the pockets. He went by his desk to collect his jacket and paused with his hand on the chairback. If he visited Lao Li, he could have a fortifying snack. The thought made his mouth water and rebellion swell in his chest: Lao Zhao couldn’t come between a cat and his fish. No one could! The very idea broke the laws of nature and justice.
Also Lao Li would stroke his hair and give him medicine for his headache, and they could play their dangly string game, which would be a pleasant distraction.
But he didn’t want to stay in the SID, not even with Lao Li, who looked old but was really another tiny kitten. And he didn’t want to be distracted. His memories were churning, pushing and poking at his heart and lungs and other organs. The modern world around him was flimsy and unreal. He was supposed to be in the mountains, sitting next to Kunlun, chewing gristle and half-listening to battle plans—
No one here would understand. Wise Fu You was long gone; earnest Ma Gui, who Da Qing had imagined in Lao Zhao’s office, was gone. There was only one other person alive who’d known Kunlun, and he wasn’t in Dragon City—but Da Qing could call him.
The SID’s red seal and other official paraphernalia were stored in a cupboard behind Wang Zheng’s desk. He pocketed a cone of incense, the incense burner, and a box of matches. Lao Chu and Xiao Guo were training in the park. Everyone else except for Sang Zan was shouting in Lao Zhao’s office, and Sang Zan just smiled. He didn’t know to stop him.
Outside, the sun cast long crisp shadows, but the air was cool. There weren’t many people around—two women on bicycles, a courier making a delivery next door, and the grocer fussing over his apples. Da Qing huddled into his jacket. Where should he go? Where did people have important meetings? A restaurant or teashop wouldn’t do. He needed a private place where people wouldn’t stare. It would have to be the flat.
The cobblestones he usually took for granted were hard and lumpy. Buildings blocked out half the sky, and there weren’t enough trees. A van drove past, too fast and close, and made him jump. Half his mind was slipping around, trying to gain a foothold on a tide of history witnessed first-hand: dynasties rising, expanding, claiming heaven’s mandate and ruling over the land, then brutally overthrown, politically dismantled, or undone by famine; isolated tribes and wandering bands; the markets and settlements that had preceded Dragon City; the boats on the river that always carried one or two juicy stowaway rats; temporary companions who had fed him and shared their hearth. A handful of curious Dixingren over the years, making a life for themselves under the stars, or causing trouble. And the Yashou, too, whose Great Forest had covered acres and acres, including half of what was now Dragon City itself. Since its beginning, the city had nibbled at the edges of other peoples’ spaces like a stray who’d grown up hungry and, faced with unaccustomed bounty, didn’t know when it was full. And throughout it all, there had been earthquakes and floods, discomfort and cold and far too many rainy nights without shelter. But there had also been feasts and sunbeams in the unlikeliest of places, and friends along the way. A kind Crow leader had once offered Da Qing a place in her tribe, but Da Qing’s heart had been restless—until he met Lao Zhao.
Now it was restless again. Lao Zhao couldn’t be Kunlun—time didn’t work like that. Lao Zhao was young and soft, however much he pretended to be a black-hearted cynic. He was a child of Dragon City, with its modern technology and conveniences. It made no sense to link him to a general who’d fought in a war ten thousand years ago. The one who’d strung Da Qing’s bells around his neck back then couldn’t be Lao Zhao. But the resemblance, though distorted and confusing, was real. Even his smell was right and wrong at the same time. Da Qing dashed away tears and curled into cat form—partly for speed of travel, partly to escape his thoughts.
It was early evening when he arrived home. He scampered up the stairs on four paws, unfolded himself upright to fit his key into the lock, and then stood in the doorway and, despite his haste, surveyed the flat he shared with Lao Zhao.
Professor Shen had—inexplicably and heroically—brought order and hygiene to the place only a week ago, and his efforts hadn’t been completely overwritten. Yes, dirty dishes had popped up like mushrooms on various surfaces, and worn jeans and t-shirts carpeted the floor, merging seamlessly into the spill of clean washing at the end of the bed, but it was only surface mess, easy enough to fix.
Still Da Qing hesitated. He wasn’t going to pick up after Lao Zhao when Lao Zhao had been mean. Even if he did—the flat was too lived in. Da Qing didn’t care on his own behalf; he was used to retreating to the couch or his bed and turning a blind eye and determinedly oblivious nose to the rest. The sense of Home mattered far more than aesthetics. He liked comfortable. But could he summon an important dignitary here? His memories kept grabbing at him, dragging him back and forth along his long life path, showing him past scenes and faces and notable meals: once upon a time he’d had a throne room and a tribe of Haixingren to call him king and cater to his every feline need. He was in no mood at all to get his paws wet doing dishes. And anyway, it was hard to imagine such a powerful imposing figure stepping from a portal into the midst of Lao Zhao’s weird decor and settling in for a chat on their old leather couch.
And Lao Zhao could come home at any time.
No, this wouldn’t do after all. Where then? There were outdoor options: the park, or the roof of their apartment block if the access door wasn’t locked. Neither of them struck the right note. He could go back to the SID, hold his meeting in the library and hope the others stayed out of it, but that felt wrong, too. Too close to Lao Zhao and the mystery of Da Qing’s feelings. Frustrated, he shut the flat door and turned away.
And stopped. Professor Shen would still be at the university. It was barely dark outside, and from what Lao Zhao had said, he always worked late.
Professor Shen’s apartment was the height of decorum and dignity.
Where would be the harm in borrowing it for an hour? In letting his guest believe it was Da Qing’s rightful place? Lao Zhao would wag his finger if he found out, but what did rental agreements and private property have to do with cats? And Da Qing wouldn’t touch anything or snoop this time. It was just for show.
It was a good solution, close enough to his real home to be comforting, but without Lao Zhao’s accumulated clutter and the insistent associated troubling question of Lao Zhao’s age and identity.
Of course, Professor Shen’s door was locked—Da Qing checked—but there was a sturdy tree leading up to the professor’s balcony, used as an exit after their investigation last time, and Da Qing had known how to jimmy a sliding door since shortly after such things were invented.
Safely inside, he caught his breath and his bearings. This flat was spotless, not a whisker out of place. Even the delicate matching teapot and cup on the coffee table seemed purposefully positioned and were, on closer inspection, clean. Who lived like this? Da Qing prowled on his paws from living room to kitchen and back, taking it in, assuming a cat’s natural dominion. He was alone here. No one would ever find out, and who could his guest possibly tell?
Right, then. It was time.
He unfolded into his upright self and switched off his phone. Nothing else could be this important, and it would be rude to allow interruptions. He took the incense and burner from his pocket and crouched down to set one inside the other on the coffee table. He’d never done this alone before, without the bolster of Lao Zhao at his back, and he had to shake the nerves from his fingers before he could strike the match. Even then, he pinched the stem too tight, and the match splintered as it flared. But it did flare. Da Qing touched the fire to the incense till it took hold, then shook the match dead and huffed out the flame, each step in order, almost automatic. Almost.
A hollow unease was filling his stomach, but he kept his head up. Thick cords of smoke wove towards the ceiling. The lights flickered. Smoke cascaded in through the closed windows.
The fine hairs on the back of Da Qing’s neck tingled, and ice slid down his spine. Lately, the Envoy’s appearances had lacked these dramatics. He’d arrived at the SID through an unembellished portal on several occasions, willing to listen when the SID begged favours, willing to confer with Lao Zhao on matters of policy. Everyone had begun to relax around him, and by all accounts, he’d protected the others in the Hanga caves and wielded the Mountain-River Awl to re-form Sang Zan out of his dissipating energy, an act of mercy Wang Zheng swore she’d never forget. So what was prompting this additional display of power today? The different location? Or was it that the Envoy could tell in advance who’d called him and was trying to put Da Qing in his place?
Balling his hands in his pockets, Da Qing reached for his cat insouciance and pride. He was at the top of the food chain, the king of the cats. He wouldn’t be intimidated by theatrics!
At last, when the room was thick with sweet smoke and darkness, a portal opened and the Black-Cloaked Envoy appeared, bringing his own faint light. His mouth was stern, his dark energy palpable and spice-scented. “Chief—”
Even cloaked in darkness, there was no mistaking his surprise.
Cats were crepuscular, slinking unseen through shadows to steal a snack, but tonight Da Qing wished for a candle or lamp, some semblance of normalcy. Thankfully, the darkness was thinning into soft twilight as if the Envoy had himself decided to alleviate the forbidding atmosphere. He glanced at the bookshelves, the couch, the neat coffee table, then eyed Da Qing. “Deputy Chief Da Qing.”
“Just ‘Da Qing’. I’m not acting for the SID.”
The Envoy seemed to grow taller. His voice held a rumble of thunder. “Then for what reason have you called me here?”
“You knew Kunlun.” So strange to say the name aloud, strange enough that Da Qing forgot his wariness. He rubbed his neck and frowned. His youthful recollections were teasingly obscured by time or by his headache, but he was sure of this one thing. “Back then you knew him, didn’t you?”
“Where did you hear that name?” The Envoy had gone so still even his robes hung motionless.
In answer, Da Qing tapped the side of his head like Lao Zhao would have done, then said, “You knew him.”
The Envoy studied Da Qing for long enough that Da Qing squirmed inside and considered apologising and calling off this whole meeting. It was hopeless. The Envoy never said anything. Never mind. Flower Yashou historians kept records back to the First Seed, and it wasn’t impossible they’d mentioned notable humans here and there, down through the centuries. He could ask. Anything to escape this awkward—
“Yes,” said the Envoy.
Hope surged, blotting out Da Qing’s backup plan. “Where is he now? I need to find him.”
A gesture cloaked in an ancient black sleeve, and the lights came back on, turning the flat golden and cosy. The Envoy himself was—still intent, but no longer holding himself aloof and apart. Even his robes looked softer, the embroidered black more like charcoal. “Shall we sit?”
As if this were his own place and not supposedly Da Qing’s! But he had answers and there was a chance he’d share them, and besides, old memories were stirring in Da Qing’s chest. It wasn’t only Kunlun—of course, it couldn’t be. Da Qing had spent time with the Envoy, too—a proud young general, fierce at fighting, carrying a growing burden as more and more of his soldiers fell.
This was the same man. Da Qing had shared a campfire with him more than once. And now they were here together in this modern building with its modern comforts. Da Qing sat on the edge of the couch, and the Envoy took the armchair as if he came here every day.
“How much do you remember?”
“It’s confusing. Kunlun was there, you were there.” Da Qing touched the bells around his neck. “He said I’d see him again, but when I woke up, my head was killing me, and the earth had been torn up. You’d vanished, and I couldn’t remember anything. I didn’t know about Kunlun.”
The hollowness pushed into his diaphragm, making it hard to breathe. Kunlun had been human, mortal, must be ten thousand years dead. Before he passed he must have waited for Da Qing in vain.
Da Qing hadn’t known to look, back then, and now it was too late—there was no one for his questing heart to find.
“Da Qing, this is important.” The Envoy leaned forward. “Have you said anything?”
It took a moment to understand, but oh, the Envoy must have noticed the resemblance. “To Zhao Yunlan? No.” Was that what he meant? Why did it matter? “What happened to Kunlun?”
“The Hallows took him.” The Envoy bowed his head, hands clenched on his knees. Yes, of course, it wasn’t only Da Qing’s loss. They’d both loved him.
But this was news. “The Hallows? What did they do with him? If they took him, can we use them to bring him back? He’s not—”
“Not—?”
“He’s not imprisoned like Sang Zan, is he? Held by the Mountain-River Awl?” From Wang Zheng’s story it was clear a hundred years had changed Sang Zan’s personality. What would ten thousand years have done to Kunlun—stolen his smile? “We have to rescue him!”
“He’s not in a pillar.” The Envoy’s mouth curved, so sad it was barely a smile. “Why don’t you start from the beginning? How did you come to be here?”
“I live here,” Da Qing lied, conscious of the clean and orderly flat. The Envoy didn’t answer, and Da Qing reconsidered the question. Not “here” as in Professor Shen’s apartment. Here at all. “I wandered. I roamed Haixing, basked in sunbeams, sheltered from rain, ate what was given to me or what I stole. I didn’t know what I was looking for, so I just kept going.”
The Envoy’s hand went to his chest and pressed there, cupped over his heart. “That must have been very lonely.”
“Unsatisfying,” agreed Da Qing. Those he’d met along the way had sustained him to some degree, but none had quieted his longing. “And I never get older. Lost count of the lives I used up.”
“I hope you don’t spend them carelessly.” The Envoy, always so serious, looked concerned.
But he was different here, away from the SID and crime scenes. He wasn’t pronouncing judgement or looming silently, seemed genuinely interested in Da Qing’s story.
Da Qing smirked. “It’s not good for a cat to be too cautious. That’s why we have nine lives in the first place.”
“I’m afraid you may have taught that philosophy too well to Zhao Yunlan, though he only has the one.”
Was that a joke? Had the Envoy just teased him? Well, they had been friends once. With the past coming in and out of focus, jumbling around, it was easy to forget. A visceral memory surfaced of racing along the clifftop towards two figures who sat talking at the lookout. Released from his duties, Da Qing had been impatient to join them, and he’d been welcomed with shining eyes and a generous smile. His pulse hastened in sympathy with the past exertion. His heart ached with loss.
He didn’t have time to think about his own long useless life. He had a mystery to solve. “Well, what about Kunlun?”
The Envoy gave a surprised almost-laugh. “That’s part of it.”
“What?”
The Envoy sobered again, seemed to be weighing a private decision. “Da Qing,” he said, at last, “what exactly do you remember?”
How to describe it? An endless string of travels and hearths, of waiting without knowing why, of searching without knowing what for, days and years and decades obscure and colourless with everyday happenings. And at either end, like fat bright fish flitting through dark pondweed, the Allied Forces and Kunlun, and Lao Zhao and the SID.
“It comes and goes. I remember him saying to have love in my heart. And he called you by another name—” Da Qing scratched through his thoughts, chasing the elusive knowledge. “He called you—”
Kunlun had shouted it to call the Envoy to dinner. What had it been?
“Da Qing,” said the Envoy. “How are you with secrets?”
“I’m a black cat. I slink in the shadows. Mysterious is my middle name.”
The Envoy’s lips twitched, but his gaze was serious. “Can you keep a secret from Zhao Yunlan?”
Da Qing hardly heard him. He was walking Kunlun down to the stream to show him where to wash. The path crunched underfoot. The colours were vivid; dust itched his nose. The sky was cloudy but warm, like every one of Kunlun’s strange pronouncements, and a hawk circled out above the foothills. And as they came around the bend by the napping boulder, Kunlun halted in his tracks. Ahead and below, the Envoy was sitting by the stream. His robes hung from his waist, and he was combing out his wet hair. He hadn’t seen them.
Kunlun was clearly struck by the sight; he stared as if the Envoy were a dragonfly inviting him to pounce. Then the sun broke through the clouds, bathing the scene in gold, and he laughed in that way he had and said to Da Qing, “How much time do you all spend doing your hair? Well, I guess it makes sense—there’s no teevee or internet.”
He took out a glass oblong the size of his hand and held it up.
Da Qing tensed. Kunlun acted friendly, but he was new to camp and very perplexing. “Is that another of your weapons?”
Kunlun lowered it and laughed again, the beads in his hair winking in the sunlight. “I’m making a souvenir.” And he turned to Da Qing, put a gentle hand on his shoulder and said, “Da Qing, trust me, I would never harm you or Hei Pao Shi. I won’t let either of you be hurt. You have to live a long, long time, so we can meet again.”
It was as plain as a clear sky that he meant it. He believed every word. And then he stroked Da Qing’s hair exactly right, sending a flush of happiness through him, making him purr with his human throat, and Da Qing knew: he trusted Kunlun. He wanted to follow him forever.
Kunlun held up the glass oblong again, pointing the back of it at Da Qing this time, and the creases around his eyes deepened. “Besides, you’ll have one of these yourself one day.”
Then the Envoy saw them and waved, and Kunlun called back with a name only he used. “Shen Wei!”
Distantly, Da Qing heard it in his own voice. He’d said it aloud. His hair bristled in confusion. The remembered happy warmth turned to gooseflesh. He was back in modern-day Dragon City, and the Envoy’s name was— “Shen Wei?”
The Envoy removed his mask.
It wasn’t the professor. It was the same face, the same man—the face from Da Qing’s memories, too—but his hair was long, and the weight of his responsibilities cloaked him like another set of robes. And he was clearly worried.
Da Qing stared. The sketches in Lao Zhao’s notebook flashed before his eyes and merged like they had before, but— “Why are you Shen Wei?”
“I’ve always been Shen Wei. When we met at the university, I was surprised you didn’t know me.”
“I—I couldn’t remember.” There’d been an itch, a fleabite of familiarity, but Da Qing had assumed it was wariness because the professor was extremely suspicious. Which made a lot more sense if he was also the Black-Cloaked Envoy.
Was this what Lao Zhao’s pictures meant? He must have figured it out during the trip to the mountains. No wonder he’d been moody since. No wonder he hadn’t called on Professor Shen. Uncovering a secret of this magnitude would have made him rethink every one of their interactions, and the Envoy’s appearances too.
Because it was bewildering. “You live in Haixing. You moved in across the—”
The Envoy raised his eyebrows.
Da Qing broke off and grinned guiltily. He’d summoned the Envoy to his own apartment. “I needed somewhere respectable and private. No interruptions.”
“And you’ve been here before.” It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t an accusation either. Just showing off that he knew.
“Ah, I can’t say.” Explaining might get Lao Zhao into trouble, even if the Envoy had already guessed. “Besides, cats can go anywhere.”
If only that were true. The places he needed to go were out of reach forever: the path by the napping boulder, the lookout, the campfire.
“Anywhere except back in time,” he amended as the loss hit him again, the futility of his thousands-of-years search. “Where could the Hallows have taken him?”
“I wish I knew.” The Envoy dipped his head, and Da Qing knew what he must be thinking: with those ancient objects, anything was possible.
Was that why the Envoy was helping the SID gather them in the first place? What if they couldn’t find them all? The Brush and the Lantern could be on top of a mountain or under the sea, buried in a cave or—or anywhere. Haixing or Dixing. And even if they did collect them all, the chances the Hallows would restore Kunlun to his rightful place at Da Qing’s side were slim to none.
A cloud of hopelessness descended, and Da Qing curled into his cat form, the better to huddle.
The Envoy put his mask on the coffee table and patted his knee, and Da Qing barely hesitated. Taking care to keep his claws sheathed, he jumped onto the Envoy’s lap and curled up. The robes were warm and fine and smelled of dark energy and incense. It was nice, and he remembered now—he’d done it before, when he was young and scared. So, all right, there were good people in his life—Lao Zhao, Lao Li, and the rest of the SID, and now he’d re-found his friendship with the Envoy—almost enough to satisfy. It would have to be enough. And one day, when he ran out of lives for good, he’d meet Kunlun again, and Kunlun would forgive his faithlessness.
The Envoy scratched the back of Da Qing’s neck. “Da Qing, I’m going to tell you a secret.”
Da Qing had already learned his name and Haixing identity. How many secrets did the Envoy have? “What secret?”
“A secret about Kunlun. I think perhaps it’s a secret that belongs to both of us. If you thought about it and considered the Hallows, I’m sure you’d work it out for yourself in time.” The scratching turned into careful strokes, then stopped, leaving the Envoy’s hand a good weight on Da Qing’s back. “Kunlun—” The Envoy cleared his throat. “Kunlun was a time traveller. The Hallows brought him to us from the future.”
A time traveller? Da Qing had a sudden vision of Kunlun entering a dim cavern in the Allied Forces headquarters and patting the wall inside the entrance. He’d done it several times when he first arrived. It had seemed a strange superstition, exposing his chest, practically inviting ambush, but now—could he have been reaching for a light switch?
The Envoy continued, “Do you remember your first meeting with him?”
Da Qing looked into his past. This was different from having meaningful moments bob up unbidden. To try remembering was to enter a long-abandoned building and, among a thousand thousand thousand objects thick with dust, seek out just one. But in another way, it was like the dangly string game he played with Lao Li: he followed connections. “I had a drawing, before I found him. It—”
That couldn’t be right. The pencil sketch had been of Lao Zhao. He could picture it clearly. What was that doing in his ancient memories?
“There was a drawing?” The Envoy repeated, surprised.
“Fu You gave it to me and told me to find him.” He’d wandered around clutching it for hours and hours before he’d chanced across Kunlun and delivered Fu You’s message. “She wanted him to take someone’s place. But the man I met wasn’t Kunlun—it was Lao Zhao. He recognised me!”
Walking back to headquarters together, he’d taken that glass oblong from his pocket and glanced at it—his phone! And Kunlun’s thunder-and-lightning weapon was Lao Zhao’s gun. And he’d been careful to eat every day, saying otherwise his stomach would put him down faster than any Rebel fighter—because Lao Zhao had chronic gastritis. Dozens of little things shuffled around, memories and explanations sparking and popping excitedly.
Da Qing rolled onto his back to blink up at the Envoy. “Lao Zhao is the time traveller! Lao Zhao is Kunlun!”
The Envoy, who was supporting Da Qing with a strategic hand to stop him slipping to the floor, dipped his head in agreement. He already knew.
“But—that means—” All this time Da Qing had scolded Lao Zhao and lorded over him the fact that Da Qing had a real owner, one to whom his true heart belonged. He’d even quoted his forgotten owner sometimes. Quoted Lao Zhao to himself! And they were best friends. They told each other everything. Da Qing struggled upright. “He’s going to leave. I have to warn him.”
The Envoy steadied him when he wobbled and said urgently, “You can’t. It’s imperative he doesn’t find out.”
“What? Why?”
“To protect the timeline. Think back—when Kunlun first came to us, how did he seem?”
“Strange.” Kunlun had been the strangest stranger Da Qing had ever met. He’d stumbled around like a newborn, not understanding anything about the workings of the world, but he’d greeted Da Qing with authority, faced every challenge with curiosity and confidence. And—now Da Qing remembered, yeah, he’d called Da Qing by name as soon as he saw him, and laughed incredulously. He hadn’t known. He had never expected to be there.
The past looked different from Da Qing’s new vantage point—and so did his current friendship with Lao Zhao. Lao Zhao was the same as he had been that morning—still teasing, still impatient. He wasn’t Kunlun yet, so nothing had changed there. But Da Qing, with this new knowledge of how they’d met—and with ten millennia under his fur, too, with everything he’d lived through since touching the Hallows altered his life force and stole his memories—did he even count as a cat or a Yashou anymore? He was like a pebble or the moon, persisting, immune to ageing, evading his final death. In light of that, in light of all the special long-ago memories and the aching distance between then and now, his present-day time with Lao Zhao was already too brief, the end barrelling towards them with the inevitability of passing seasons and years. Humans never lasted long.
Da Qing unfolded back into his upright self right there on the Envoy’s knee to keep from shredding the robes with his claws, then scrambled off, to his feet. It hurt to swallow. “He didn’t know he was going back there. He doesn’t know now. That’s why you’ve been lying and being all mysterious, keeping him at a distance!”
The Envoy paled like a tragic hero from an old-style play. “The stakes are too high, don’t you see? If we change anything about the past, it could have far-reaching effects. Kunlun might not save me during that first battle, or he might do it differently and change the course of events. The Rebels might win and subjugate all of Haixing. History could unravel.”
“And in the meantime, you’re lying to him,” repeated Da Qing doggedly. “Can’t you at least tell him who you are? It’s driving him crazy.”
Colour tinged the pallor. “I—I want to. At first, I wasn’t sure how he’d react, and now— I have enemies. The closer we get, the more danger he’s in.”
“Right now, he’s in danger of crawling out of his skin with frustration and driving everyone at the SID crazy. When I left earlier, they were all brawling in his office.”
“He’ll manage,” said the Envoy, with that same stubbornness Da Qing remembered from the war. “It’s only until the Hallows take him back, and we’ve already found two of them. We’ll find the other two soon. When he returns from the past—” He swallowed. “When he returns from the past, we won’t have to tell him. He’ll know first-hand. Please, Da Qing.”
Please collude in silence. Please hide the truth. Da Qing could have crawled out of his own skin. Because okay, Kunlun had kept this momentous secret, but back then they’d only just met so it didn’t count as a betrayal. But Da Qing concealing things from Lao Zhao when they’d always told each other everything? Hiding important information Lao Zhao would definitely absolutely want to know? When Lao Zhao was already struggling with Professor Shen’s riddles and contradictions? When Da Qing had been helping him investigate?
“I can’t hide it. I can’t.” He dug his hands into his pockets, feeling helpless. He didn’t know what to do. “Are you sure we can’t just tell him everything? It could be the three of us again.”
The Envoy’s lips tightened. He’d said his piece and clearly wouldn’t be convinced or cajoled.
Da Qing stepped away and paced back and forth. There must be another answer, if only he could think of it. But his inner vision was filled with Kunlun and Lao Zhao, the same person separated by a vast chasm of time, blocking out other thoughts. “I wish I’d never got my stupid memories back!”
“I truly understand the difficulty,” said the Envoy, grave and wry at the same time, “but I for one am glad to be remembered.”
They stared at each other across the room, this flat belonging to a respectable Haixing professor who was also one of Dixing’s leaders and vital to peace between the worlds. Who didn’t have the luxury of frustration. Whose friendships would always have to come second. Da Qing was suddenly intensely grateful that his own royal title was nominal these days. The only responsibility he had left was to Lao Zhao and the others at the SID—
—most of whom would be gone in less than a hundred years. Every second with them was precious.
He’d conducted himself well enough through the fog of amnesia before. “Hei Pao Shi, can you hide my memories again? Do you have a dark-energy power that can do that?”
The Envoy raised his hand in a small reaching-out protest. It looked an involuntary gesture. Then he stopped, his resolve visibly forming . Slowly, he curled his fingers, lowered his hand and stood up, an ancient monument carved from dark granite, weathered and enduring. “I can. Are you sure?”
Da Qing scratched his neck. “Is it—maybe just half?” He could keep his familiarity with the Envoy—except that would mean more secrets or other complications. The Envoy was tangled up with Kunlun; how could he think of one without the other? Da Qing marshalled his resolve. “No, I’m sure.”
“Da Qing.” The Envoy’s mouth twisted into a small, unhappy smile, and he was Shen Wei again. They were friends, the secret of Kunlun between them like a thread. But his path was too lonely, too self-sacrificing. Da Qing couldn’t bear to follow it.
Swallowing an apology that would help neither of them, Da Qing examined the moth-flutter of nerves in his stomach. Ah. “You can put them back afterwards, right? It’s only temporary?”
“I believe so.”
“Then—” Da Qing stepped forward.
But wait, they still had this moment, and remembered or not, every moment counted. It all mattered.
They had this moment in this flat, and this flat had cellphone reception. “Hei Pao Shi, can we share a meal together first?”
The Envoy had been gathering dark energy in his palm, but at Da Qing’s question, the glittering darkness boiled away. His smile was real this time, tinged with amusement. “I’d like that.”
Da Qing grinned with relief and took out his phone. “Shall I order?”
“No need.” The Envoy removed his filmy outer cloak, draped it over the armchair and pushed up his dark sleeves. “What would you like to eat?”
Was he going to summon a meal from Dixing? From a local restaurant? Except he wasn’t collecting those spinning glinting globes; he was heading for the kitchen. Da Qing followed.
The Envoy opened the refrigerator and bent to investigate the contents. “I have pork, monkfish, tofu, chicken, and mitten crab.”
Da Qing opened his mouth to claim them all, and to justify his greed with a remark about cats’ talent for eating, but the Envoy was offering to cook for him, and there were limits to even his shamelessness. “Whatever you want to make. It all sounds good.”
“A little of everything, then.” The Envoy took out vegetables and packets of this and that and piled them on the counter.
The kitchen was no bigger than Lao Zhao’s, but it was tidier so there was more counter space. Da Qing hopped up and sat next to the knife block. “How did you live so long? Did you touch the Hallows, too? I don’t remember any rumours about the Black-Cloaked Envoy until recently. And we didn’t bump into each other, did we?”
“Back then, after the Hallows took Kunlun, they caught me in an energy seal.” The Envoy sliced the vegetables into precise, regular shapes. “I slept there a long time and only woke thirty years ago.”
“You slept? I should make you a member of the Cat Tribe for napping all that time. The longest I’ve ever managed was a day and a half before I had to find food.”
The Envoy actually laughed. Meanwhile, the fish came out of its wrapper gleaming and fresh. “Grilled? Or soup?”
Da Qing’s mouth watered. “Um.”
“A little of both?” The Envoy cut the fillet in half.
“How many dishes are you making?” asked Da Qing, awed, excited and a tiny bit abashed.
The Envoy set a burnished wok on the stovetop. “It’s a very special occasion. I don’t often entertain royalty.”
In the end, he made eleven different dishes. There weren’t enough burners on the stove, so he used dark energy to boil the soup, and while he sauteed the greens and stir-fried the chicken, he put the finished dishes in stasis so they wouldn’t spoil or cool down. Da Qing stared into the bubble of stopped time, its milky-translucent surface housing delectable fish dishes, each sprouting motionless fronds of steam. He was about to dip a finger in, just for a taste, but the Envoy caught his wrist. “It will hurt. Be patient.”
Da Qing grinned in shameless cat-apology and turned his attention to the way the Envoy’s inner robe was mysteriously unaffected by rice flour and spills. To the fragrant aromas and tickling spices, the sizzling and bubbling, the calm efficiency of the Envoy’s movements. To the sheer abundance of food. Without thinking, he said, “It’s a shame you can’t cook like this for Lao Zhao.”
The Envoy’s hand stuttered. He blinked down at the pan, then resumed his steady stirring. “One day I will. One day I’ll cook for both of you.”
After Lao Zhao’s trip to the past, once Da Qing’s memories were re-restored. They’d all know everything.
“That will be the best feast,” said Da Qing, longingly. Then he came to his senses. “Oh, but this meal looks incredible. I’m starving!”
The Envoy didn’t seem to hear this last part. “That will be the best feast.”
Da Qing pressed his shin to the Envoy’s leg as if the Envoy were Lao Zhao in need of comfort. Sometimes any physical contact was enough. And the Envoy—he should try to think of him as Shen Wei, shouldn’t he? He wasn’t wearing his mask. But he’d always been the Envoy to Da Qing, and with his long hair and robes and the tingle of dark energy in the air, ancient times and present day were confusingly overlapped.
The Envoy glanced down at Da Qing’s gesture, then smiled. He popped the bubble of stasis with a tap of his finger and gathered up the small steaming dishes. “Dinner’s ready, come on.”
It was a banquet, every plate different—tangy, spicy, savoury or sour, crisp or slippery or chewy—every plate delectable. There were herbs Da Qing hadn’t tasted since the war. Even the tofu, which during the cooking Da Qing had privately planned to leave for the Envoy to eat, was sweet and springy.
He gobbled and slurped, craving more of everything he tasted though his belly was soon too full to hold another bite. He would have to skip visiting the alley kittens tonight—he needed a long nap instead.
The alley kittens! That reminded him— “Hei Pao Shi, now I have my memories back, I speak Cat again.” He paused to burp. “Can you leave me that much?”
The Envoy looked sad and, somehow, more like Professor Shen than he had before. “Your memories are interconnected, and it’s dangerous to try and tease out just one or two. All I can do is follow the shape of your last forgetting.”
Oh. Not even that much. Not even his native tongue. Could he really give that up? Could he give up delicious secret meals and making the Envoy smile? Could he surrender his knowledge, the length and breadth and depth of himself? Could he give up his memories of Kunlun? Was it worth it just for the simplicity of not having secrets?
But he had to, didn’t he? Knowing everything he knew, how could he sprawl on the couch with Lao Zhao and pretend everything was as it had been? That Lao Zhao was who he had been, and the Hallows weren’t going to whisk him away to the past, to the ancient war? How could Da Qing possibly joke and squabble, eat popcorn and work cases together without giving himself away? Lao Zhao was sharp, and some of the others noticed things too. And Da Qing hated the idea of holding himself back. He was too lazy to be mysterious.
Better not to know the mystery in the first place.
The food in his mouth was wonderful, as were the half-eaten dishes before him, a meal that deserved to be savoured and remembered down to the last bite. Da Qing couldn’t enjoy it anymore. He was too full anyway. He set down his chopsticks. “I should go.”
The Envoy looked across, and the table became a campfire. The night sky was smeared with distant dust kicked up by the meteor. A mild breeze fondled their hair and carried the intermittent chirp of insects who knew nothing of battles and bloodshed. Further off, sentries on duty spoke in gruff business-like voices. And at his side, just beyond his peripheral vision, Kunlun sprawled long-limbed, sharing their rations and teasing both of them with that warm grin. There had been many moments like this, snatched and stolen pleasures that shone amid the fear and danger and loss.
Da Qing burped again, and the precious illusion was broken, evaporated like the steam from an eleven-dish meal.
“It’s only temporary,” he told himself out loud, then stopped, assailed by an icy draught of realisation. “Hei Pao Shi—before, you said when he comes back. But what if he doesn’t?”
The Hallows were troublesome. No one could control them. What if they stole Lao Zhao and batted him around the timeline like a toy?
“He will.” The Envoy sounded stubbornly certain.
“How do you know?”
“He told me.” A faraway expression crossed the Envoy’s face. “When he said he’d have to leave one day, I asked where he’d go. ‘Back where I came from.’ That’s what he said.” The Envoy blinked and focused on Da Qing, on here and now. “He must have had a reason to think so. Perhaps something Lady Fu You told him—something to do with that picture.”
As if Lao Zhao never made up stories. But the Envoy had obviously put his faith in those long-ago words, encouraged by news of the drawing, and Da Qing decided to believe Kunlun’s promise, too. No point borrowing trouble. He sighed. “And my memories—I’ll get everything back afterwards?”
The Envoy nodded. He didn’t try to argue Da Qing out of it. The secret was that important, then. All right.
Da Qing blinked back tears and, abruptly and instinctively, flung himself out of his chair, around the table, and threw his arms around the Envoy’s shoulders from behind. Shen Wei wasn’t his owner, wasn’t Kunlun, but they would always be friends.
The Envoy covered his wrists and held him there, then let out a noiseless sigh and released him as if undoing the clasp on a cloak. He stood up. They faced each other. They didn’t need to say anything; they didn’t talk at all. The Envoy didn’t ask if he were sure, and Da Qing was grateful.
They went to the door together, and the Envoy raised his hands. Churning globes of energy formed in his palms.
*
Da Qing stood in the hallway outside the flat. What was he doing here? What time was it? How was his stomach full when he hadn’t eaten? He sighed, and it came out wistful and unhappy—why?
Oh. Of course. Lao Zhao had accused him of snooping and theft like he didn’t know Da Qing at all. Like he didn’t trust him! Except no, it wasn’t that. Lao Zhao had been wound tight as a new reel of thread since the mountains, worrying away at a problem. He wasn’t ready to confide even in Da Qing, but anyone with eyes could see Professor Shen was at the heart of it.
And there’d been something—something—Da Qing was vague on what it had been, exactly, but there’d been something in the notebook about Professor Shen. So Lao Zhao’s lashing out and threatening Da Qing’s fish supply—that had been to protect, not hurt. Protecting Professor Shen. Protecting his own feelings. It made sense now in a way it hadn’t before.
Alas, understanding was accompanied by a vague cloud of discontent and a headache. Da Qing touched the back of his head, but the bruise that should by rights have been there was completely gone. More and more mysterious. Had he consulted a healer? Maybe a Snake Yashou had cured his injury and fed him at the same time. Maybe his headache was a hangover from delicious Snake wine.
“I’m forgetting everything these days,” he muttered. “It’s not good.”
No matter. He knew how to cheer himself up, who he needed to see. He opened the front door—
But the flat was dark, no one home. Where was Lao Zhao? Why hadn’t he called? Oh, Da Qing’s phone was off for some reason. He turned it on, watched its screen brighten in the gloom, and counted three messages popping up, all from Lao Zhao. The first called him a brat, the second demanded to know where he’d gone, and the third had no words at all, just a picture of fish.
Da Qing knew an apology when he saw one. He folded down to walk on his paws and made for the stairs, heading back to the SID.
*
The atmosphere at the SID was subdued: Zhu Hong tapped away at her keyboard with a sheepish air; Wang Zheng at the table worked to get stains out of Lao Zhao’s sheepskin boots. The couch was empty. Da Qing padded past in the shadows and trotted along the hall. In the lab, Lin Jing was tugging at his hair, tools and pieces of the dark energy detector spread out before him.
The office door was ajar enough that Da Qing could nose it open without shifting. He jumped onto the desk unannounced, making Lao Zhao shout in surprise and drop his notebook, though he grabbed it before it hit the floor, trapping it against his leg with the pages askew. “Damn Cat!”
There were pictures in the book—Da Qing had seen them recently, though he wasn’t sure when or what they looked like, only that they related to Professor Shen in some way.
“Are you still brooding over that?” he asked. “Why don’t you just talk to him?”
Lao Zhao ignored this counsel. He straightened the abused pages, snapped the cover closed and dropped the notebook into his top drawer. Not ready to talk about it, then, but that was all right. It wasn’t a real secret when it was so obvious. He met Da Qing’s eye. “Zhu Hong told me what happened. She’s writing her self-criticism now.”
Da Qing’s fur settled comfortably into place. He wrapped his tail around his paws and turned up his nose. “You’re a terrible friend, assuming the worst.”
Zhao Yunlan leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs so his knee pressed against the desk, near Da Qing. “Don’t disappear like that. Next time, answer your phone.” He unwrapped a lollipop but rolled the stem between his fingers rather than put it in his mouth. “How’s your head?”
“Sore.” Da Qing gave him a baleful stare to make his point, but really Lao Zhao’s concern dressed up as scolding was better than an apology. It could slide into friendly teasing at any second. It felt like home. Da Qing unfolded into human form and dangled his feet off the edge of the desk, bumping his leg companionably against Lao Zhao’s.
“Damn Cat, get off my keyboard. Come on, I’m declaring a team dinner.” Lao Zhao stood up and put his hand on Da Qing’s shoulder. “Let’s eat.”
And that—that was the real apology. But Da Qing checked in with his stomach and said, confused, “I’m not hungry.”
“An unhungry cat! Are the sky and the earth upside down?” Eyes wide with astonishment, pointing dramatically with his unwrapped lollipop, Lao Zhao squeezed his shoulder, the question as plain as if spoken aloud: are you still upset?
He wasn’t, and except for three fish snacks and a double handful of popcorn, he hadn’t eaten since lunch. Now it was past eight. He rubbed his belly and changed his mind in the interests of reconciliation and harmony. Leaned into Lao Zhao’s touch, trusting him to keep their balance. “I can manage a fishcake. Just one, though.”
Lao Zhao laughed and finally stuck the lollipop into his mouth. “Just one? I’ll believe that when I see it.”
*
Afterwards. After Da Qing blocked Da Ji’s attack on Lao Li and regained the vast jumble of memories that made up his long history. After Lao Zhao was snatched away to the past to be Kunlun, and fell back into the present to fight for Dragon City. After Ying Chun helped Da Qing give one of his last two lives to save Da Ji.
And after Ye Zun—after Lao Zhao and Lao Shen died in the fight against him, and the fused Hallows miraculously brought them back, stumbling out of the portal into the crowded throne room in the Dijun’s palace, where the great carved statues lay in pieces and the Guardian Lantern still blazed. After An Bai, Dijun of Dixing, having freed himself from the throne and gained his own dark energy power, healed Lao Shen’s energy pathways—and Lao Shen, in turn, stabilised the rupturing gateways between the worlds.
After the return to Haixing, with its casualties, smoking ruins, and stirrings of unrest. After the Department of Supervision reinstated the SID, and Lao Zhao once again reassured the public, and order was restored. After all of that, on the Day of Remembrance for those who were lost—the first holiday to be shared by Haixing and Dixing—
Da Qing arrived home from schooling the alley kittens and listening to their gossip to find Lao Shen in the kitchen, Lao Zhao perched on a stool, and the air full of the most tantalising aromas imaginable.
“Ow!” yelped Lao Zhao, snatching his hand from a milky-translucent bubble encasing the multitude of dishes on the breakfast bar.
“I told you it would hurt,” said Lao Shen, calmly amused. He glanced across the room and smiled a welcome. “Da Qing.”
“At last!” Lao Zhao twisted round to beckon. “You’re late. Damn Cat, don’t you know we’re on a schedule?”
The SID were meeting Zhu Hong and the other Yashou leaders at the gate that afternoon so they could all go Downstairs together for the Remembrance ceremony.
“I had urgent cat business to take care of,” said Da Qing, with dignity, to hide the fact that he had forgotten, right until that very moment, that he’d promised to be home early for lunch. Surely the whole point of holidays was loafing around, not having to check the time. And he’d expected an ordinary lunch; no one had mentioned a feast.
Lao Shen took off his apron and came out of the kitchen. His face was bare of his professor glasses. “Da Qing, I’m afraid I’ve been too busy recently and waiting for the right moment. Before we go any further, there’s something I have to give you.”
“I didn’t realise the Day of Remembrance was a gift-giving holiday, Hei-laoge. I would’ve got you something. Guess I’ll have to improvise later. But are you sure whatever that is can’t wait till we’ve eaten?”
“Patience. This will only take a minute. Da Qing, if I may?” Lao Shen raised his hand, and energy gathered there, thick and sparking joyfully.
Da Qing didn’t know what it meant, but he trusted Lao Shen, and what kind of person didn’t like to receive presents? He nodded.
The energy expanded, the sparks fell into his heart, a shower of fireworks, and Da Qing remembered. The past, which had been a confusing shadowy knowledge, sharpened and brightened, memories expanding and unfolding the way his body did when he changed shape. Long-ago Kunlun, who was present-day Lao Zhao, spoke in his ear, words like a sunbeam: impertinent, warm, reassuring when reassurance was most needed.
And more recently—
Da Qing blinked up at Lao Shen, who was the Envoy. “We shared a meal.”
“Damn Cat, we’ve shared a lot of meals,” said Lao Zhao. “If you stop fooling around, we can share another one right now. I skipped breakfast so I wouldn’t spoil my appetite.”
Lao Shen crinkled his eyes at Da Qing and gestured towards the breakfast bar. “Shall we?”
They took their places, and Lao Shen popped the stasis bubble, releasing a mouth-watering burst of greasy-fragrant steam. Da Qing’s stomach growled.
“At last!” Lao Zhao heaped a bowl with rice for Lao Shen, then made another for Da Qing, and a third for himself. “Are either of you going to tell me what that was about?”
There was curiosity in the question, but none of the coiled scratchiness of before. There didn’t need to be. They all knew the sum of each other now, as well as their own importance.
Lao Shen cocked an eyebrow, teasing Lao Zhao by leaving the decision up to Da Qing.
Da Qing smirked and, rather than explaining, placed the juiciest piece of fish in Lao Zhao’s bowl, then stole the second-best bit for himself. Lao Shen preferred chicken anyway.
“More secrets,” Lao Zhao mock-grumbled, but he ate the fish, exclaimed at its delectable flavour and the feast as a whole, and stroked Da Qing’s hair in exactly the way he had ten thousand years before. Then he looked around and laughed. “Look at us—it’s like old times.”
Da Qing piled his own bowl high with delicacies, already replete with pleasure and knowledge. Each bite was pure deliciousness; his people were at his side, where they belonged; and after lunch, before they went to Dixing, there should be time for a catnap—in that sneaky sunbeam that reached the window ledge and spread its warming fingers into Da Qing’s cat bed at this time of year.
It was a perfect day, a day to be treasured, and Da Qing was going to savour every single second.
END