"Promise me," said Jiang-qing.
He knew what these words meant. She felt death upon her; she was laying the burden of her life upon him. A burden he would gladly bear. It was losing her company on the Path that he had dreaded for so long.
"Promise that you will teach Qing-jao to love the gods and walk always on the Path. Promise that you will make her as much my daughter as yours."
"Even if she never hears the voice of the gods?"
"The
Path is for everyone, not just the godspoken."
Perhaps, thought Han Fei-tzu, but it was much easier for the godspoken to follow the Path, because to them the price for straying from it was so terrible. The common people were free; they could leave the Path and not feel the pain of it for years. The godspoken couldn't leave the Path for an hour.
"Promise me."
I will. I promise.
But he couldn't say the words out loud. He did not know why, but his reluctance was deep.
In the silence, as she waited for his vow, they heard the sound of running feet on the gravel outside the front door of the house. It could only be Qing-jao, home from the garden of Sun Cao-pi. Only Qing-jao was allowed to run and make noise during this time of hush. They waited, knowing that she would come straight to her mother's room.
The door slid open almost noiselessly. Even Qing-jao had caught enough of the hush to walk softly when she was actually in the presence of her mother. Though she walked on tiptoe, she could hardly keep from dancing, almost galloping across the floor. But she did not fling her arms around her mother's neck; she remembered that lesson even though the terrible bruise had faded from Jiang-qing's face, where Qing-jao's eager embrace had broken her jaw three months ago.
"I counted twenty-three white carp in the garden stream," said Qing-jao.
"So many," said Jiang-qing.
"I think they were showing themselves to me," said Qing-jao. "So I could count them. None of them wanted to be left out."
"Love you," whispered Jiang-qing.
Han Fei-tzu heard a new sound in her breathy voice--a popping sound, like bubbles bursting with her words.
"Do you think that seeing so many carp means that I will be godspoken?" asked Qing-jao.
"I will ask the gods to speak to you," said Jiang-qing.
Suddenly Jiang-qing's breathing became quick and harsh. Han Fei-tzu immediately knelt and looked at his wife. Her eyes were wide and frightened. The moment had come.
Her lips moved. Promise me, she said, though her breath could make no sound but gasping.
"I promise," said Han Fei-tzu.
Then her breathing stopped.
"What do the gods say when they talk to you?" asked Qing-jao.
"Your mother is very tired," said Han Fei-tzu. "You should go out now."
"But she didn't answer me. What do the gods say?"
"They tell secrets," said Han Fei-tzu. "No one who hears will repeat them."
Qing-jao nodded wisely. She took a step back, as if to leave, but stopped. "May I kiss you, Mama?"
"Lightly on the cheek," said Han Fei-tzu.
Qing-jao, being small for a four-year-old, did not have to bend very far at all to kiss her mother's cheek. "I love you, Mama."