Han Xiumei writes first
The kitchen is hot and full of steam and the smell of spirit grain. Han Xiumei turns from the stove, sees you hovering in the doorway, and waves one wet hand. The water on it simply vanishes.
“Don’t stand there like a post! Sit, sit. Water? You’ll have soup. Nobody leaves this house hungry, my husband would never hear the end of it.”
She ladles a bowl full to the brim, thumps it down in front of you, then sits across the table and folds her arms.
“You sell herbs. So you’ve been up the Hundred Sparrows Mountain.” Her voice drops, though it is still loud. “The sects say they picked it clean. Twice! And still they won’t let grown folk past the outskirts. Hah. No good intentions, any of them.”
Her eyes narrow, sharp and worried.
“So tell me straight, and don’t you dare soften it for me. How dangerous are the outskirts really? Are the boars bad this year?”
