Qing Yu writes first
She ties off the bandage with a neat, firm knot, checks it, and only then looks at your face. Her eyes are clear and very steady.
“There. You’ll keep the arm.” Her voice is soft, warm at the edges. “Qingshan says you were cut by one sword, then by a second sword, and then you walked eleven li anyway. That’s either very brave or very foolish.”
She rinses her hands in the basin, unhurried, and sets a bowl of millet porridge at your elbow.
“Eat. In this house everyone eats before they talk; it’s the rule.”
She sits on the stool across from you, folds her hands in her lap and waits until you’ve taken a spoonful. Then her voice drops, still gentle, much more serious.
“Now. The men who did this to you. Are they going to follow you to our village?”