Chapter 144: Who is Tao Zi?

The Morning After

Bai Yue stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching her daughter arrange herself on the floor like a small, stubborn bird building a nest. Zhen had dragged every spare fur she could find across the room, her own sleeping mat, two extra blankets from the storage chest, even the cushion Yàn Shū used for his bad back.

She piled them next to the jaguar cub. Then she sat down. Then she stood up, adjusted everything two inches to the left, and sat down again.

“Are you comfortable?” Bai Yue asked dryly.

“No,” Zhen said, not looking up. “But he might be.”

The jaguar cub, Tao Zi, had not moved since Glimmer had set them down in the village clearing. He sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around his legs. His dark eyes moved constantly, tracking every sound, every shadow, every person who passed the doorway.

He hadn’t eaten. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t spoken a full sentence since they had found him.

Bai Yue knew that look.

She’d seen it in Ruì Xuě, years ago, when she had first arrived in this world and he had flinched at her touch.

This is a cub who has learned that adults cannot be trusted.

She stepped into the room. Tao Zi’s eyes snapped to her, not afraid, exactly, but ready. His hands uncurled slightly, fingers spreading against the floor like he was preparing to push himself up and run.

She stopped at the edge of Zhen’s fur-pile. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Nothing.

“I’m not going to make you talk, either. Or eat. Or do anything you don’t want to do.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. Suspicious.

“But,” she continued, “if you change your mind about any of those things, I’ll be right outside. And so will food. And water. And maybe eleven people who are very worried about you.”

She left.

Behind her, she heard Zhen’s small voice: “She’s not lying. Mama doesn’t lie. Papa says she’s bad at it.”

A pause. Then, even quieter: “Papa means it as a compliment. I think.”

~

The morning passed slowly.

Bai Yue stationed herself on a bench outside the hut, close enough to hear, far enough to give space. Han Shān appeared at her side with a cup she hadn’t asked for. He sat down, didn’t speak, and waited.

“He hasn’t eaten,” she said.

“I know.”

“He hasn’t slept.”

“I know.”

“Han Shān, if he doesn’t—”

“He will.” Han Shān’s voice was calm. “When he’s ready. Not before.”

Bai Yue wanted to argue. She wanted to go back inside and fix this, to find the right words that would make the cub understand that he was safe now, that no one here would hurt him, that he could lower his guard just enough to eat something, just enough to close his eyes.

But Han Shān was right. She hated when he was right.

“What do you know about jaguar territory?” she asked instead.

“Not enough. Mo Xiao is sending word to his contacts. Yàn Shū is already in the scrolls.”

“Of course he is.”

“He made a very excited sound when he found a reference to their clan markings. I believe he woke the snake twins.”

Bai Yue snorted. “They’re going to murder him.”

“They’ve threatened. He didn’t notice.”

They sat in silence for a while. The village went about its business around them, cooking fires being lit, the normal rhythm of a normal day. But everyone who passed the hut walked a little softer. Everyone glanced at the doorway a little longer.

Everyone knew.

~

Inside, Zhen was talking.

She had been talking for approximately two hours now. She had covered a remarkable range of topics: the best way to catch frogs (stomp in the mud and grab fast), the worst way to catch frogs (her brother Yòu Lín’s method, which involved elaborate traps that never worked), the time she had accidentally set fire to a bush (it was not her fault, the spark had come from Grandpa’s tail, and anyway the bush grew back), and her theory that butterflies were actually spies for the forest spirits.

Tao Zi had not responded to any of this.

Zhen did not seem discouraged.

“—and Ruì Xuě says that’s ridiculous because butterflies don’t have brains big enough for spying, but I think that’s exactly what a forest spirit would want. Small spies. Ones no one would suspect. Do you have butterflies in jaguar territory?”

Nothing.

“We have a lot here. They’re very pretty. There’s one that’s orange and gold and it’s my favorite, I followed it once—” She stopped. “I followed it. That’s how I found you. So maybe the butterfly was a spy after all. A good spy. One that led me to you.”

A long silence.

Then, so quiet Zhen almost missed it: “I don’t like butterflies.”

Zhen’s head snapped up. Tao Zi wasn’t looking at her. His eyes were fixed on the wall, his expression unchanged. But he had spoken. A full sentence. Not a whisper, not a single word.

“Oh,” Zhen said. Then, carefully: “What do you like?”

He didn’t answer.

But he also didn’t tell her to stop talking.

So she kept going.

By midday, Bai Yue had sent three separate people to check on them.

Mo Xiao went first, just to deliver food. He emerged five minutes later looking vaguely haunted. “She’s explaining the political structure of the frog-catching guild.”

“The what?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask. I was afraid she’d tell me.”

Yàn Shū went next, scroll in hand, hoping to identify the partial marking on Tao Zi’s torn clothing. He emerged looking thoughtful. “He let me look at the fabric. He didn’t speak, but he didn’t pull away either. That’s progress.”

“Did you learn anything?”

“The symbol is old. Older than the current jaguar leadership, I think. I need more time.”

Hóng Yè went last, against his will. Bai Yue had to physically push him through the doorway. He emerged forty-five seconds later, face carefully blank.

“Well?” Bai Yue demanded.

“He’s scared,” Hóng Yè said. “Not of us. Of something else. Something bigger.”

He walked away before she could ask more.

~

The afternoon bled into evening.

Zhen’s voice had gone hoarse. She had moved on from frogs and butterflies to a detailed retelling of every story her grandmother Wēn Jìng had ever told her, which was apparently a very large number. Tao Zi still hadn’t eaten. He still hadn’t slept. But his shoulders had dropped slightly. His hands, still curled, had relaxed just enough that his fingers were no longer white at the knuckles.

Bai Yue brought water. Zhen drank. Tao Zi didn’t.

“Just leave it,” Zhen said softly, when Bai Yue hesitated. “He’ll drink when he’s ready.”

“When did you get so wise?”

“Mama, I’m five. I’m not wise. I’m just stubborn.”

Bai Yue laughed despite herself. “That’s the same thing.”

Eventually, night fell and the village quieted. Fires banked. Voices faded. The twin moons rose, silver and cold, painting the world in shades of gray.

Bai Yue checked on them one last time.

Zhen had arranged herself on her pile of furs, curled around the edge of Tao Zi’s space like a protective comma. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow. She had finally run out of things to say.

Tao Zi sat where he had sat all day. Back against the wall. Knees drawn up. Eyes open.

He was staring at the ceiling.

Bai Yue watched him for a long moment. She thought about going in. About sitting down beside him. About telling him that she understood, that she had been scared once too, that the world was bigger and stranger and more terrifying than any child should have to face alone.

She didn’t.

Instead, she pulled the door closed, leaving it cracked just enough for moonlight to slip through.

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