The people of Guilin provided more food on the Remembrance night than even a household of a starving hundred could consume. Late afternoon on the following day, so that the perishables would not go to waste, Jinyue wheeled a barrow of leftovers to the Rizhai poorhouse for dinner. He had the time on his hands and a desire to be present among the people, for after the celebrations last night, he’d slept with the elevated feeling of a lordling. Not what the thanksgiving was meant to instill. Humility was not a natural condition but a deliberate effort, so Jinyue rolled the food pile through the roads.

The red lanterns were down. The paper cranes were gone. Jinyue walked beneath the soft autumn breeze, the vivid greens that had not yet yellowed. At his side, his young attendant followed in respectful silence.

“Are you sure you’d not rather have a break?” said Jinyue.

The seventeen year old Su Cailan started at his sudden question. Shaking her head, she said, “It’s fine, Master Guan.”

Jinyue smiled, not arguing. She was a devoted girl, had been since her family joined House Guan as a peripheral branch nine years ago. The Sus, which once served the Guilin Provincial Council as enforcers, had fought against the final Yulai invasion with extraordinary courage. It was only fitting that Anjie offered them a place in the household afterward. Jinyue’s attendant was only an eight year old girl at the time, but she had blossomed into a resilient warrior and would almost certainly, in due time, receive the crane upon her back. He was lucky to have her service.

Wanting to make her time today worthwhile, Jinyue struck up a conversation.

“You’ll be taking the college entrance exams at the end of this year, no?”

Cailan started again. “Ah, yes, Master Guan.”

“That’ll be good. There will be someone to keep an eye out on Wenzhan while he’s wrapping up his studies.”

“I would have to pass the exams first, Master Guan.”

“It isn’t so difficult,” said Jinyue, recalling his time at the college. In Guilin there was only one college, and it had educated almost every member of the Guan family. “I suppose it may feel that way since you haven’t been in school for a time. Perhaps you’d like to take the next two months off to prepare?”

“T-that’s not necessary, Master Guan! I wouldn’t want to leave you unattended.”

“I’ve been attending to myself for some time before I took you on. Of course, you’d be sorely missed, but your education comes first.”

The girl looked at the ground and lifted a hand as if to brush hair behind her ear. But there was no hair to brush, as hers had been primly tied into a bun. “I wouldn’t say so, Master Guan. There isn’t much I would do with a college education. My place is…” She paused, like the words had hinged in her throat. Swallowing, “With House Guan.”

Jinyue lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t seem certain of that.”

“Ah, no! No, that isn’t why… Master Guan, I am certain of it, I am. There’d be no greater honor than to serve House Guan for the rest of my life, I know it.”

Jinyue chuckled. “You won’t be able to take back those words when you receive the crane. But until then, don’t bury your options. Besides, don’t you know of Zhang Lanyu and Xi Mona? They’re able to make a life outside of Guilin because of their education at the college. We do need cranes to keep up with the rest of the world’s affairs, after all. Perhaps one day you would like to be one of them.”

“I…”

“Hm?”

Cailan bit her lip and glanced down again. “Yes, Master Guan.”

They arrived at the Rizhai poorhouse shortly before dinnertime, when a small line of children, beggars, and elderly was forming along the street. Jinyue smiled at their waves, more energetic than their hunger would normally allow. He handed the food to the poorhouse keeper to distribute fairly, and then because his own dinner was not for another hour and a half, he lingered to help hand out the portions. The large windows of the poorhouse soon became decorated with the peering faces of children.

“Not sure if they’re here to eat with their mouths or their eyes,” said the poorhouse keeper, a jovial woman with silvering hair.

Jinyue laughed. “Dining should be an affair for all the senses, no?”

“Tell it to the kids, Master Guan. Food’ll run out if they don’t stop staring!”

Jinyue smiled and finished piling a tray of food. He passed it to his attendant. “Cailan, for the children, if you don’t mind. The little ones. Tell the rest to line up, please.”

Cailan nodded and went.

When she had gone out of earshot, the keeper chuckled. “That one likes you, Master Guan.”

“Hm?”

“The young lady. I know girls when I see ‘em. And I know young masters too. Break her heart easy, alright?”

Jinyue blinked, hesitating to pass a portion to the next man in line. It was the first he’d heard of such a thing, and he wasn’t sure what to make of it. Cailan, after all, was but seventeen. And Jinyue had never felt any attraction toward women—or men.

“Are you sure you’re not mistaken, Mrs. He? Perhaps it’s just her kind nature.”

The keeper barked a laugh. “You have a kind nature, Master Guan, and no one’s going around mistaking it for anything else.”

Jinyue shifted uncomfortably.

A little while later, the decor of peering faces scattered from the windows. Curious, Jinyue looked that way. Beyond the glass, a stir was happening. The same went for the end of the line, near and past the exit—something outside was drawing their attention.

Jinyue frowned, listening to the chattering crowd. Somebody murmured, madman.

“Excuse me,” said Jinyue, setting down the food. He pushed his way through the crowd and left the poorhouse.

The poorhouse was just beyond the ring of the town square, where the authoritative words of a hard voice was luring throngs of people. Behind Jinyue, Cailan called to him. He didn’t respond, a cold foreboding sealing his lips as he followed the throng forward. Soon he emerged into the square opening. He was met with the face of a familiar man atop the central platform.

The murmurs of the crowd and the declarations of the enforcers blurred behind his pulse. That man had been changed into cheap white garments, and the garments were stained wet and yellow—yellow like the soup he’d screamed of. Eyes dilated, but not with Heavensbane. Red veins, not from a high. His hair was wilder than the last morning, giving him the silhouette of a truer madman. But beneath the clear evening light, his face was sober, stark, and terrified.

Distribution of an outlawed poison...hereby sentenced to death…

Jinyue pushed the crowd apart. An executioner unsheathed a heavy sword.

“Wait,” he said. “Wait!”

By the foot of the platform, an elderly man stopped screaming. This man pried himself out of the enforcers’ arms that held him back, staggering with a frail form toward Jinyue. “Master Guan! Master Guan, please, my son—my son—”

Jinyue looked at the executioner, an unfamiliar man. He looked behind the executioner, at the woman who had led the enforcers, the same one who had delivered the sentencing. She gazed down at him, frowning faintly.

“Master Guan.”

“This can’t be right,” said Jinyue. “The death penalty is far too severe for his crime.”

“With all due respect, Master Guan, that is for the Council to decide.”

Jinyue shook his head. “You would be killing a man for a lesser evil. He does not deserve to die!”

“He attempted to poison the people of Guilin for little but his own greed. If such a transgression is not deserving of death, then how may be call ourselves the protectors of the province?”

She meant to slap his cheek with those words. And he did feel the sting on his skin, of a righteous fury—that she had the nerve to pretend guardianship when she had a blade to a man’s throat. Gritting his teeth, Jinyue said, “Hold the punishment. House Guan claims right to this judgment.”

The enforcer arched an eyebrow.

“Upon what grounds?”

Jinyue didn’t respond.

“It is the code of the Council that this man violated, Master Guan. The right to judgment belongs to the Council. And the Council has judged. He will die, and cease to be a threat to Guilin.”

Jinyue’s hand lifted to his sword hilt.

“Master Guan!” cried the elderly father.

“Master Guan,” said Cailan.

The enforcer’s gaze drifted to the threat at his palm. Then she locked on his eyes. “Master Guan,” said the enforcer, “These are the laws of Guilin. We did not change them for this man. You would not be drawing your blade against us.”

His grip tightened. “Let him go.”

“These are the laws of Guilin,” said the enforcer again.

In Jinyue’s silence, a stillness hung over the town square. The seconds ticked. His hand quivered.

Then the executioner lifted his blade.

“Master Guan! Master Guan, please—”

The father clawed at Jinyue’s robes, his voice shredded and wet. Cailan held the old man back, her eyes plastered wide to Jinyue. The metal carvings of Jinyue’s sword stretched the skin of his cold, unsteady palm.

On the platform, the sentenced man stared at Jinyue.

Crane, he had said. Crane.

“Please,” whispered this man now, “I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.”

“Master Guan,” pled the father, “save my son! Please save my son! Master Guan!”

“I don’t want to die...”

“Master Guan!”

The blade fell.

A head rolled to the edge of the platform.

The voices became silent.

“Ah-Ming,” whispered the old man. “Ah-Ming. Ah-Ming. My son. My son…”

On the platform, the enforcer clasped her hands and bowed at Jinyue. Cailan took his arm and guided him out of the crowd. Numb, he staggered after her, his hand slipping loose from his sealed blade.

“Jin-Ge. Jin-Ge, you’ve got the wrong tempo.”

Wenbo tugged at Jinyue’s sleeve, interrupting the mechanical vibrations of his zither strings. It was that same late evening after Jinyue had missed dinner. He sat with his little sister and his elder brother in the family’s private tea room, an autumn breeze drifting in from the night garden at his back. Solar lights illuminated the room while Wenbo practiced her zither with him, while Anjie scripted the affairs of the day for his records. Now his brother’s pen hovered in his hand, eyes lifting at the interrupted music.

Jinyue pushed his thoughts away. Smiling for his little sister, he said, “Maybe you should try.”

Wenbo straightened her back and poised her fingers over her strings. With a flourished pluck, an earthen melody began. The usual tones of her youthful energy simmered peacefully, as if she were not a ten year old child but as old as the wood of her instrument—as old as the composition itself. The Moon over the Mountain thrummed gently through the tea room, dreamlike. The soft noise of pen against paper began again.

“Almost,” said Jinyue when the music had ended.

Wenbo frowned. “Almost?”

He hadn’t been concentrated enough to recall the flaws of her long rendition. So instead, he said, “You did well tonight. It’s late now, so let’s continue tomorrow.”

Wenbo slumped again, crossing her arms. “Don’t wanna.”

“Don’t want to continue tomorrow?”

“Don’t wanna go.”

Jinyue frowned. This was a first. Typically, the girl was more than eager to be done with her zither lessons. Even Anjie had paused again, though it was only a quick glance this time.

“Why not?” said Jinyue.

Wenbo hunched a little further. With an uncharacteristic mumble, “Bad dreams.”

“Bad dreams?” Jinyue chuckled. “What about?”

In their peripheral, Anjie tore off a parchment from his notebook and crumpled it.

“Don’t know,” said Wenbo. “Lots. I had to pull the feathers off a bird last night. And then the moon turned yellow and red and fell down, and then my teeth turned all yellow and red and fell out!” she said, pointing to her upper incisors. “And, and…” She straightened now, pouting. “And Wen-Ge kept putting fish bones in An-Ge’s soup. The sharp ones too!”

Jinyue looked at Anjie, who was smiling now.

“Bobo…”

“Ah-Bo,” said Anjie, “when was the last time you spoke to Ah-Zhan?”

“Um…”

“Two weeks, no?” said Anjie.

Wenbo scratched her cheek guiltily. Two weeks ago was when the Songs had come for justice with their injured son—when Anjie, upon hearing their accusations against Wenzhan, had ordered their little sister up to bed before calling in their younger brother.

“Did you know the plums you had for breakfast yesterday were from him? He went early to the market to fetch them fresh for you.”

Wenbo looked down, biting her lip.

“I am sure that if he was putting fish bones in my soup, it was because he thought it best for the flavor.” Anjie paused. When Wenbo looked up, he continued. “Your brother made a mistake and he has hurt for it enough. What must he be feeling now, to know that his beloved little sister can’t forgive him?”

She scratched her ear, silent.

Jinyue sighed. In due time, she would make amends with Wenzhan.

“Would you like to spend the night with Lulu?” said Jinyue, speaking of the other young girls in the household. “Or maybe Tiantian? Company is a good medicine for nightmares.”

“Lulu broke my pencils,” said Wenbo. “Maybe Ruo-Jie.”

They tidied away her zither. Before she left the room, Wenbo ran up to Anjie’s table and leaned over, kissing his cheek. He was the only one she did this for, as Anjie had raised her since she was months old with the same affection. In a way, Jinyue understood her reluctance to forgive Wenzhan for causing the beating she had disobediently witnessed. Wenzhan was her older brother. Anjie was her older brother too, but also the closest to a parent she would ever have.

When the tea room doors slid shut behind their sister, Jinyue turned back to his own zither. He laid his fingers over the strings, heavy.

“Did something happen today, Ah-Yue?”

Jinyue watched the solar light glimmer off a string. “I let a man die today.”

Anjie set his pen down, waiting.

“He was a vulnerable man,” said Jinyue, softly. “He made a mistake. Heavensbane. I believe he tried to sell it. But he didn’t hurt anyone.” He paused. “They executed him at the square. His father was there. He begged me to save his son.” Jinyue shook his head. “I didn’t. My sword was in my hand, and I let him die.”

A silence. The autumn cicadas chirped.

“You did not let him die, Ah-Yue. You did not have the power to stop it.”

“But I did. You know I could have done it.”

“Yes,” said Anjie, “but the power to disregard the law of Guilin is absolute. If we take that power, then we become absolute. House Guan does not exist to govern or to control, Ah-Yue. Only to protect.”

“When I brought Chang Dazhe back here,” said Jinyue, speaking of the foreign rapist from late August, “he asked me by what law. I know it was different, that he didn’t fall under the jurisdiction of the Council. I know that. But still—what is justice besides saving a man’s life? If we can maim a man like Chang Dazhe, then why did I have to stand by while a more innocent man was killed? An-Ge, it feels so wrong.”

Anjie hesitated.

At last, softly, “It is. But we cannot protect Guilin nor its people if we do not protect its laws. Or else, what is there to protect Guilin from us?”

“And if the law is wrong?”

“That is not for one man to decide.”

Jinyue closed his eyes, seeing the sentenced man’s flesh part to blade. Seeing his eyes, begging, crane—crane, the guardian symbol of his home. Jinyue had known all this back at the square, and it was why his sword could not unsheathe. But only hearing his brother echo his thoughts did the guilt cease to suffocate. It merely lingered now in ugly tendrils.

“I’m sorry,” said Jinyue.

Anjie paused.

“It seems that people have taken a liking to apologizing to me these days. Why are you sorry?”

Jinyue shook his head. “It feels like I handed the decision off to you again.”

“You made the decision, Ah-Yue. And it was the right one.”

Jinyue peered at his brother. He was dressed lightly today, his hair loose, his robes simple. In the past ten years, it did not seem like anything other than Anjie’s eyes had aged. But that was a dangerous science, slowing his time at a heavy price—a price his brother no longer allowed to be paid, breaking centuries of precedence and sacrifice. It is inhumane, he had said, and even guardians deserve better.

Who was there to tell Anjie that he had made the right decision?

“Does your heart feel heavier when you assure me of that?” said Jinyue.

Anjie hesitated. Then he smiled.

“Does yours feel lighter, Ah-Yue? Let it be light. One day, it will have many more burdens to carry than mine.”

Jinyue wondered if it was true. Sighing, he listened to his brother and exhaled the weight from his chest. “Thank you, An-Ge.”

Anjie picked up his pen again. “You’re welcome.”

Jinyue stood up. He set away his zither. At the door, he glanced back at his brother, quietly writing beneath the calligraphy character hanging on the wall. Duty.

“Good night, An-Ge.”

Anjie looked up. “Good night, Ah-Yue.”

Like the tick of a clock, the door clicked softly shut.

Alone, Anjie laid his hands on the table and rolled the pen between his fingertips, absorbed in the smooth metal pressure. His gaze drifted toward the night garden, the autumn flowers silhouetted by moonlight. Eastern dahlia, marbled cyclamen, a whole gradient assortment of begonia—Aunt Baisun had begun planting these nine years ago, after their hard-earned peace drove a need to brighten the estate. Anjie loved the flowers. They were beautiful. Simple. Easy for man of little skill to transcribe onto paper.

He looked down at the parchment he’d torn and crumpled earlier. The parchment had loosened from its crumpling, revealing an idle cluster of begonia flowers inked into the corner. Anjie smoothed this corner. He traced his ever amateur lines for a moment before sighing and crumpling the parchment once more. This time, he tucked it inside his robes to discard properly.

Turning back to his personal records, he continued where he had left off. The next lines began: Jinyue noted a Council execution for the distribution of Heavensbane. He seemed greatly troubled by the matter. I sat beneath the script of my forebearers and echoed their words to him. But I do not know what I would have done in his place…

The pen scratched. The cicadas sang.

A tapping came on the door.

“Anjie.”

It was Ziyuan’s voice.

“Come in,” said Anjie.

The door slid open. Ziyuan appeared, dressed down in their darker night clothes, a folded paper in their hand. Ziyuan shut the door and walked to Anjie’s table. Ziyuan set the paper over Anjie’s unfinished entry and sat, eyes level as they spoke.

“Beiguo surrendered to Anzhou a few hours ago,” said Ziyuan. “The war is over. Quan Caihe has her continental empire.”

Anjie unfolded the paper, scanning the machine-printed words. It did not take him long to read, but his eyes lingered. The white parchment and black ink became the image of a snowing winter night, a rugged artist gazing half-robed out the frosted windows, a cup of wine in his hand, a bit of swell to his lips. Musheng looked at Anjie after something the young crane had said, his earthen eyes ever so sharp, ever so knowing. With a smile on his lips, he had spoken of this Quan Caihe, who was nothing but a small usurper then.

She was born to conquer mountains, just as you were born to protect them. And in time, Guilin will tempt her like a pinnacle…

Anjie folded the paper. He handed it back to Ziyuan.

“Send a message to our cranes who are beyond Guilin. Tell them it is time to come home.”