Longzi, meanwhile, had surrendered fully to fate. One sleeping grandchild drooped over each of his shoulders.
A third used his crossed ankles as a horse and trotted him in place by tugging on his sash. Longzi endured this indignity with heroic stillness and the occasional quiet bribe of dried apricot to redirect enthusiasm.
Yaozu reclaimed the wall as if nothing had happened; only the loosened set of his mouth betrayed him.
Xinying reclaimed a spot near the fire where warmth could lean its weight into her bones.
The youngest daughter arrived with a bowl—sweet beans atop rice—and did not leave until she watched her mother eat three bites.
Xinying obeyed without protest and received a satisfied nod in return that looked suspiciously like Deming's.
"Stories!" one of the younger teens demanded, flinging himself to the ground with theater. "No politics."
"No politics," Yizhen agreed. "Only crimes."
"No," said Deming, Mingyu, and Longzi together.
