Night came quietly. The storm was gone. Snow lay smooth along the walks. Lanterns glowed in warm little circles. The boards were dry where the brooms had passed. The air tasted clean and sharp.
I lay on my straw by the alcove and watched the light. My cheek did not hurt. The fur there was smooth. When I breathed, the mark at my throat gave a faint answer to the hidden moon. People did not see it unless their eyes wanted to.
Jin brought a bowl with careful hands. He had learned not to spill. His hair was neat now. His nose was a little pink from the cold.
"I asked for extra rice," he said. "Cook said only if I share with Elder Song. I will share with Elder Song. After you."
I ate. I left the rice stuck to the rim. He smiled at that and carried the bowl to the old woman who mended robes. She patted his wrist and promised to stitch his sleeves tighter if he kept his feet under him. He bowed and carried the bowl away again. Then he came back and sat near me with his knees up, quiet and content in the warm edge of the room.
Somewhere a flute tried three soft notes. A hand touched a drum once and stopped. The small bell at the gate moved a little when the wind found it and then was still.
The traders slept in the guest hall. I had counted three sets of boots by the door. Two told long roads and thin food. One was too soft for real travel and smelled of oil and sweet smoke. That smell stayed in my nose.
I put my head down and let sleep come and go. I listened without looking. The stove breathed. The roof eased. The house knew its night sounds. They were friendly.
A soft shoe slid on wood.
Not an elder. Not a boy. A careful step, slow and patient. A door moved just enough for a man to pass. He came out of the guest hall and walked along the shadows of the colonnade. He kept to the places where the boards did not complain. He had learned other houses. He had learned where to set his heels.
He crossed the court. Elder Song slept in her chair, needle still in her cloth. The man did not see her. He went to the gate and looked at it the way a carpenter looks at a door. He studied the bell rope and the hinge. He studied the spot where the blood had been scrubbed from the stone.
He knelt. He took something small and dark from under his cloak. It was the size of a beetle. He pressed it to the step and warmed it with his fingers. He did not hurry. He breathed in a thin line through his teeth so his breath would not show.
A wire smell brightened in the air. Iron and pitch and a little vinegar. It curled like a hair.
I slid from the alcove and stayed along the wall. Elder Lin stood in the shadow at the corner post. He did not move. He watched the man and kept his hands in his sleeves.
The man stood when the small black thing had taken hold. He walked along the base of the wall where the gate meets stone. He pressed three more little lumps there, one after another, with the same care. Four in all. It made a pattern that eyes could miss.
He turned to go. He stopped when he saw me step into the pale wash of moonlight. The mark at my throat gave a soft glow.
He put a gentle smile on his face at once. He was good at that. "Little one," he said. "Out to chase the cold."
He opened his hands to show me they were empty. He bent his knees to look small. He did not come closer. He watched to see if I would bark and bring a guard.
I did not bark. I lowered my head to the first black lump.
It smelled like resin and old metal and hair that had been through smoke. Under that was a small taste like a word pressed into wax. Thin. Sharp. Wrong.
The bell in my chest turned toward it. A line rose in the air. I could feel it. It ran from the little lump, through the stone, down the steps, into the trees. It was a pull. It was a call. It would wake something that wanted to be woken.
I did not touch the lump. I found the line where it was strongest, just above the stone. I set my teeth on that empty place and closed my jaws.
There was no fur and no hide. There was only the thin pull. It parted like a thread that has been heated and cut. The air went bright and thin for a breath. The yard smelled like hot iron under snow. Then it was only cold again.
Far below, something startled at the sudden slack. It lifted its head. It made a small sound. Then a larger one.
The man's smile slipped, then returned. He shaped surprise with his mouth. His eyes did not change.
"Curious," he said. "Clever. Who feeds you."
A board sighed. Elder Lin stepped into the light as if he had simply remembered to look at the gate before sleep.
"Traveler," he said. "The cold makes the wood complain."
The man bowed with smooth manners. "I could not sleep," he said. "Your mountain speaks very softly at night. I wished to listen."
Elder Lin let his gaze pass over the step and the wall. He did not show that he had seen anything. He stopped near the place where my teeth had met the line.
"Borrow what talk you like," he said. "Return what does not belong to you when you are done."
"Of course," the man said. He backed away with polite steps and went into the guest hall. The latch made a quiet sound. The thin wire smell faded, but it did not leave the house. It crouched under the door like a shadow with a plan.
Elder Lin did not speak for a while. He stood with his hands folded and let the moon light the bones of his wrists. We both listened.
The other three little lumps had lost their pull when the first line broke. They were only resin and hair now. They would sit there until morning if we let them. They would be safe to lift if we did not touch them with skin.
A door slid a finger width. Jin leaned out with one hand on the frame. "Elder," he whispered. "Do I bring wood for the inner stove."
"In the morning," Elder Lin said. "Sleep now."
Jin bowed to the elder's back and to me with his eyes and closed the door.
We gathered the four lumps with a strip of old linen and a small clay bowl. Elder Lin did not touch them with his fingers. He carried them to an inner shelf where the air did not move much and set them there. He lowered the lantern wick. He banked the stove. He listened to the beams and the pipe that carried melt water. Then he lay down on his mat and closed his eyes.
I went to the gate and settled by the stone that holds the day's warmth longest. The snow slipped from the eaves in thin ropes. The air was clean. Far below, where the steps begin, a shape waited among the pines. It smelled of fur and old blood and the iron wire I had cut. It tested the wind. It did not climb yet. It was patient.
I kept my eyes half open and let my breath move slow. The mark at my throat pulled a little light from the hidden moon and fed the bell. The bell sent a quiet line along the inside of the wall and around the gate. It steadied the flame. It kept Jin's sleep even. It told the smiling man that sleep would not help him when morning asked its questions.
Somewhere far from the mountain, a seal pressed into wax. The wax cooled. The hand that made it did not shake.
The hours folded. The lantern flame leaned and straightened. A thin taste like a struck nail crept under the gate. A word without a mouth tried to push through the stone of the bottom step.
The word failed. It tried again. It reached the gap under the gate and stopped there, as if it had met the palm of a hand.
The bell under my ribs struck once. Not a cry. Not joy. A clean note, the kind a blade makes when it comes out of oil and is ready to work.
I stood and put my paws where the man had knelt. The moon pushed a little brightness through the cloud and touched my throat. My breath showed white in the air.
The thing under the pines lifted its head. The snow made a small sound as it shifted its weight. The cold looked over the wall with empty eyes. The lantern flame bent again and held.
I waited at the gate.
Morning would come, but not yet. The night had one more answer to demand before it let the mountain breathe.
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