Shen Yu's courtyard was too small, her only amusement the few birds that flitted over the walls each day. But …
Shen Yu's courtyard was too small, her only amusement the few birds that flitted over the walls each day. But the man who strayed in that night was livelier than any sparrow.
She tossed him a handful of birdseed as thanks for the evening's distraction.
Yet she soon realized she'd been claimed.
She'd heard of people feeding stray cats, only to have them linger for days. But this "bird" was no stray. His fine plumage spoke of pampering, his guileless eyes of sheltered inexperience. Why, then, did he keep returning?
As thanks, he brought her stories every night, carried in on his tongue like nesting materials.
Shen Yu loved stories.
Her tiny courtyard offered only a sliver of sky. Every book in her collection held the same tedious virtues, handpicked by her father and neatly shelved. Every meal was measured, every hour dictated by a rigid schedule.
Others live their lives like books, each page splashed with new colors, today's surprises bleeding into tomorrow's joys. But hers was a single sheet, the same characters pressed over and over, until the paper grew soft with handling, the ink fading to a tired yellow.
He was her new page, her second story.
He seemed a bird escaped from a wicker cage, but Shen Yu knew her own cage was heavier. His was woven of rattan, hers, of gilded chains. He could still flutter his wings. She couldn't even control her expressions. How could she keep this story?
In her study, stacks of paper pressed down on her years, each day a tedious reprint of the last. But even the thickest manuscripts could burn with a single spark. What good would ashes do?
Burn this room, and another cage will remain. Sever one chain, and a hundred more would bind her.
She closed her eyes. Better to feed her bird, to pretend to obey.