Chapter 9: The Bath House

Yuhang had built the bath house himself in his second year in the chair.

A long stone ramp ran down into the hot spring, with iron rails on both sides.

At the bottom was a flat shelf wide enough to sit on.

"Nobody else uses it," he said, rolling to the top of the ramp with a towel over his knee. "I told them it was haunted."

Wanqing stood at the edge in a thin linen robe, looking down at the steaming water.

"It's the best-designed thing in the sect."

"Thank you. It took me four months and a lot of swearing."

He took the rails in both hands and let himself down the ramp, leaning back on the chair until the wheels touched water.

Then he set the brake, pushed up on his arms, and slid onto the shelf in one smooth turn.

His legs followed in the water.

"The sixth thorn is in the loins," he said. "The heat will help it let go."

"I know. I read the pulse."

"Then come in."

She dropped the robe on the stone.

It was the first time he had seen her fully in light.

He looked for a long moment, with the steam curling around his shoulders, and did not pretend not to.

"Wanqing."

"What?"

"You're built like a woman who could carry a mountain."

"I carried a tray of herbs up four terraces this morning. It's a small mountain."

She waded down the shallow steps and sat on the shelf in front of him, in water to her collarbones.

He put one hand around the back of her neck.

"This is the order of work," she said, a little breathless. "I take the thorn first. Then I'm yours."

"I am yours already."

She set the needles on a floating tray and laid her palms on the low, hard muscle above his hips.

The heat of the spring went into her hands.

The thorn was deep and wide, a cold knot, and she worked it with her palms until it loosened.

Then she bent forward and put her mouth to his skin.

It came out in a long, thin pull of ice.

She spat, rinsed, and sat back, shuddering from head to foot.

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