Chapter 9: Twenty-Three Days

Shen Zhuo woke to the sound of Qiao Ruyun losing an argument with the camp physician and refusing to accept it.

"He has lost too much blood for poppy," she was saying. "Half a dose, and wait."

"Miss Qiao, I have set shoulders for thirty years."

"You have set them for soldiers who wanted to sleep. He is the commander. If he sleeps through the night, who signs for the morning muster?"

Silence.

"Half a dose," the physician said, with great dignity.

Shen Zhuo kept his eyes shut.

The arrow had been cut out while he was unconscious, and his whole left side burned.

Every breath pulled at the stitches.

He listened to her moving about the tent, setting down a basin, wringing a cloth, pouring something that smelled of hot wine.

Her feet made no sound on the felt.

She had learned that in the washhouse, where a loud step woke forty women.

He had counted her steps for three years.

He had not meant to.

On the first night he had told himself it was only a promise to an old woman.

The Grand Princess had told him once: if I ever send you a girl, do not be kind to her where others can see.

He had understood it the morning he watched Madam Fan's cousin lay a rod across Ruyun's back.

So Shen Zhuo had stood with his arms folded and watched every stroke.

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