2: Imaginary
Mother was what the oldest, most superstitious townfolk called a half-breed - a pale, green-eyed willow of a girl born to the governor of Chang Shan and his foreign consort. Father was a scholar, calm and grave and full of dignity. How they found each other, or why, remained a mystery. The romantics called it fate. The others simply laughed and shook their heads, and that was that.
Upon hindsight, she has to admit that between the two of them she had very little time or opportunity to make friends. Father was always gentle, but firm, keeping her at the study table or in the library for long hours on end. However, the wondrous tales he told her afterward more than made up for it, and she gave no thought to play as other children did.
And Mother? A quavering bundle of nerves was Mother, forever afraid that her only child would meet with some horrible accident on the road, or another ill fate of that sort. And then where would poor Mother be, Xiang? Where would she be?
Imaginary friends, though, she had in abundance, laughing creatures that flitted through the pages of her book or the landscapes of her mind. It wasn't as if she minded. Not too much, anyway. Imaginary friends never left or hurt, or did anything that you didn't expect them to do. You were safe that way.
Consequently, she sometimes forgets he's real. But only sometimes. Other times, like now, he's all too real, the figure of him sketched out in sharp lines against the sky.
He's sitting beside her now, under the peach tree she agreed to share with him two autumns past, with his long limbs stretched out across the grass. His spear rests beside him, an old bronze one from his father. It makes her a little nervous, that old bronze spear. Just a little.
He's been practicing with it for quite some time, and it shows. He's tanned from the sun, and his hands are calloused, his hair too long, but he doesn't seem to care. He turns his head now, to smile at her. The old bronze spear doesn't make her so nervous anymore.
"There's a leaf in your hair." He pulls it out, examining the veins of red and gold. "Autumn's near."
"Mm."
"What are you thinking about?"
He doesn't expect her to answer. She's never been a talker, never bothered to use one word when none would do. She still isn't. Her imaginary friends never minded, and truthfully he doesn't either. Still, it would be nice if...
"Old friends."
She answered.
"Old friends?"
"The ones out of the books, from when I was little."
"Oh, I see."
"They never asked me what I was thinking." She laughs then, and it's a silver sound. He finds himself wishing he could hear her laugh more often. "Sometimes, I forget you're real, Zilong. Then you go and do something you real people do."
"Like pull a leaf out of your hair."
"Mm-hmm."
"Do you so prefer imaginary people to real ones, then?" he inquires, not at all sure if he wants to know.
She shrugs. "It's not that. Just that I have no way of knowing if you'll be here again, next autumn."
He has nothing to say to this.