Impulsively, Lian grasped Sparrow’s hand. “Thank you so much for coming with me to the caves. I’m glad we got to know each other better.”

Sparrow squeezed her hand in return. “I’m glad too,” she said. “I’d like to think of us as friends.”

LIAN FELL ASLEEP almost immediately that night. When she dreamed, it was of stone-paved streets in a strange city, rain streaming from roof gutters, storefronts shuttered against the storm. Windbeaten branches tapped against whitewashed walls and there were no streetlights anywhere. Two women with cloaks thrown over their heads were hurrying through the rain. Their gowns were in an ancient style. She followed them as they ran along streets and over bridges until, finally, they reached a neighborhood of high walls and imposing gates. The two women stopped at the entrance to a grand mansion, a set of double doors lit by a large red lantern that hung from the roof of a shallow portico. As if she sensed Lian’s presence, one of the women paused and turned around.

And even though what Lian saw were the figures of two women standing in the rain, she knew one of them was actually the Prince. And that the Prince was Shao. The other woman, the one who had turned around, shone like a sliver of crescent moon. It was Sparrow Chen.

“I’d like to think of us as friends,” she said, looking straight at Lian. Then the two women vanished through the doors.

Chapter 15

Food was something the students talked about constantly, especially while eating their meager, unimaginative meals. Some mixed large spoonsful of chili sauce in their rice and noodles just to have something tasty. Cook Tam had been hired just before Minghua 123 left Nanking and many of the students doubted his credentials. Others, more forgiving, pointed out the kitchen didn’t have much to work with. They complained, but knew they were lucky to have anything to eat at all. They were especially lucky that Zhongmiao was a fishing village, so Cook Tam was able to serve fresh fish every week. But they still couldn’t help reminiscing about their favorite dishes.

“Roast pork with crispy skin,” Shorty Ho said, looking down glumly at the salty boiled peanuts sprinkled over his rice. They ate lunch standing around the dining tables since all their chairs and benches furnished the library. “River shrimp fried with scallions. My mother’s sticky-sweet Eight Treasure Rice Pudding.”

“Chicken cooked with chestnuts in a honey-soy sauce,” said another. “Salt-and-pepper eel. Or just a fried egg.”