More soft-footed rustling that approached our window and stopped.
I was about to wake Yún when a young woman’s voice floated through the night air.
“Quan.”
Grass crunched as Quan spun around. His tongue must have tripped once or twice, because it took him a couple tries before he said back, “Princess.”
A very long pause came next.
“I’m sorry,” Lian said softly. “I was wrong. I misjudged you—without any cause. I thought—Well, I made clear what I thought. I wish I could erase those words.”
“You don’t need to apologize,” Quan said very quickly. “Or explain.”
“I do. I wronged you, Quan. I knew your character. I had
no excuse. I—” Her voice broke off with a catch and quaver. In a lower voice, she continued, “Kai told me why you wanted the money. I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you before.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter. To me. And I hope it matters to you that I’m listening now.”
A silence. A soft breath of exclamation.
That’s when I really knew I had to stop listening. I coughed. Two thumps sounded on the dirt. Then the noise of rustling grass as two lovers hurried away. The nasty part of me cursed them. Why couldn’t they wait until we reached Lóng City? Even better, why hadn’t they smooched and made love speeches back in Phoenix City?
(You’re just jealous.)
(Of course I am.)
I sighed and rolled over, trying to find a comfortable position on that lumpy dirt floor.
Only to see a gleam from Yún’s open eyes.
“He’s a good man,” she whispered.
“He’s an idiot,” I said gruffly. “So is Lian.”
Yún shut her eyes. It was like the moon dropping from the midnight sky, leaving me in darkness.
(Okay, bright boy. Now what?)
(Apologize.)
(Too easy. What about that kiss in the secret passageway?)
My pulse was dancing around. I ordered it to calm down.
“Yún?”
No response.
The griffin fluffed out his feathers and made soft complaining noises, as if something had disturbed his rest. Gathering up the scattered bits of my courage, I levered myself onto my hands and knees and circled the dead fire to Yún’s side. She lay so still, as still as a mountain in winter, I knew she was awake and listening hard.
(Make it good. You won’t have another chance.)
I blew out a breath. This was like Chen’s laundry spell. Mess up the syllables and rhythm, and things explode.
“Yún . . . I’m sorry. I thought last year that everything had changed between us. And it had, but I spoiled it by being such an idiot. I flirted with that girl from the teahouse. I pretended I didn’t care. I stopped talking to you and that might be the worst and stupidest thing, because friends should always talk to each other.”