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It's awkward.
She can still hear Mushu's voice. He had helped her get ready, this morning, ending with a comforting pat on the back, even though it was very light. He'd put her father's sword there, and said, it's not going to be awkward.
But it was awkward. She could tell even while she was this far away from Shang. He was turned the other way, head cocked, looking at something she couldn't see. She still had time to wheel and turn away, back for home, if she had the slightest inkling that Khan would let her. But he wouldn't, and she wouldn't, and they were riding up alongside Shang now. Everything was as she remembered — well, not quite. Things were as she remembered. His disciplined posture, broad shoulders. And the weight on them, heavier than before, with responsibility. She recognised it as the consequence of war. She reined Khan to a halt and he shook his head, jingling tack. Shang startled, just a little, but smoothed it over, shifting in the saddle to look at her.
"Mulan."
"Hello," she said, fighting the urge to fuss at her appearance, smooth her hair to the side. She doesn't try to hide that she's a woman, but she sits in the middle between propriety and comfort. His eyes only linger on her face for a moment, hands tensing on his horse's reins.
"He called both of us," he said to himself, eyes falling away from her and down to his horse's mane.
"The Emperor," she said.
"What?"
"The Emperor called both of us?"
"Oh," he said. "Yes."
"Do you know why?"
"No."
She shifts in the saddle, and Khan feels her movement and makes one of his own, sidestepping, moving his weight from side to side. At first she thinks he's just responding to her, but then she realises Chi Fu is approaching them, and Khan is getting ready to make his move.
"Leave him be," she says, leaning forward and pitching her voice low. Shang looks over anyway, sees what's going on and tilts his head away, possibly to hide a smile. Chi Fu approaches slowly, eyeing Khan. Khan blows air at him, and Chi Fu flinches away.
"You're late, Fa Mulan," he says. She shrugs, lets some of the awkward tension out of her shoulders. Everything is good. She's happy, down to the bone. The little things don't bother her any more.
"Let's not waste any more time," Shang says, and nudges his horse. Mulan follows him through the palace gate. It looks different in the daytime, but she hadn't really absorbed the details of it in the night, either. All she remembered was cold stone, sweat prickling on her hands, starbursts behind her eyes. The smell of blood. She blinks, and she's drenched in sunlight again. They dismount at the bottom of the stairs, their horses quickly taken away. She rests her hand on Khan's side and lets him trail away from her, turning his head for a last look. I'll be okay , she thinks, tries to push it through to him somehow. He must understand, because he turns away. They mount the steps, Chi Fu ahead. Her stride is in sync with Shang. She's adopted his movement. The same as when he was teaching her to fight. But there had been an economy of movement that wasn't necessary now. Her strides flowed, while his were clipped. She had eased back into life, surrounded by family. He hadn't.
Her thoughts were interrupted as they stepped into the cool entrance hall. She wondered if the Emperor had summoned her to offer her Chi Fu's job again. She didn't want it. And if he had, why would Shang be here too? Sunspots danced on her eyes. They surrendered their swords to the attendant at the door. It looked right, her father's sword next to Shang's. She turned away.
As her eyes adjusted, the detail of the palace began to creep in from the darkness. The sweep of silk against stone. The Emperor was ready to receive them, just off the throne room. It was an elegant room, with an octagonal table in the middle of it, a map spread across in on thin paper. She went over to it, forgetting propriety. The map was of the city, every street marked. Small gold disks marked spots on the paper, weighing it down. She recognised parts of the city, but not many. When she looked up, the Emperor was looking at her in fond amusement. Behind her, Shang was bowing. He looked as if he might have been gesturing at her for some time. Shang coughed, politely. Chi Fu glared.
"Sorry, Your Imperial Majesty," she said, and bowed. He waved his hand, dismissing the slight and gesturing Shang forward in the same movement. He stepped forward, hands locked behind his back, and stood next to her. She could almost feel the warmth of his body. He smelled good, like spice. She stepped away under the guise of seeing the map from another angle.
"Mulan," the Emperor said, and there was a depth of emotion in his voice she couldn't comprehend. All of it was still too much — she still thought of things in the miniscule. The taste of ash in the back of her throat. Snow falling through the neck of her clothes and settling against her skin. Men shouting, crying for help, the noise a blur against her ears. Blood. "And Shang. Come, sit." They sat. She had a hesitation, where she wasn't sure if she should sit as a woman or a man. She settled for crossing her legs at the ankle, wishing for a certainty. Any kind of certainty. Shang was ill at ease also. She could sense it in the way he shifted in his chair. She always thought of him as rock-steady, always. A young man brought them tea, hot and bitter on her tongue, and withdrew without making a sound.
"You know the city well, Shang," Chi Fu said, stepping up to the map and indicating with his brush. She leaned forward, hair slipping off the back of her neck. It was still half-grown, and most days she couldn't decide if she was meant to wear it up or down. The cut had been even, due to the sharpness of her father's sword, and it fell in an even line onto the nape of her neck. But it was also warm, and she hated having the curtain of it on the edge of her vision now, whereas before she'd enjoyed ducking behind it. She hated not being able to see in the periphery. She reached up to push her hair around, off the back of her neck. Shang was studying the map.
"I don't," she said.
Chi Fu drew himself up to scoff at her, and then remembered that the Emperor was still there, almost at the last second. The air wheezed out of him and ruffled the top of his quill. "We —" he began, and then coughed, started again. "We — the Emperor has received reports that there may still be some Huns in the city."
Shang's body went tight next to her, his hand slipping down to touch the hilt of a sword that was not there. "Your Imperial Majesty," he said.
The Emperor nodded. "I understand your concern. But if these reports are indeed true, then it will be one, or two, and their spirits badly broken. They know they have no chance of getting into the palace. The guard is too tight. They will be seeking to exit, somehow, unnoticed. Return home."
Shang leaned forward, the tenseness of his body refusing to dissipate. It was making her tense too. "The gold discs are the sightings," he said, and stood, leaning over the table to get a better look. She followed his lead, trying to fix the streets in her mind. There was a moment of quiet reflection. The Emperor tented his fingers; she saw the movement in the corner of her eye. Chi Fu was breathing noisily through his nose. It whistled. Shang was calm now, inside and out, mind turned to the map.
"So — " she began. Chi Fu coughed, interrupted her. She started again. "Your Imperial Majesty. What is it you want us to do about it?" She waited to be interrupted again, but it didn't come. She supposed that having blood in her mouth and gold at her neck at the Emperor's hand afforded her a little leeway. She looked up, met the emperor's eyes. He was smiling.
"They know you," the Emperor said.
"They know us," she said, indicating Shang.
"They know you ."
She swallowed, put her hand to the hollow of her throat. "You want me to flush them out. You think if they see me, they'll come for me."
Chi Fu cleared his throat. "If you and General Li go amongst the area, at night, if the Huns are there, they will come. That is the Emperor's plan."
She nodded, her hand twisting against her own skin. She found her inner core of discipline and moved her hand, locked her hands behind her back. "I'll do it," she said.
"Mulan — " Shang said, then turned to her, pitched his voice low. "Maybe we should think about this. This could be dangerous."
You wouldn't be saying that to me if you still thought I was Ping, she thought, but she couldn't vocalise it in front of the Emperor. In front of Chi Fu.
"I'll do it," she said.
Shang exhaled. "I'll do it, of course," he said. She hadn't thought that he would refuse. She looked up. Nobody had thought that he would refuse.
"Chi Fu has made the arrangements," the Emperor said, and began to withdraw. Shang bowed, and this time she didn't have to be reminded, carefully avoiding his gentle nudge. She bowed, watched him depart from behind the cloak of her hair. Chi Fu took a silver disc from his sleeve with a flourish — an unnecessary flourish — and placed it, one street over from the gold discs.
"There is a inn here," he said. "You are expected. Go among the common people. I'm sure you will draw — some attention." He sniffed, one last time, and swept out of the room with ceremony. Shang was still peering over the map, fixing the details in his mind.
"Let's go," she said, and then hesitated. She was giving him direct orders, without thinking. There was — there was still the chain of command. She wasn't even in the army any more. But there was still the chain of command.
"Yes," he said. He hadn't thought anything of it, if he'd even heard it. Their horses were waiting at the bottom of the stairs. She was relieved to regain her sword, The light almost blinded her when she came into it. The opposite of coming in. She raised her hand, used her hand to shield her eyes as they rode out of the courtyard. It had only been a few minutes, really. The sun had barely shifted in the sky. Shang didn't speak, his horse a few strides ahead. She didn't remember him being so quiet. But he'd lost a lot, and he was being asked to risk more. Asked to risk himself. They would always ask him to risk himself, and he would always do it. That seemed just to be the truth of the world. She nudged Khan. He caught up to Shang's horse, tossed his head with pride.
"I don't know the city well," she said. "Do you?" She could sense that his attention wasn't fully on her. She couldn't pinpoint exactly where it was. All around them, on every person passing by, even in the bustle. People were busy, pressing in around them. There must be something going on — people were trying to see her. Her eyes had been focused ahead, back straight, caught in thought, and so she hadn't noticed the ring of upturned faces around her. Mostly children. They were silent, reaching out to brush their fingers against Khan's sides, against her calves. She shivered. Khan was patient with them, whickering, reaching down with his head to gently move a young girl out of the way. She has a stick thrust into her belt, and when she meets Mulan's eyes, she's shocked by the depth of them, the anger. Not at her, but she recognises it. Its kin is in Shang. In her.
The children move out of their way. They move on. She follows Shang without question. The people at the boarding house are expecting them, ready to take their horses. She hadn't known what to expect, really, beginning the journey, but she'd brought a small bundle with clothes, some food. Dumplings made by her mother and grandmother, each uniform and perfect. Her father's sword. Her sword now. But still: her father's sword. Sometimes she could still feel the warmth of the ghost of his hand on the hilt. The rooms were nice, well furnished. She threw the windows open, leaned out into the fresh air. There was a wide courtyard behind the house, packed dirt. Chickens scratched at the edge of it.
Shang's room was next to hers. She had changed, quickly, into what she still thought of as Ping's clothes, tied her hair up. "Come downstairs," she said, gripping her sword by the scabbard. "I need the practice." He didn't blanch, or stare, just nodded, picking up his sword and following her down the stairs and into the back. They stretched, separately. It felt good to feel the warmth in her muscles. The strike from Shan Yu hadn't crippled her, but it was indelible. He'd left his mark on her. She'd left her mark on him. What was left of him. The scar didn't hurt, but she could feel it, still, against her body, saw it when she bathed. It hadn't killed her. It was just a mark now, a facet of her body. The body of the woman who had saved China. And so she didn't mind it, although it pulled a little when she bent to the side in a stretch.
Shang had taken off his shirt, bare to the waist like he'd been when he first trained her.
"Cheater," she muttered.
"What?"
"I'm ready," she said, stepping closer.
"Live steel?"
"What," she said. "Are you scared of me?"
"No," he said, unsheathing his sword. "But I might put my shirt back on."
"Please," she said.
"Please do?"
She extended her sword, falling back into a readystance, her body recognising the form and returning to it. He followed her lead. She might have opted for a wooden sword if she didn't feel more comfortable with the steel in her hand. If she wasn't trying to draw attention to herself, to them, with the live swords.
"Are you going to say 'go'?" he asked, when they'd stood still for a moment more.
"I think that's your job, General," she said. He shrugged, and it flowed through his whole body, all of his muscles. It took all of her muscles for her eyes not to be dragged down.
"I wouldn't dream of talking over the saviour of China," he said. Her arm was beginning to shake from the stillness, her body crying out for movement.
"There's no one else here to call it," she said.
"The chickens," he said.
"The chickens?" They were behind her. She couldn't see them.
"They're deliberating," he said. The sun was in her eyes, sweat beginning to prickle at her hairline. She knew his first move, could already see it in the lines of his body, the careful placement of his weight. It would be dangerous to be so easily read.
"Shang — " The chicken clucked. He struck out at her. It was almost the move that she'd read, but he changed it at the last moment. But she was prepared, his sword glancing off hers in a clash. Their styles were similar — she had learned from him — but they were separated by the limits of their bodies. He was big, strong hits, with a long reach. She was quick, lithe, nimble footwork. She knew all this already. She could stay outside of his reach, dart in and out before he had a chance to react. They circled, both trying to keep their backs to the sun. She was sweating, her arms tingling with reverberations. His paces was slow, measured. He was trying to draw out her patience, make her break her calm, lash out at him without thinking. But she'd learned to employ herself against her size disadvantage, against the force of hard hits, long ranges with swiftness, deception. She feinted, danced in and out of his range and landed a flat-sided slap with the blade of her sword on his upper arm. She had to block three, hard blows on alternating sides to pay for it, but when she quickly stepped back she couldn't help laughing.
"Something funny?"
"First blood," she said. "I win."
He lowered his blade, turned to look at his bicep. "I don't see any blood."
"Keep looking," she said, raising her blade in another challenge.
"That's a nice move," he said. "Where did you learn that?"
"Oh," she said. He moved towards her, slowly. She watched his approach, pretended not to mind. "I had a good teacher, a long time ago. He was a bit like you."
"I had a student like you, once, too," he said. "He was a good student, a quick learner."
They began to circle each other again. "I was never a quick learner," she said.
"You were," he said, lowering his sword, letting the tip drag in the dust. "You were all quick learners."
She relaxed her stance, let her sword fall down to her side. "I still think you were a great captain — are a great captain."
"It means a lot."
"Ask Yao, Ling. Anyone."
"It means a lot, coming from you."
She was already warm from the sun, from the exertion. It was the only thing that kept her from blushing. She picked up her scabbard and sheathed her sword, the blade ringing against the edge. "Shang," she said, stepping close. Even against the heat of the day, she could feel the warmth of his body. He gleamed with sweat, his chest rising and falling with his controlled breath. She was going to touch him — she was going to reach out and put her hand on his arm. A reassuring gesture.
"Mulan," he said, out of the corner of his mouth. She stilled, every joint in her body locking up. Had she read the situation wrong? "We have an audience."
She leaned around the bulk of him, saw the men and women observing them. The sound of the outside rushed in and she could hear them, the comments on their form, on their fight. Fa Mulan, Fa Mulan. Is that Fa Mulan? Then, somewhere distant, so quiet she felt it, more than heard it. A prickling on the back of her neck, a chill against the sun. Shan Yu. She could feel the rush of snow against her thighs, feel Shang's dead weight against her torso, Khan working himself to death beneath her.
"Mulan," he said, reached out to touch the inside of her wrist, just a brush of his fingers against the thin skin there. He lingered there for a moment, the single point of contact grounding her. There was a low well in the corner of the courtyard. He went over, drew up the bucket, brought it to her. She dipped her hands into the cool, sweet water, and splashed it over her face. Her hair was coming down in the back so she slicked it with water, fastened it tight again. He drank, and she drank too, and the crowd began to disperse.
He wiped his mouth, gathered water in a hand and sluiced it over his shoulders. "It was when I saw how willing they were to follow you," he said.
"What? Who?"
"Ling, Chien-Po, and Yao, of course. At the Emperor's palace. That's when I knew."
"Knew what?"
"That you were the best of us."
She didn't know what to say. She didn't know how to react. His face wasn't blank, but it was calm. He'd waited a long time to tell her this. The moment, the hush stretched on between them, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Even though so much between them was unsaid, he'd said this. She shivered, smiled.
"Are you hungry?"
"Maybe," she said.
"Thirsty?"
"No?"
He emptied the bucket over her head. She shrieked, stepped backwards, nearly fell over her own feet. "Shang!" She was dripping onto the dirt, water running down her back, out of her hair, sliding down under her clothes. She shook herself like a dog, raining him with droplets.
"Hey, careful now," he said. She went for the bucket, headed towards the well. He tried to catch her around the waist but he'd trained her too well. She caught his leading grasp, swept his legs, wrestled him down to the ground. He fought back, just a little, but she straddled his chest, pinned his arms with her legs. He flexed against her, but she squeezed tight, grasping for the bucket that was just out of her reach. "It's empty," he said. "It's empty!"
She looked up; the courtyard was vacant, apart from those same unruffled chickens, pecking at the ground. Shang craned his neck, realised they were alone and went still. She leant over him, her hair sliding out of its tie. Water rained down on him from her. His body was still. Even though he was pinned, he was relaxed. She could feel the rhythm of his breath beneath her. He went to free his arms and she didn't stop him, her body going hot and lax. His hands touched her calves, stroked along the line of the muscle there, travelled up onto her thighs, the lightest touch until she thought she might burst, might scream from the gentleness of it all.
"Mulan — "
"Yes."
"Don't forget."
"Don't forget?"
"About why we're here."
It was like waking from a dream. She gathered her resolve and got up. He felt the muscles in her leg move under his hand — she saw it in his face. She tried to regain her dignity, squeezing the water out of her hair. She was already beginning to dry off, the sun scorching the water out of her clothes. She offered Shang her hand, and he took it, letting her pull him up off the ground. She began to become aware of her surroundings, of every nook and cranny, every possible hiding place nearby where an arrow could be waiting to fly. She found her hair ribbon on the floor and tied back her wet hair once more.
"Let's get changed and go for a walk," she said. "Bring your sword."
His mouth in a hard line, he nodded, collected his sword from where he'd left it. She started the ascent back to their rooms, so neatly side-by-side. She remembered tents, almost on the water. Cool, lush grass to sweep against her bare legs. She wished Yao, Chien-Po, or Ling were here, to stand behind her and tell jokes, or flirt outrageously with the innkeeper's wife, or to share a sweet, cold slice of melon with her when she didn't even know she wanted it. The Emperor had honoured them; not as he had honoured her, but such honour made you a tool to be wielded, sometimes. She would see them soon.
By the time she'd changed, it was past noon, the sun beginning its lazy descent. The moon was a thumbnail stamped against the blinding blue of the sky. It was just visible in the slice of sky between the bustle of the streets, the awnings and roofs. She stood outside the inn, resting her hands on the hilt of her sword, the comforting weight dragging on her belt. Shang was coming down the stairs, coming from the shade into the light. He squinted at her as they fell into step.
"Do you really think that there could still be Huns here?" she asked, when they had walked for a little while, taking a random path between alleys and the backs of houses, weaving through backstreets, sometimes coming back to the loud market streets, sometimes somewhere so quiet she could hear water running somewhere far away.
"I try not to underestimate desperation," he said. She nodded. She knew what he meant; she knew the taste of it on the back of her tongue. She'd left her hair down, hoping it made her more recognisable as Fa Mulan, Saviour of China , and it brushed against the nape of her neck as they walked. "If they come to us, they come," he said. "We're ready."
She nodded. Although her mind was tense, her body was relaxed, muscles warm and movement smooth. She'd fought Shan Yu and survived. She'd fought an avalanche and survived. With Shang at her side — she would survive.
The shadows were growing longer, the air cooler. They kept passing by food vendors, the flames blooming from their grills. The smells were delicious, spicy and pepper-hot. Her stomach growled, once.
"Let's go back," Shang said, turning on his heel. She followed, the streets folding back onto themselves until they were in an area she recognised. There was a busy restaurant on the corner of the street, two-tiered. She leaned towards it. It wasn't strictly a time of day to eat; it wasn't noon, or night, but she'd trained her body just to eat when she was hungry, on the road. "Come on," he said, and she followed again, into the restaurant. It was loud inside, between the kitchen and the patrons talking. The waiter took them upstairs, sat them close to the balcony, where the fresh air streamed in, brushing against her and stirring her hair. She was between. Between noon and afternoon. Between summer and winter, the days long but the nights cool. Between the war, and peace. Among other things. They ordered, and she settled back in her chair, able to relax against its hold. Shang still sat ramrod straight. She wondered how private a setting would have to be to see him break out of that discipline, that posture. Maybe this wasn't the place to think about that.
Her gaze turned out, skimming the tops of buildings, the puffs of clouds set high across the horizon. She could see the tops of people's head as they passed below.
"It's a beautiful city," he said. He was looking out, too, and it gave her a moment to appreciate the severity of his profile. She couldn't help but consider that when she had looked, first of all, he might have been looking at her profile. They ordered. The waiter had recognised them, because the owner of the restaurant came up to greet them with their meal. He seemed excited by it; she hoped that no one else could overhear his questions, his praise. He left, after a minute or two, and she sighed with relief, turning her attention to the xiao long bao, the hot and sour soup, dan dan noodles. He chuckled.
"I'm not — " She cut herself off.
"Not?"
"Not ungrateful."
He nodded, taking up his chopsticks and applying himself to the table. "You're just hungry."
"Yes," she said. She took a spoon, dipped into the soup.
"You're still human, Mulan," he said. "Even I can see that."
She made herself swallow before replying. " Even you?"
"I saw everything you did, first hand. They just hear stories. But I saw it."
She swapped to chopsticks, took a bao. The soup inside flooded her mouth, rich and salty. Even through chewing, thinking, swallowing, she didn't know what to say. Couldn't think of anything to say. It was different, for her, too. The stories didn't mentioning huddling on the mountain top, the pain of the wound from Shan Yu the only hot reminder that she was still alive. The pulse of her heart pushing against her chest in the same rhythm as
"This is delicious," she said, taking another.
He ducked his head, smiled. They fought, briefly, with their chopsticks for the final bao. He won, but only just. It had been a long meal, and it was nice to eat at a leisurely pace, without having to bend over a bowl and shove it in her face as fast as possible.
The sun was beginning to dip, purple and pink streaking over the clouds as they exited, made their way slowly back to the hotel. By the time they arrived, the clouds were burnished with gold. She could smell fragrant smoke, distant rain. Someone had been in Shang's room, lit the candles. She hesitated at the threshold.
"Come in for a moment," he said. "I want to talk to you."
She stepped in, taking her sword off her belt and placing it on the side table, so she could sit comfortably.
"Do you think," she began, and then stopped. He waited for her to continue, standing between her and the bed. "Do you think there are Huns in the city?"
"You asked before."
"No, I mean, do you think the Emperor thinks there are Huns in the city?"
He frowned. "Why else would he send us here?"
"You don't think it was a thing?"
"A thing?"
She waved her hand between the two of us. "A thing ."
"Oh — I — I don't know," he said.
"I've been matchmade before," she said. "I didn't much like it."
"Well," he said. "I guess — I guess it's a good thing it didn't work out."
She got up, and closed the door. The room became small, the distance between them minuscule. She could cross it in a step and a half. He could cross it in one. She waited, listening to his breath. To her own heart pounding. She took the first step, her fingers trembling, and reached out. He met her halfway, took her hand. His skin was warm, even the friction of his callouses on hers felt good. His thumb rubbed across her knuckles. She closed her eyes. He tugged on her hand, just a little, and she stepped forward into his embrace. His arms closed around her; she leaned her head onto his chest, where she could hear the rhythm of his heart.
"Mulan," he said. She could feel the low rumble of his voice. He pulled away, just a little, and reached up, the back of his hand brushing gently across her cheek. He reached down to tilt her head up, and she moved forward, still trying to close the distance between them.
There was a noise — someone else was in the room. She broke out of his arms, catching a glimpse of his shocked face. The first fraction of his turn towards the noise. Her seeking hand found the hilt of her sword, sliced forward into the dark and cut the flying arrow out of the air. There was someone behind her, too, and Shang struck past her. She didn't try to move, trusting him to keep her safe. She didn't turn, moving across until they were back to back.
"Where is Shan Yu's sword?" the Hun cried out from the darkness. "A man should have his sword. A man."
"His sword is mine," she said, "And Shan Yu is dead." He flew at her and she caught his blade on hers. He came out of the shadows, pressing down as their blades locked. She couldn't win a fight of sheer force, so she kicked out, caught him in the knee as he tried to exert strength, pressing down on her. She swept out at his foot, sent him tumbling down to the floor, and stood over him, her sword at his throat.
"Shang," she called, waited a moment where he didn't respond. It was only the space between one second and the next, but it agonised her.
"I'm fine," he said, "I'm fine, Mulan."
She'd pressed a little in her ravenous fear. There was a line, a runnel of blood at his throat. Just a nick. There was yelling, crying in the hall. Someone shouting in the street. A dog barking.
"Hold steady," Shang said. "The Emperor's troops will be here in a minute."
"I'm fine," she said. "I'm fine too."
"Good," he said, and there was a grim note in his voice. She refused to consider what he would have done if she wasn't fine. What she would have done if he hadn't been.
Voices, approaching in the corridor. The Emperor's forces. And Yao was there, somehow, out of nothing, patting her on the back as the rest of the soldiers tied up the Huns, began to take them away. There was blood on the end of her sword.
"You did good, kid," Yao was saying, and then all at once he seemed to notice something she hoped the other soldiers hadn't. Shang and her, in a small room, alone. When he realised, he grinned a grin that took over half his face. She couldn't help smiling then, too, even as Shang blushed and tried to pretend he didn't know what Yao was talking about.
"I'll come with you," she said, but when she tried to follow him out of the room, somehow he had made the door impassable.
"No, no," he said. "The room's paid for. You stay. Come in the morning; Ling and Chien-Po will be there. We'll eat pork belly, talk about it ."
"We're not talking about anything!"
"Of course not, Mulan," he said, still smiling, and carefully winked at her, pulling the door shut.
Shang was hesitating, by the window, sword still in hand. It was almost like he had forgotten he was holding it, adrenaline still coursing through his body.
"You won't need that," she said.
"Oh," he said, and sheathed it, put it down.
"Come here," she said, and he did. "Kiss me," she said, and he did.