On the way past the Shrine of the Fairy, Ruoshui insisted on stopping. Feng Xinzi indulged her.

　　Standing before the statue, Ruoshui studied the forehead ornament closely. Her heart skipped for no reason. She reached up and rubbed her own forehead, half-expecting to feel that tiny phoenix mark.

　　Feng Xinzi watched her with curiosity. “What’s wrong?”

　　Ruoshui jumped and shook her head. “Nothing.”

　　He lit an incense stick. “We’re here, make a wish.”

　　Ruoshui took the incense, stood straight, and prayed solemnly: Please, fairy, forgive my earlier rudeness. Please help me find my family, restore my memory, and let me sleep peacefully.

　　She bowed three times and stabbed the incense into the brazier. Feng Xinzi urged, “We should go.”

　　She turned away but kept glancing back at the statue, oddly unsettled. She half expected the tiny phoenix to be on her forehead. But she’d looked in mirrors — there was nothing. It was silly.

　　They reached Yangping Town. Winter was starting; there was a chill in the air. That night Ruoshui sank into another bad dream — though she’d improved lately, the nightmare returned with a vengeance.

　　Feng Xinzi called her name and gripped her hand, trying to pull her back. Her hand was ice-cold. He’d forgotten that it was winter and she had no cultivation to keep her warm — he felt like a fool. He stuck a needle and steadied her; the acupuncture calmed the attack but it wasn’t a cure.

　　Worried, Feng Xinzi grabbed a heavy blanket, tucked her in, and drew a protective circle before he left. When she woke later, the silver needles were still in her scalp and Yu Furong and Qin Yin sat beside the bed. She rubbed her eyes in surprise.

　　“Why are you both here?” she asked.

　　“Feng asked us to help,” Yu Furong said. “He said my massage and Qin Yin’s zither could help you sleep.”

　　After what had happened at Anxiang Pavilion — Ruoshui had slept soundly there and her nightmares were better for a while — Feng Xinzi had hired both women. He’d paid well to bring their skills wherever they stayed. Yu Furong was an old hand at comforting people; Qin Yin had real talent with the zither, but after Ruoshui’s playing Qin Yin felt humbled. “She played something I can’t replicate,” Qin Yin admitted, blushing. “People call me Qin Yin for my music, but lately I feel I can’t match what she did.”

　　Feng Xinzi came in carrying thick clothes and a little hot-water flask. “Winter’s here — these are for you,” he said, and then removed the needles one by one.

　　Ruoshui hugged the hot flask gratefully. Yu Furong was calm — a veteran of strange nights — and Qin Yin was secretly impressed with Feng Xinzi’s thoughtfulness. From then on, Feng Xinzi lit calming incense for Ruoshui at bedtime, Yu Furong massaged her, and Qin Yin played the zither — they treated her like a queen.

　　Miracle of miracles, the regimen worked. Ruoshui stopped having nightmares; she slept like a newborn and woke clear-eyed. She was grateful and generous with the two women who had helped; they were treated as companions, not hired hands. Ruoshui spoiled them with food and gifts.

　　With sleep restored, Ruoshui felt reborn. They began traveling again, following the faintest leads to find her family. Feng Xinzi returned to his old work curing people — he’d taken to accepting wealthy clients so he could afford better meals for Ruoshui. She ate like a bottomless pit: delicacies, rare meats, anything decadent. It became his mission: find the best local restaurant in every town before anything else.

　　Though Feng Xinzi had a famous name, he usually treated patients for free, judging by instinct and need. He disliked the wealthy who thought money bought everything, and the family dramas that came with rich houses appalled him — greed, infighting, poison, betrayals. In the past he’d have turned up his nose and walked away, but now he stayed: Ruoshui loved good food and if he didn’t earn enough, she’d be unhappy. So he swallowed his pride and treated noble families for pay.

　　He saved some of those fees to buy Ruoshui her favorite dishes. He joked that the grand healer and even the revered elder of Zhaoyao Mountain had both been bested by the problem of “finding enough food for Ruoshui.”

　　Sadly, love is often unreturned. His devotion, however earnest, might end up wasted — a one-sided story beneath falling blossoms and an indifferent stream.