Chapter Text
There were things Song expected to find at her door. One of the runners from the physicians, telling her to come quickly. Someone who was hurt who decided to bypass the physicians and come straight to her. A friend, a relative, that annoying Rani from across the village, who didn’t seem to understand that “I would rather marry a cow-hippo” meant “no, really, I don’t like you.” One of the village kids playing a prank, even.
A royal courier was not on this list. A royal courier who bowed to her was definitely not on this list. A royal courier who bowed to her and had . . . .three, yes, three unsaddled ostrich-horses (in addition to his own, saddled and dusty) was certainly not on this list.
It was, however, who was outside her door.
Song blinked at him, mouth a little open. From inside the house she heard her mother call, “Who is it?” and didn’t answer at once.
“You are Song, the nurse?” the courier asked, politely. Song closed her mouth and swallowed.
“Yes?” she said. “I mean, yes, I am.”
“I have a message for you,” he said, and handed her what was, in fact, a fairly heavy box. There was a scroll tied to the top of it. It was scroll of very, very fine paper, and it was tied on with silk string, and tied closed itself with a red silk ribbon, sealed with red wax that glittered with gold flakes.
The seal was the Fire Lord’s. You couldn’t live around here and not know what that looked like. Song gaped at it.
“These are also yours,” the courier said, gesturing to the ostrich-horses. “If you have a reply, it can be left at the mayor’s house and will be taken by the next courier through; I’m sorry, Mistress Song, but I must depart immediately.”
Her mother had gotten up to come look at what was going on, and arrived at the door in time to see the courier bow again, mount his ostrich-horse, and disappear.
“What on earth . . . .?” her mother asked, looking from box to scroll to tethered ostrich-horses. Song shook her head.
“I don’t know,” she replied. She thought to go inside to read the scroll, but then it occurred to her that the ostrich-horses would still be there; so she looked a bit helplessly at her mother and sat down on the porch instead, crossing her legs instead of tucking them politely under her. Her mother followed suit, slower and with more care for older joints.
Song put the box down, because it was heavy. Then she carefully undid the string and picked up the scroll, carefully pried the seal up, trying to break it as little as she could, and finally undid the silk ribbon.
The note was short, and she read it aloud. It said:
Mistress Song,
I can’t imagine you’ve forgotten me, nor can I imagine that memory is fond. For the first, I don’t think there are that many old men who make tea out of white jade bushes and drink it, and for the second, I can only imagine the difficulty that my theft must have caused you, and the betrayal you must have felt at the abuse of your kind hospitality. For this, I most humbly apologize.
While I cannot turn back time and undo the months of difficulty, I ask that you accept this repayment and allow me to make amends as best I now can.
In the box is the cost of one good ostrich-horse at market. I apologize for the weight, but I was assured that many coins of smaller denomination would be more useful than few of greater. In addition, my factor will have purchased three new ones for you, and all the feed necessary for their lifetimes is prepaid with one of your local merchants. They are yours to do with as you like, to sell or to keep or to give away.
Obviously, though you knew me as a traveller and a refugee named Li, that is not who I am. And although I hope that this will stand as amends for my theft, I would also like you to know that kindness can only be repaid with kindness, and if you find yourself in need, a message by courier can put you in touch with my nearest factor.
Finally, if you are ever in Ba Sing Se, call on the Jade Dragon. My uncle has decided to stay there with a tea-shop, and would be happy to welcome and house the people who knew him as Mushi, and an incautious tea-drinker.
At the bottom was the stamped seal of the Fire Lord. The new one.
Song stared at it. She passed it to her mother. Her mother read it over, and stared at it, and passed it back to Song. Then her mother opened up the box, lifting the clever latch, and revealed that it really was absolutely full of copper and silver.
Not to mention, to Song’s eye, the box itself had to be worth kind of a lot.
Her mother closed the box, and turned to Song. “We had the Fire Lord,” she said. “And the Dragon of the West here.”
“Yes,” Song said. She didn’t quite believe it herself. It didn’t seem real. That the Dragon of the West would be so silly as to make White Jade into a tea, or that the Fire Lord - yes, probably banished Fire Prince at the time, but still! - had stolen their ostrich-horse.
“In our house,” her mother went on.
“Yes,” Song repeated.
They were both silent for a moment, reflecting on that. Then Song’s mother said, “The Dragon of the West complimented my roast duck.”
Song wasn’t really listening anymore, though. Now she was looking at the box of coins, and then at the three ostrich-horses, and her mind was tallying up what three good ostrich-horses would bring, by way of price.
Then she looked back at the note, and the invitation of the last lines. And a giddy, mad little thought started at the back of her mind. It didn’t belong to the real world, as a thought. In fact, it belonged to the world where a king stole your ostrich-horse and then paid you back for it a year later, with four times the price as interest.
This was enough, Song thought, to move to Ba Sing Se. And enough left over, maybe, to learn from one of the great physicians there, the ones who taught at the university.
She hugged the scroll to her chest, and turned the thought over and over in her mind, like a gem.