The Third Watch

**County Court Record — Wang Sheng's further statement (Sixth Record). Interrogator: the Prefecture Office. Scribe: Zhao. Attached: one deposition of Afu. The scribe's note at the end was written after the event.**

Your honor asks about what happened that night — I will say.

I had meant to go out.

On the twenty-first of the ninth month I rose early, changed my clothes, and walked to the gate of the courtyard — and there I stopped. I stood at the gate and thought: that Taoist, I do not know him; Qingyan Abbey, I have never been there. She — could she truly be an ordinary person? If I went blundering to the door and the Taoist said she was a demon thing, on what would I believe him? And on what would I not believe him?

I stood at the gate for a long while, and in the end turned and went back to the study.

By day, nothing happened at all. She embroidered as usual, smiled as usual. I sat at the other end of the study with a book and could not read a single word. I stole glances at her; she kept her head down, stitch after stitch, on that branch of plum. The daylight fell white on the back of her hand. I looked a while, dared look no more, turned a page, and turned it back.

My mind was in a great tangle. The Taoist had said three days, and yesterday at dusk the three days were exactly up. I had thought of it at dawn; but now, with the sun overhead and her sitting at the window a whole good person, I felt I had made too much of it. I chewed the Taoist's words over and over in my belly — "evil qi clings to your body," "see whether she has ever looked in a mirror," "you know in your heart." I chewed them to the end and still did not know which to believe.

I watched her embroidery on the sly. That branch of plum, she had been working at for nearly four days. I counted yesterday — six petals; this morning, still six. I thought to myself: at dusk I must have miscounted; it had been six all along. She sewed slowly, one stitch down, a pause, then the second stitch, as if thinking where the next should fall. Watching her, a thought came to me: a person sews that slowly for fear of a mistake; yet yesterday she had plainly said "I made a mistake, I'll take it out and redo it" — and when I turned the handkerchief over later, I found no trace of undoing, the threads clean, as if it had never been mistaken at all.

I dared not think further. I put down the book and said: "I'll go for a walk."

She raised her head: "Where is Master going?"

I said: "The mouth of the lane."

She said "oh," lowered her head, and went on sewing. I walked to the door, then looked back at her — the daylight slanted in through the window paper and lay upon her; she kept her head down, and a strip of white neck showed above the collar. I stood in the doorway looking at her a long while. In the end I did not go out, but turned and sat down in my chair again.

I was afraid. I could not say of what — I was simply afraid.

At night, I blew out the lamp. That night I slept especially deeply — the two nights before had been broken; my head had barely touched the pillow when I sank down.

I was woken by a chill.

Your honor, I cannot say what it was. I woke suddenly, for no reason, as if someone had touched me lightly. I opened my eyes. The room was dark; nothing could be seen. I lay listening to my own heart, thump, thump, thump. And then I heard — breathing.

Very faint, there at the edge of the bed.

Slowly, I opened my eyes to a slit. Moonlight came in through the window paper, faint. I saw a figure standing by the bed — her.

She stood at the edge of the bed, leaning down, her face toward mine. I could not see her face, only a shape, black against the dark. She was very close, very close — close enough that I could smell the scent on her. The scent of paper and ink. Stronger than by day.

She was looking at me.

Your honor, my whole body stiffened then. I dared not move, dared not make a sound, dared not even open my eyes all the way. I heard her breathing — very light, very even, one breath, then another, as if counting. She looked at me for a long, long while. I did not know what she was looking at. I lay there, watching her through my lashes, my heart pounding nearly to bursting. I counted under my breath how long she stood — past a hundred counts, and still she had not moved. The moonlight was pale as water; her shadow lay on the floor, without a tremor.

She looked at me as she would look at a thing.

A phrase flashed through my mind — as one looks at a painting. I thought of the picture on her desk, the one with no pupils painted in, the one under the blue cloth. Did she look at that picture this way too? Leaning in, slowly, bit by bit, looking at every stroke, at every empty place? And I thought of the wet hair pasted to the back of that picture. My fingers, under the quilt, slowly clenched.

I do not know how long it lasted. I only remember that at last she straightened, drew back a step, and lay down on the bed again. The bedding rustled once, and then the room was still.

I lay with my eyes open, and did not move all night.

At dawn she sat up, and as on every other morning, stretched, and smiled at me: "Master slept very well last night. Not even a dream."

I looked at her, my throat dry, and could not get out a single word. I opened my mouth and said: "Is that so."

She said: "Yes. Last night Master did not even turn over. Slept deep and still."

Your honor, when I heard that, I went cold from head to foot — I had not moved all night because I dared not. How did she know I had "slept deep and still"? Had she kept watch over me all night?

I could not stay in the study another moment. I washed my face in haste and went out. At the door I looked back once — she sat at the window, needle and thread in her hands, head down, working that branch of plum. The daylight fell on her hands, fair and clean. As if she felt my look, she raised her head and smiled:

"Is Master going out so early?"

I said: "A little business."

She said: "Go early, come back early."

I said "mm," and went out. After two steps my legs were weak; I held the wall and stood a moment. At the foot of the wall the autumn insects were crying. I looked up; the daylight shone bright in the lane. I took a deep breath and went toward West Street.

Out of the mouth of the lane, I could not help it — I looked back once. The study window, papered over with thick cowhide, showed nothing within. But I knew she was still there, most likely, head down at the window, stitch after stitch on that branch of plum. I stood looking at that window a long while. The daylight, blank and white, lay on the paper; the paper did not stir, still as if no one were there.

I turned, and went toward West Street.

I was going to find that Taoist.