Page 31 of Yumi and the Nightmare Painter

“But—”

“Complaining is for those lesser. Back straight. Head bowed.”

“I’m not a yoki-hijo.”

“Today you are,” she said, walking around him as he knelt in the open-sided shrine. “If you want to end this, you must do what I cannot. Beyond that, there are consequences—rarely implemented—for a yoki-hijo who cannot serve. We are in danger of provoking Liyun to extreme measures, which will make it impossible for us to accomplish our goals. So unless you want to be stuck like this forever, you need to follow the protocol anddowhat Itellyou.”

He let out a long, annoyed breath. “Fine,” he said (lowly).

Yumi nodded. During her bathing she had come to a realization. A reason why the spirits might have sent this seemingly useless person to take her place. Shortly they would test her theory. But first, meditation.

“Now,” she said, “you will say the proper prayers. Because you are new to this, we will say only the six that are strictly necessary.”

“Six?” he said. “How long will this take?”

“Half an hour,” she said. “Roughly.”

“A half hour ofpraying? But—”

“Do you want out or not?”

He grumbled, but as she began to recite the prayers, he repeated them. She wondered if perhaps she should be kneeling too. So she knelt beside him, hands laced in the pattern of reverence before her, head bowed. It would give him a good model at the least.

Was it the words or the heart that mattered in a prayer? Perhaps the spirits would accept his words and her heart.

The half hour was over in no time—saying only six of the prayerswas novel, and barely felt like it was enough. But at the end Painter groaned as if she’d made him do something terrible, like carry his own luggage. He flopped to the side, and she decided to let him rest before making him—

“Hey!” she snapped. “Don’t close your eyes.”

“Just for a moment,” he said, his eyelids flickering.

“If you fall asleep, we might swap again!”

“You don’tknowthat’s true…” he mumbled.

So she did the only thing she could think of to wake him. She stuck her finger through the middle of his forehead.

The immediate effect was that overwhelming warmth, spreading through her body with a ripple—a tinglingshiverriding before it, like a flower on a thermal. Then the blurring of self, that connection to him. She felt his fatigue, his concern, his frustration. His emotions washed against hers, mixing like overlapping prayers—blurring together, but still distinct.

It wasn’tterrible. But it was unnerving, as it mashed them both together in a way that was utterly unnatural.

He sat bolt upright, pulling away from her. “Hey! What are you (lowly)doing?”

“Keeping you awake,” she said. “We must meet the spirits. You can’t afford to nap.”

He huffed, but stood and shook his arms, the moment of drowsiness apparently past. “Fine. Let’s get on with it.”

“We have to meditate,” she said, “until the ritual time.”

“Ritual time,” he said. “Ritual bathing, ritual clothing, ritual place. When do I get my ritual tote bag? My ritual underpants? Ritual fingernail clipper?”

“Levity,” she said, “isnotbecoming of a yoki-hijo. Your duty is to our people. To make light of your position is to make light of their lives.”

“It’s a shame then,” he said gravely, “that their lives are all so (lowly) ridiculous that mockery is inevitable.”

“Enough!” she shouted, pointing at him. “Youwilltake this seriously.”

“What happened to you?” he muttered, backing away before she could poke him again. “I liked the demure version of you better.”

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