Doodlings, she thinks of them. Her little worthless scribbles: tiny images of fruits, flowers, monkey faces and occasional dragon, topped with Qian Mas head. These are figures that almost of their own impetus bud and unfurl in the blank margins of Yuliangs copybook these days. To her eye, the small pictures are as inexcusably inexpert as was that first grief-stricken sketch of Jinling. More than once, appalled at how her pencil has mauled a plum, shes vowed to stop altogether. And yet the little pictures keep coming, in a process both addictive and mystifying. Its the same need that drove her to stay up through the early morning hours at the Hall, coaxing peonies and fresh-faced peaches onto cloth with her needle. But there, shes discovering, is something liberating about ink or lead. Unfettered by thread, she can bring the whims of her thoughtswhispering trees, wilting flowersto life quickly, if often ineptly. And even when the images are inept the solution is refreshingly simple. She simply rips the page out and starts over.</p>
<p>As more and more of her study time is devoted to art she starts to worry as she hands Zanhua her study sheets: it seems impossible to her that he wont reprimand her for putting so little effort into them. To her astonishmenet, though, he doesnt even seem to notice that the characters she once spent hours on are now dashed off in half that time. He continues to praise her brushwork and the delicacy of her execution. At least, until one afternoon when he is at home working in his office. </p>
<p>Yuliang is lying on his bed upstairs with her writing things. Lulled into a dreamy daze by the rain-patter on the glass, she is thinking about the old French painter from their outing; about the deft assurance with which those meaty hands captured a flowers frail beauty. The same feeling shed had thena thrill, blended with longingfills her, and almost without thinking about it she pages past the days vocabulary in her copybook. Tongue between her lips, she makes soft gray sweeps on the paper. She adds more detail a faint line there, a smudge here. A dark crease to show the dainty fold of a leaf. The flowers flawsits unevenness; the unnatural cast of attempted shadingneedle her. And yet she keeps on trying.</p>
<p>On her fourth try she takes a different approach. Instead of drawing line by line, she tries to tap into that flashquick association between image and meaning that is the key to her growing literacy. Orchid, she thinks. Orchid. And without letting her mind go any further, she puts her lead tip once more to the papers surface. When she is done she shuts her eyes, then opens them again. </p>
<p>To her thrilled surprise, what she has drawn is just that: an orchid. Its still a bit crooked, a little chunky in the stem and stamen. Shed do better if she had one right in front of her. And yet anyonea schoolboy, a child not yet capable of reading the word, even, looking at this picture, would know it for what it was. Flushed with victory, shes just turning a fresh page to try it again when Zanhua flings himself on the bed, almost on top of her. Ah-ha! Caught you! he cries nuzzling her neck. You didnt hear me come up? He pulls her, copybook and all, into a rough embrace. The old sons-of-turtles are crazy, he shouts. Theres no way in hell were going to be able to check all small craft in the Harbor before they reach the docks! </p>
<p>No way, certainly, she says, into the lime-sweet pomade of his hair, if you dont ever leave the house. </p>
<p>He pulls back slightly. Ah. You do want me out. </p>
<p>She laughs. Of course I dont. Snaking her arm out from under his weight, she tries discreetly to drop the book over the beds edge. But he catches her hand back. </p>
<p>Not so quickly, he says. Lets take a look at your work, little scholar. And, still pinning her beneath him, he parts the books pages. She feels her face flush as he looks at her, then back. Did you do this?</p>
<p>She nods. </p>
<p>Zanhua rolls off of her. Bending over the book, he begins paging through it intently. She watches him take it in: the scrawled-off characters, the little pictures that shed thought good enough to keep. The not-so-bad lotus, and the one that looks like a lion. And the one that looks somehow squashed. But its the good one he returns to, tracing the black lines with white fingers, frowning at it as though it were a puzzle. </p>
<p>I was having difficulty concentrating, Yuliang mumbles. The rain… </p>
<p>He doesnt answer. Oddly anxious, Yuliang chews a cuticle. When it stings, she looks down to see that shes bitten too hard again: blood wells. </p>
<p>This is how you spend your days now? he says. </p>
<p>I mostly do them after I study. </p>
<p>Have you had lessons? </p>
<p>She laughs. When would I have had lessons? Then, realizing he means at the Hall, she bites her lip. No. Never. II just like to try to draw things sometimes. Im no good at all.</p>
<p>He purses his lips. Actually, you are. Youre very good.