After a full luminous lunar cycle since Jingfei last heard from Mei-Ling, the first light of dawn brought with it a delicate letter. Wrapped in sumptuous silk and secured by pale blue twine, the missive exuded the gentle perfume of lotus blossoms tinged with a subtle note of remorse. With one arm cradling the restless baby and the other delicately holding a steaming cup of tea, Jingfei carefully unwrapped the letter—the motions precise, betraying four long, sleepless days.
Inside, Mei-Ling's words danced across the page in a slanted, almost whimsically chaotic script:
"Jingfei—
I haven't dropped off the face of the planet... not yet, anyway.
I've been sneaking into the palace gardens at night to see Aelric. It was secret and romantic and, honestly, kind of ridiculous... until Aurelia showed up.
She caught me. Dragged me down into the dungeons like some villainous relative from a tragic play.
BUT—Aelric found out. He rescued me. Carried me out and, literally, booted Aurelia from the palace.
I've been "recovering" in his room ever since.
What I haven't told him is—I healed days ago. I'm fine. Completely fine. But I'm pretending to be weak because... I don't want to leave yet.
He still can't remember everything. But I think, somewhere deep down, in that stone-chiseled chest of his—he does.
Send my love to everyone.
Especially to Little Grape.
I miss her. I miss you.
Love, Mei"
Jingfei read the letter three times—first, a chuckle escaped her lips; second, a wistful sigh filled the quiet room; and the third time, a tender blink accompanied by a carefully hidden tear. Just as she refolded the letter and returned it to its silken shroud, Little Grape unexpectedly flung her pacifier into the teacup with the force of a miniature trebuchet.
Gazing down, Jingfei counted precisely seven stains marring her once-pristine dress—a tally made while she rocked her daughter in a slow, almost desperate rhythm that might have been a lullaby or simply the sound of her will to live slowly ebbing away. One unmistakable blotch was rich with the residue of soup; another shimmered with the hue of peach purée, or possibly even Lorianthel's cherished hair oil—lost when the baby tugged at his ponytail with all the enthusiasm of ringing a temple bell. The remaining stains wove together into a mysterious tapestry of unknown origins.
"She hasn't stopped crying in three hours," Jingfei muttered, her voice heavy with exhaustion.
"Actually," Lorianthel replied from the shadowed corner—his elbow submerged in what looked like a cursed cloth diaper—"I reckon it's been only two and a half."
Jingfei turned slowly, weary eyes reflecting a mix of incredulity and fatigue. "And that helps how?"
Lorianthel wisely fell silent, his expression apologetic yet resigned.
Then came another piercing wail from Little Grape—a cry so fierce it seemed capable of shattering glass, summoning age-old spirits, and unraveling the sleep of entire kingdoms.
"She's possessed," Jingfei declared, bouncing the infant a bit more firmly as if by force of will trying to ward off the curse. "This is possession. Or a curse. Or—"
"She is colicky," Lorianthel interjected in a tone meant to be sage, while he simultaneously attempted, rather comically, to levitate the diaper pail lid with his elbow. "It's a common mortal condition."
"You're three hundred years old, and that's all the wisdom you can offer?" Jingfei quipped dryly.
"Actually, it's two hundred," Lorianthel corrected matter-of-factly before erupting in a startled yelp as the soggy diaper crumpled in his grasp with a wet, disconcerting noise. "Goddess' breath—was that mess from today or a remnant of yesterday?"
Their eyes locked for a heartbeat; Jingfei gagged in dismay while Lorianthel promptly dropped the rebellious diaper as if it had bitten him.
Time itself began to blur—sleepless days, enchanted tea bottles hurling themselves like stray missiles, and a baby cradle that, at random moments, hummed haunting, ancient forest lullabies. Jingfei's memory of warm, comforting food grew faint, and Lorianthel found his speech muddled, with consonants tangling after each 2 a.m. hour.
Then, as if destiny herself had knocked, salvation came—literally. A sharp rap echoed at the door, and four figures burst in, resembling a disorganized rescue squad.
"Back away from the child!" bellowed Fror, already armored in a padded tunic and wielding a saucepan as his makeshift shield.
"Please, do not actually retreat from the infant," Yueli interjected quickly, her voice laced with urgency. "We—we mean, we're here to help."
"We are now officially certified uncles and aunties!" declared Gror with exuberant pride. "I've held a goat before—basically the same thing."
Xueyi, with a hopeful smile, held aloft a small bag of dried fruit. "She can chew, right?"
"She doesn't have teeth," Jingfei stated flatly.
"She has some teeth," Lorianthel added cautiously.
"Besides, she once gnawed through my glove," Gror offered with a touch of bemusement.
"Point is," Yueli said firmly, "you two need rest. You look like haunted scarecrows."
"I bathed," Jingfei muttered indignantly.
"Last week," came the droll reply.
"Don't you want a nap?" Xueyi asked, already rolling up her sleeves. "We'll take the baby—just a couple of hours. You can bathe, eat, sleep, and simply breathe..."
Jingfei and Lorianthel exchanged a long, wary glance. In that silent moment, a twitch in Lorianthel's left eye, a stubborn stain on his collar, and the slightly frayed edge of Jingfei's meticulously styled bun spoke volumes of their shared chaos.
"Forty-five minutes," Jingfei declared, her voice lined with determination, "and if anything explodes, just scream."
"And if the baby explodes?" Fror chimed in, half-joking.
"Then, by all means, scream," Lorianthel nodded solemnly.
With the stealth of fugitives, they slipped out, creeping down the dim hallway before collapsing in a nearby room, their shaky sighs and wide, exhausted eyes betraying years of accumulated fatigue. Sleep, as alluring as a siren's call, swept over them.
"I don't trust them," Jingfei murmured, pulling a soft blanket over herself.
"I don't either," Lorianthel murmured, his hand lazily cupping her breast.
Jingfei was too tired to swat him away and both asleep within seconds.
Back in the nursery, a brief serenity reigned—for about six fleeting minutes. Fror, frozen like a stone statue, whispered, "She's just staring at me."
"She's a baby," Yueli reassured as she gently rocked the crib with her foot. "That's simply what babies do."
"Yet I feel as if she's judging me," Fror added in a mix of humour and disbelief.
"I think she's filling her diaper," Gror observed dryly. "I can even smell the telltale scent of poop."
Xueyi, assuming command with quiet confidence, cradled Little Grape until the baby suddenly unleashed a wail so thunderous that it sent her hairpins clattering.
"Oh no. No, no, no—Yueli, grab something! A cloth! A spell! A cookie!" she cried in frantic desperation.
"DON'T EVEN THINK OF GIVING HER A COOKIE!" came the frantic counter.
In a flurry of panic, Fror thrust a spoon into her hand as if it were a talisman against the growing chaos. The crying escalated into legendary proportions—Gror softly intoned a resonant dwarven lullaby while Fror presented a glimmering rock; Yueli rocked her gently, and Xueyi spun in dizzying circles. Yet nothing soothed Little Grape's relentless clamour, a banshee's scream in the heart of a raging blizzard. Finally, Gror, with a note of resigned despair, murmured, "Abort mission."
Forty minutes later, Jingfei jolted awake. "I hear nothing," she remarked cautiously.
"That silence is scarier than any cry," Lorianthel commented with grim amusement.
They raced back into the nursery, half-expecting chaos anew, only to find the four would-be rescuers strewn in a tangled heap on the floor, twitching as if under a mischievous spell. At the center of the disarray, Little Grape sat contentedly amid a jumble of mismatched blankets, suckling her tiny fist with an air of imperious victory.
"She won," Fror whispered in a defeated tone. "She's broken us."
"She bit me. Twice," Xueyi added with rueful amusement.
"I still smell of mystery fruit," Yueli muttered, her face buried in a cushion.
"She fell asleep for five minutes," Gror said, looking spiritually drained. "I cried even harder than she did."
"She even levitated for a second," Fror added weakly, his voice tinged with astonishment.
Jingfei gathered her daughter into a warm, tender embrace, rocking her ever so gently. "She's not so bad when she's full," she said softly.
"Or asleep," Lorianthel added with a wry smile.
"Or sedated," Gror whispered conspiratorially, drawing knowing glares from the gathered group.
And somehow, despite the absurdity and exhaustion, it felt true.
Later that night, once a fragile peace had settled over the household, Jingfei sat cross-legged on the floor. One leg cradled the slumbering Little Grape while the other balanced a half-eaten biscuit. With a well-worn sheet—already marred by two bouts of spit-up—as her canvas, she scribbled a reply to Mei-Ling:
Dear Mei,
First of all—you healed days ago, yet you still play the delicate, fragile flower card? I loathe you for it, and I love you all the same. Also, how dare you slip away for those secret moonlit garden dates and not invite me along? Such delicious drama deserves the finest audience. I'm grateful that Aelric saved you—though less so that you were captured by that perfumed snake. Still, I must admit, getting her thrown out of the palace? Absolutely iconic.
As for pretending to be injured... I understand your desire to stay close to that stony guardian. Just promise me, don't get hurt again—or I'll show up with Little Grape strapped to my chest and a frying pan at the ready.
Speaking of which, Fror and Gror tried to 'uncle' today; Yueli nearly cried, and Xueyi hasn't blinked in hours. Little Grape rules this house with a sticky iron fist. But we, and Lori, are managing—tired, frayed, and slightly aflame, yet somehow okay.
Come back soon. Both she and I miss you dearly.
—Jing
Folding the letter with one careful hand, Jingfei tied it to a drowsy raven and watched as it soared into the inky night. Glancing around at her sticky, snoring, and wonderfully eccentric family, she whispered softly, "Better hurry, Mei. She's growing fast."