The Witch in the Woods: The Transmigration of Hazel-Anne Davis-Chapter 388: Didn’t End With Bedtime

Longzi, meanwhile, had surrendered fully to fate. One sleeping grandchild drooped over each of his shoulders.

A third used his crossed ankles as a horse and trotted him in place by tugging on his sash. Longzi endured this indignity with heroic stillness and the occasional quiet bribe of dried apricot to redirect enthusiasm.

Yaozu reclaimed the wall as if nothing had happened; only the loosened set of his mouth betrayed him.

Xinying reclaimed a spot near the fire where warmth could lean its weight into her bones.

The youngest daughter arrived with a bowl—sweet beans atop rice—and did not leave until she watched her mother eat three bites.

Xinying obeyed without protest and received a satisfied nod in return that looked suspiciously like Deming’s.

"Stories!" one of the younger teens demanded, flinging himself to the ground with theater. "No politics."

"No politics," Yizhen agreed. "Only crimes."

"No," said Deming, Mingyu, and Longzi together.

"Fine," Yizhen sighed. "Small crimes."

"Small crimes," Deming conceded reluctantly, "with moral instruction."

Yizhen grinned. "Once there was a boy who cheated at dice—"

"And then," Deming interrupted, "his grandfather audited him."

The children groaned. "Grandpa Deming!"

"Grandpa Deming is correct," Mingyu said, failing and failing again to hide amusement.

"All right," Xinying cut in, merciful. "I’ll tell one."

She accepted the guqin when it arrived from nowhere—somebody had gone to fetch it; nobody admitted who—and rested it across her knees. "But the rule is you have to listen while I play."

Longzi’s eyes softened a degree. Yaozu’s attention narrowed like a flame drawn to air.

Yizhen lay back, hands behind his head, a grin already tugging.

Mingyu’s entire body turned toward the sound before he realized he’d surrendered the pretense of indifference.

Xinying tuned the strings by habit more than necessity. It had taken her a lot of years to learn how to play the traditional instrument. But when you had the rest of eternity, you picked up a few hobbies here and there. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Her fingers found the first run; the night shifted to listen. She didn’t play anything grand—no court piece, no show of mastery.

She played a song from the mountains, the kind that lives in the back of a throat and only needs three notes to make a whole room lean closer.

"Once," she said over the music, "there was a house so stubborn the storms went around it. The people inside were stubborn too. The wind came to test them every winter and they passed every time, not because they were strong, but because they were together."

"That’s politics," Yizhen whispered.

"That’s survival," Deming whispered back.

"The house grew," Xinying continued. "Not with bricks. With people. Some came through the door. Some snuck in windows. Some had always lived there and only remembered it later. It didn’t matter how they arrived. What mattered was—"

"—no one left hungry," said Mingyu, startling himself by speaking first.

"Exactly," she said, and let the melody do the rest.

Shadow shifted and set his head on her foot as if seconding the story. The children hushed in a way no decree had accomplished all evening.

For several breaths the courtyard held a kind of quiet that felt like a blessing—no less lively for being soft, no less real for being fragile.

She finished on a note that hung and then settled like a bird choosing a branch.

"Again," one of the toddlers demanded.

"Bed," Deming countered.

"Carry me," the toddler negotiated.

"Pick one grandfather," Deming said, already bracing his knees.

"Not fair," Yizhen complained, scooping the child before anyone else could. "I’m a king. Kings are not donkeys."

"You crowned yourself King of Dice," Longzi reminded.

"Which is a recognized title," Yizhen said, dignified as he accepted a second small body draped across his shoulder. "Two more. I will bear my burden like a legend."

Mingyu stood smoothly, the sleeping boy still in his arms. "Come," he said to the teen conspirators guarding the market stall. "Close shop. Guard the koi from your dreams."

"We’ll pay taxes," one teen offered solemnly.

"Absolutely not," Deming said, horrified. "This is a no-tax festival."

The teen blinked. "Did Grandpa really say no taxes?"

"Write it down," Yizhen stage-whispered. "It’s a miracle."

They scattered into the edges of night: Mingyu and Deming shepherding a trail of half-asleep grandchildren toward the inner corridors.

Yizhen playing pack mule with outrageous complaint.

Longzi moving like a very polite fortress, grandchildren slung across him like warm, snoring armor.

Shadow trotting after, tail high, to inspect each bed and snuffle each quilt before satisfaction would let him lie down.

The courtyard exhaled into a lesser quiet. Lanterns swayed; the fire sighed. Distantly, doors murmured shut; somewhere a cup clinked; Yizhen’s voice rose in tragedy followed by Longzi’s unsympathetic mm and Deming’s you volunteered.

Xinying stayed by the embers, knees tucked, palms open to heat. Yaozu slid down the wall to sit beside her—close, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder.

"You didn’t finish the song," he said.

"I didn’t want to," she answered. "I wanted to leave it open."

"For what?"

"For more."

He made a soft sound that both agreed and promised.

Mingyu returned first, unburdened.

He didn’t sit right away; he stood behind them, not looming, just... there—his favorite way to be present when he wasn’t required to be a crown.

After a moment he lowered himself to the flagstones, stretched his legs toward the dying fire, and produced from his sleeve the last of the candied ginger he pretended not to have. He placed it in Xinying’s palm without looking at her.

She broke it, put half back in his hand, and handed the other half to Yaozu. Mingyu didn’t object. That was as good as a grin.

Deming arrived next, rescued scroll in hand, hair slightly mussed from a toddler’s opinion of dignity.

He sat with such relief that Xinying patted his knee in wordless sympathy. Longzi came last, empty-shouldered and unruffled. He took his old place by the gate and leaned there, eyes half-lidded, listening without seeming to.

"Count," Mingyu said quietly.

"Twenty-two asleep," Deming murmured. "Three feigning sleep. Two missing."

"Missing?" Yaozu asked, already half-standing.

"Yizhen and your dignity," Deming said dryly, and Xinying choked on a laugh.

"It will find me," Yaozu said, settling again.

"Eventually," Longzi said.

"Tomorrow," Mingyu decided. "We’ll schedule its return."

They let quiet spread again—companionable, not solemn.

The fire sank.

Lantern light swung over stone.

The smell of peaches lingered with woodsmoke. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, a flute took up a simple line and then stopped, as if someone had thought better of being the last voice awake.

Xinying rested her head on Yaozu’s shoulder.

He turned just enough to fit his jaw atop her hair. Mingyu’s hand found her ankle, thumb drawing idle circles over bone.

Deming was copying a line by firelight he would rewrite in the morning, because he couldn’t help himself. Longzi’s shadow stretched long and careful and protective over them all.

"Do you feel different?" Yizhen called from the far corridor, voice bouncing back on a whispering echo. "From the wish, I mean?"

"Less patient," Longzi replied.

"More patient," Deming said.

"The same," Mingyu offered.

"Just longer," Yaozu said, the corner of his mouth tipping.

Xinying considered. The answer felt simple. "I feel like I can take my time," she said. "With everything. With all of you."

"Dangerous," Yizhen said faintly, as if remembering every time taking her time had ended with him in trouble and happy about it.

The lantern nearest them gave a tiny pop as a moth tested its luck and learned better. Shadow padded back into the courtyard with the self-satisfaction of a general who had inspected the ranks. He yawned, displayed far too many teeth in what was undoubtedly a smile, and collapsed at Xinying’s feet like a dedicated rug.

"Again next month," Mingyu said, not a question.

"Next week," Yizhen shouted, because of course he’d been listening.

"Tomorrow," one brave grandchild yelled sleepily from somewhere beyond the door, earning a chorus of shhhhs and a stifled giggle.

"Soon," Xinying promised, because promises were easy now and keeping them was easier.

They didn’t stand.

There was nowhere to go that was better than this: a courtyard warm with leftover noise, a fire folding in on itself, a sky full of swung stars and tied light, four men around her in their different ways—one a wall, one a watch, one a weight, one a wit—and a fifth already counting the doors shut with a wolf for company.

The empire was quiet.

The ministers had not been invited.

The night felt like a secret told to no one and understood by everyone who mattered.

Xinying looked at the lantern ropes and thought: forever might just be enough.

She didn’t say it. She didn’t need to.

Yaozu’s hand had already found her palm and laced their fingers; Mingyu’s thumb had already found the slow clock of her pulse; Deming had already revised whatever plan had kept him awake last year; Longzi had already chosen who would take first watch over nothing at all.

The fire settled. The lanterns breathed. The courtyard kept their warmth like a promise.

The story didn’t end with bedtime.

It rested there—mid-laughter, mid-stories, mid-love—with the family’s festival still gently going on around them and the next small thing already waiting to be done together.