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“Beatease,myfriend,”themonkwiththedarkerhairsaid.“Wearesimplymonkstravelingtheworld,doinggooddeedstoensurehappinessandkeepchaosatbay.”Theothermonknoddedandflashedherasmile.Mulan’sfaceremainedstony.Thedark-hairedmanwenton,pointingatthesmilingmonk.“ThisisBrotherRamtish.IamBrotherSkatch.Webringyoufoodandfellowship.”

Food?

JusttheworditselfmadeMulan’smouthwater.Andwhenthetwomonksbroughtthefoodout,anyremainingfearvanished.Droppingherweapon,shegrabbedaplateandsomericeandsatdown.Despitetheoverwhelmingurgetoshovelallofitinhermouthatonce,sheheardhermother’svoiceinherhead,tellinghertoeatslowly,withgrace.

ButMotherwasneveronthevergeofstarving

,Mulanthought,thoughshedidasshehadbeentaught.

Watchingher,Ramtishchuckled.Turning,helookedatSkatch.“Ithinkhe’sthemostpolitestarvingpersonI’veeverseen.”

Skatchnodded.“Yes,heisagentlemanofremarkablygoodmanners.”Hereachedtowardhisbag.“BrotherRamtish,Isaywecelebratethisrepastwithatasteofwine.”