It took more time than Ling Fan liked to make the arrangements. Negotiations, exact amounts, timetables, all eked out in painstaking detail. But Aunt Fei was relentless and, in the end, successful. Three months after Ling Fan set foot back in China, Baba was released from Peng Lu.

They waited for him at the prison entrance, and Ling Fan was secretly relieved not to be allowed in. Her memories of the decrepit hallways were still vivid enough to give her nightmares.

As she stood with Aunt Fei, she wondered what Baba would think of her weatherworn, sunburned face and rough hands. She now wore her hair in a plaited bun instead of the queue she’d grown used to, and she was dressed like Aunt Fei in a loose tunic and soft-fitting pants, but even in women’s clothing she knew she stood out. It was something about how she held herself, how she walked and talked. People stared when she passed them in the road.

The sun had just touched the tip of the mountain behind the estate when a man stepped hesitantly outside.

His hair had gone snowy white, and he seemed unable to stand erect without the use of a cheap bamboo cane. He blinked as though the sunlight hurt his eyes. Ling Fan was afraid even to breathe lest a careless sigh shatter the fragile scene.

“Ba . . .”

Baba lowered his arm, and his eyes focused on Ling Fan and Aunt Fei. His chalky-gray face melted into an expression of joy as he stumbled over to them. A fierce, cold little wind blew around them, tearing at their clothes and hair, but Ling Fan wrapped her arms around her father and aunt, holding them firmly against it.

“Ling.” Baba’s voice was thick. “You look . . .” He lifted a hand and ran it wonderingly over the hair growing patchily on her forehead, where she’d stopped shaving it. He took in her tanned and toughened skin, her muscular arms. “Strong.”

Ling Fan smiled as she dashed away the tears that ran down her chin.

“I have so much to tell you.”