It was an ambush in broad daylight. Prince Jin Kwan had just emerged from the temple where he had sought spiritual succor from the Buddha, sitting barefoot and praying, as monks chanted and read religious texts. I, Tang Wu Dip, and the other three members of the prince’s royal guard stood by the open entrance of the temple, scanning the horizon for signs of our deadly pursuers, killers loyal to Prince Cao, Jin Kwan’s uncle, thirsty for the throne. The prince slapped us on our backs as he quickly walked through the portico out into the courtyard of the temple.

Suddenly the clear blue sky was rent with arrows in a parabola of sudden terror. Archers hidden by the rows of tall fir trees some 200-chi distant missed the prince but mortally wounded two of our number and caught another, Gam Wing, in his left bicep. Grunting with pain, he pulled the arrow out as blood pulsed down his arm. We ran back into the temple and found the rear exit in seconds. The three of us burst into the sunlight again and were greeted by the sight of half a dozen or more swordsmen, wearing Prince Cao’s colors.

We drew our swords and fought our way through the throng. Each swing of a blade missing its mark by mere cun, yet we did not emerge unscathed. I shielded the prince as well as I could but somehow my helmet was knocked off my head, loosing my hair, blood and sweat spraying the air around us. His left arm uselessly hanging at his side, Gam Wing suffered the worst of it. He shouted to us, “Take the monks’ horse! Run for it. Now!”

“There is only one, Brother Wing. What about you?”

“Go, take his highness. Don’t argue. Do it!”

The prince and I sprinted for the horse. I turned my head to glimpse Brother Wing dispatched by the sickening thud of a sword bisecting his helmet. For a split second I closed my eyes. But now only a short distance from the horse, I vaulted onto its back, gripped the reins, and extended my right hand to the prince, pulling him up to sit behind me. I kicked my boots into the horse’s flanks to impel it into a gallop that accelerated us away from the remaining swordsmen. Without a saddle, the ride was less than comfortable or secure. The prince wrapped his arms around my chest to keep from falling off the horse’s back. As he did so, he must have felt my small breasts underneath my tunic. I heard him expel his breath. We rode on through the forest in silence, but I knew my life would soon be irrevocably transformed.

Philip Chang woke with a start as his alarm clock sounded its electronic reveille at precisely 7AM. He groggily arose from bed, puttered into the bathroom, and performed his morning ablutions. Today would be a long day of writing, working on the story he had promised to conjure out of thin air for an old college roommate. Making toast and a cup of coffee for a quick breakfast, Philip tried to recall as many details of their dream as possible in the gossamer fog of morning. He typed quickly into his tablet as he drank, pausing to butter the slices of whole wheat toast.

Satisfied he had captured all the important plot points and details, Philip wandered into the backyard garden of his brother’s Echo Park house, west on Sunset Boulevard, a stone’s throw from Dodger Stadium. He was housesitting as older brother Christopher and his wife Annie were in New York City while his sister-in-law was starring on Broadway in a jukebox musical based on Taylor Swift’s most savage tell-off songs, Swift Revenge.

Philip smiled when he saw the cloud of nectar-seeking monarch butterflies hovering around the trellises of Mexican flame vines pitched along the borders of the garden. These colorful daily visitors had inspired the name of his story’s protagonist, Wu Dip, the Cantonese words for butterfly. He raised his cup to toast them just as he noticed, between the trellises and beyond the white picket fence, the presence of his neighbor, Mr. Posada. He was watering his plants with a garden hose, wearing his usual multi-colored golf shorts, lime green polo shirt, and Angels baseball cap.

“Good morning, Miss Chang. Looks like it’s going to be a really nice day. Clear skies, minimal smog, bit of a cool breeze…”

In the two months that Philip had been house-sitting, Mr. Posada and his wife Elena persisted in thinking he was female. Of course, Philip had never bothered to correct them. It seemed a trivial matter. He would be gone in another two months when Chris and Annie returned from New York. Philip waved and smiled. Mr. Posada thought Philip had a pretty smile. But why did she dress so androgynously? Elena conjectured Philip was a lesbian. Her husband was dubious.

Paul Flaherty, Philip’s roommate at Stanford a distant four years ago now, had texted him out of the blue two weeks ago. Surprised to hear from him, Philip could recall seeing Paul once in the last two years, at Christopher’s wedding to Paul’s cousin Annie in Santa Monica. After the rehearsal dinner, over a bottle of Bailey’s, they had rehashed some of the highlights of their time as suite mates in school (they shared a suite with two other students). Philip remarked wryly that Paul was the one with all the girls at his beck and call while he hunkered down in his room studying or listening to Bartok concertos. A propos of that, Phil asked Paul where his plus-one was? Was she coming tomorrow for the ceremony and reception? Paul laconically replied he was too busy at grad school to date these days. He turned the question around to Phil.

“No date. I’m not seeing anyone, and I didn’t think bringing a relative stranger to a wedding was a good thing to do. Paul, I should tell you something that I’ve only told the most important people in my life, family, close friends…even though I haven’t seen nor heard from you since we graduated—”

“Well, I’ve been really busy. Cal Arts is a really intense program to go through…”

“I’m not criticizing you, Paul. Just pointing out that you wouldn’t know what’s been going on in my life. Really heavy, serious things.” Philip paused, took a breath. “I’ve begun transitioning. I’m on a hormone regimen. If everything goes well and I get my GCS down the road maybe in 2 or 3 years, I will be externally what I’ve always been internally, a woman.”

Paul was silent, his face betraying only mild surprise. A slight smile came to his lips. “Wow. This is a bit of a shock. You…I mean…I don’t know. You always seemed too pretty to be a boy but—”

“You thought I was pretty?”

“For a boy. For a boy. I don’t recall ever thinking you acted girly, and we spent a lot of time together—”

“It took a lot of effort to tamp it down. I’d been trying to deny it for my whole life. But I can’t anymore. I’m a woman. Just not a born one. Soon, I’ll be able to live my truth. I’d rather die if I can’t.”

“I didn’t know, Phil. I didn’t know.”

“We’re still friends, aren’t we? This doesn’t change the way you see me, does it? I’ll still be Phil. Just with an exterior that matches my interior.”

“Of course. We roomed together for years. I still consider you my closest friend. You know, I felt really guilty that we hadn’t seen much of each other the last two years—”

“Much? You haven’t even sent me a Valentine’s Day card.”

“Huh? What?”

“It’s a joke. But, you know, you disappearing from my life seemingly without a trace was one of the things that made me think very seriously about my gender issues. I wondered if I were a woman all along, you’d have stayed in touch after graduation. Maybe more than that. Did you think about me, maybe in a quiet moment, these last two years?”

Paul stood up from the table and swilled the last of his Bailey’s. “Phil, I’m bushed. I gotta go through my texts and emails before I get my recommended eight hours of sleep. I’m heading up to my room. See you at breakfast tomorrow.”

After the wedding, Philip didn’t hear from Paul for another two years. Then, the text, followed up by a voice call, and finally dinner at Yangban Society, a new Korean fusion hybrid deli/supermarket in The Arts District of Downtown L.A. Philip knew the area fairly well as his brother Christopher’s old loft studio had been located a few blocks east of Yangban’s Santa Fe Avenue address. Very boho. Phil guessed it was an appropriate milieu for the recent Cal Arts graduate.

As they navigated their way to a booth in the back, Paul noticed the significant changes in Phil’s appearance. Although Phil was wearing his usual baggy sweater and pants outfit, Paul definitely saw a woman in the smile, the sway of the hips, and the confident gaze.

“Sorry I’m late. My neighbor tried to introduce me to her nephew as I was climbing into my car. She thinks we’re a perfect match.”

“Well, do you find him…attractive?”

“That’s an interesting question but, frankly, I haven’t got time for dating or romance. All that nonsense. I’ve got another two months in my brother’s house and if I don’t find a way to make some money, I’ll be homeless.”

“It’s a good thing then that I’ve got a proposition for you. A writing assignment. You’re in the Writers Guild, no?”

“In four years since I graduated, I’ve had two credits. One was for an episode of that anime rip-off on Netflix, Martian Schoolgirl Divas, and the other was for a re-write on that slasher film that bombed last winter, Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Weekend. That got me a used Saab 900 and a Writers Guild card. I’ve got $150 in my checking account. So, yeah, I’m all ears. Go on.”

“As you might know, I studied animation at Cal Arts. About a year ago, a short that I made won first prize at a couple of film festivals. Well, long story short, I’ve got a deal with Paramount to produce 2 feature length movies.”

“Congratulations! You didn’t bother to let me know?” Paul gave Philip a quizzical look. “Oh, right, you’re really busy. Go on.”

“Anyway, the studio’s looking to do a co-production with a Chinese studio based out of Hengdian. Yeah, I know. Where’s that? Listen, they’re interested in an animated movie about a female character like Mulan, set in Imperial China, like the Song Dynasty or Ming Dynasty. One of those dynasties. And immediately I thought of you—”

“Why? Because I’m Chinese?”

“Well, that’s part of it. I wanted to work with a writer, you know, I could work with. It’s my first project and I don’t need to deal with ego-tripping hacks—”

“But I can’t even speak Chinese. My father was born in Minneapolis and my mother is Scots Irish from Pacoima. I know as much Mandarin as I do Gaelic, for chrissake. How am I going to write a Chinese movie?”

“Just write the script. They’ll translate it into Mandarin for Chinese audiences but worldwide it’ll mostly be in English. We just have to deliver the visuals. I’m not sure they’ll even want me to direct the actors.”

“Let me think about it over dinner. I’m hungry. I haven’t had a real meal like this in a while. My brother and his wife left the fridge bare before they left. Eating ramen every day after you’ve left school is downright depressing.”

“I’m having the galbi-style ribs and a gochujang rice bowl. The baked sea bream coated in chili daikon paste and toasted breadcrumbs is really good also. I’ve had that several times.”

Philip agreed to take on Paul’s assignment. He had a week to come up with the basic storyline. The Chinese producer planned to meet with Paul and Philip at The Beverly Hilton to listen to their story pitch. Phil thought this was an insanely short time to come up with a viable treatment for a multi-million-dollar film and told Paul that. But Paul just shrugged his shoulders, smiled, and said, “I have the utmost confidence in your writing talent.”

Phil spent most of the following week in the UCLA library where his high school friend, Elspeth Wilson, was a librarian. Eight hours a day, he read histories of Imperial China and perused illustrations of daily life, royal costumes, and period architecture. In the evenings until the wee hours of early morning, he would sketch out ideas, character names, plotlines, and overarching themes. Paul called almost every night to check up on Philip’s progress. Phil was beginning to wonder if Paul wasn’t telling the truth about being too busy to have a social life. And then the day came when they tooled up the driveway of the Beverly Hilton in Paul’s Honda Civic, carrying briefcases that held random sheets of paper just to seem professional to the Chinese producer, Mr. Yin.

Mr. Yin was seated on the burgundy leather couch in his hotel suite. His assistant ushered Phil and Paul into the room and Yin stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray he held in his left hand, motioning to them to be seated in the loveseat facing him. Philip was wearing a black suit that was cut rather snugly to his increasingly womanly figure. Two years of estrogen therapy had done its magic. Paul had opted for the rumpled young artist in a sports jacket look. When Mr. Yin discovered that Philip did not speak Chinese, he was disappointed. However, he continued in his slightly accented English, asking them to present their treatment. The loveseat forced Paul and Phil to synchronize their breathing, it was so close. Mr. Yin seemed amused. Philip cleared his throat and began.

“Once upon a time in the early years of the Northern Song Dynasty at the end of the 10th century, there lived a young woman named Wu Dip, the youngest of seven daughters of a retired officer in the Imperial Army, now a sorghum farmer in Northern China. Eager to honor the military legacy of her father and grandfather, she runs away to the capitol, Kaifeng, to join the Royal Guard, disguised as a man. Flash forward two years. Wu Dip is part of a 4-man retinue escorting Prince Jin Kwan, the emperor’s favorite son, to sanctuary in Chuzhou, five days ride to the East from the capitol, at the garrison of his uncle, Lord Feng. Prince Cao, whose bloodthirst for the throne of his brother, the emperor, has fomented a string of political assassinations in the span of months, dispatches a squad of killers to eliminate Prince Jin before he can reach safety. After stopping at a temple to pray for the Buddha’s protection, the prince and his retinue are ambushed. In the ensuing melee, Wu Dip and the prince barely escape, riding away bareback on a single horse. Wrapping his arms around Wu Dip to keep from falling off, the prince discovers Wu Dip’s secret…”

Mr. Yin was pleased by Philip’s presentation, although he did note a number of historical inaccuracies in his fable. Nevertheless, he was happy to give Paul and Philip the green light to complete a first draft. He set a deadline of six weeks, at which time he planned to return to Los Angeles for further pre-production discussions with Paramount. Mr. Yin asked Philip to wait in the hotel lobby while he spoke privately to Paul. It would just take a few minutes.

“Old girlfriend?”

“What? Oh, Philip? No, we were college roommates—”

“Hmmm. American higher education sounds a lot more pleasant than my years at Tsinghua University in Beijing. So, I didn’t know Philip could also be a girl’s name in your country. Is it short for Philippa?”

“No, it’s just Philip.”

“See you in six weeks, Paul. I look forward to the completed script. I think we have an international blockbuster on our hands, potentially. I’m excited.”

We were encamped on the edge of a shallow brook some 50 li east of Kaifeng. There was an hour of daylight remaining and since I surmised our pursuers were at least two hours behind us, they would have to camp for the night as well. If we left at dawn tomorrow, we could lengthen our lead on them. It was another good 4 days ride to the garrison in Chuzhou. They needed to acquire another horse or better yet two somewhere along the way. I had managed to fashion a makeshift spear from a small tree branch, sharpening it clumsily with my sword, and secured a dinner of wild pheasant, which we roasted over an open fire.

“You always seemed too pretty for a man. Even on a weeks-long campaign you never grew a beard. I supposed you were just an odd duck.”

“I will resign my commission as soon as we reach Chuzhou. I can go back to my father’s sorghum farm. If you do not execute me—”

“Don’t be overly dramatic. I’ll keep your secret. You’ve been an exemplary soldier. I do have one…uh…request, though.”

“What is it?”

“I would like to see you in women’s clothes. With floral pins in your hair, rouge on your cheeks, and Yuanshan eyebrows, you would cut quite a figure, Wu Dip.”

“I don’t imagine any of that would help me in a swordfight.”

“I was not talking about fighting—”

A single arrow ripped through the space between us. Before the hidden archer could re-load, I grabbed the prince and we ran to our horse, mounting quickly as another arrow missed our heads by the length of a man’s forearm.

“We need to get out of range. Across the brook, onto the other side!” More arrows followed us as the horse churned water with its thunderous gallop. Buddha must have answered the prince’s prayers as, remarkably, none of the arrows found their mark. There would be no sleep tonight. The presence of even one archer meant that our pursuers were very close by. We needed to find a hideaway and soon.

Over the next three weeks, Paul would meet with Philip, usually at Philip’s Echo Park house, every two or three days to read the latest completed pages of the script. Paul would give Philip notes on the spot, which he found helpful in a way no other editor or writing teacher had ever been. Often, Philip would find himself staring at Paul across the coffee table as he read from the iPad. His mind would wander, images of their time together at Stanford flitting across the screen of his thoughts. Had Paul really said he was too pretty to be a boy? Did he ever try to flirt with Paul? Over their breakfast table, across from each other, like they are now? But Paul liked girls. That much was certain. He would’ve been repulsed if he had revealed his holy of holies truth to him. Now that he knew, Paul seemed to act uber professionally. Philip was his employee, his colleague, an old friend at best. Philip felt sad about that. But what was there to do about it?

One day, after their latest session of editing and re-writing the script, Paul suggested they have dinner at Versailles, a hipster hangout that served Cuban cuisine, located on Venice Boulevard, halfway between Echo Park and the Santa Monica Pier.

“What’s the occasion?” Phil asked.

“Nothing, just hungry. And maybe just to unwind. I’ve got a lot of adrenaline going. The script is coming along really well. I’m starting to picture what it all looks like. After we eat, we can go back to my place, and I can show you some sketches I’ve been working on.”

“Your etchings, huh?”

“Very funny. Come on. It’s the kind of place you don’t need a reservation, but you never know. It’s really popular with hipsters. And then there’s the Cuban community as well.”

They both ordered the house special: the Garlic Chicken, a juicy roasted half chicken marinated in garlic sauce garnished with sliced onions. For appetizers, they shared the Sampler Plate: ham croquettes, stuffed and fried yucca, and corn tamales. They washed it all down with glasses of Cristal beer, the pride of Havana. The place was packed. The decibel level was so high, they ate mostly in silence. Occasionally, their gazes locked for a second, then quickly moved away.

“Miss Chang! We were just leaving and we saw you and the young gentleman having dinner here too.” Philip turned to face a smiling Elena Posada standing with her husband and nephew Rolando at her side. He nodded and returned her smile.

“Is this your boyfriend? I’ve seen him come by your house many times.”

“Oh, Mrs. Posada, you don’t—”

“Hi, I’m Paul Flaherty. And yes, I am her boyfriend.” Paul took Phil’s hand and squeezed it emphatically. “I hope to soon be her fiancé. If she’ll say yes.” He looked at Philip with starstruck eyes. The Posadas noticed.

“Well, congratulations, Miss Chang. You make a very nice couple indeed. Don’t they, dear?”

“Oh, yes, they certainly do,” Mr. Posada quickly replied. Rolando held his hand out to Paul.
“May I be among the first to congratulate you? And not a minute too soon. Miss Chang is quite a catch. I regret not meeting her sooner.” Paul shook his hand. They said their goodbyes and left the restaurant. Philip took her hand away from Paul, who was still squeezing it.

“Why did you do that? I was just going to explain—”

“I have a feeling they wouldn’t have believed you anyway. This way they’ll leave you in peace so you can concentrate on finishing the script. I’m nothing if not a man with a one-track mind, you see.”

“Now they’ll invite themselves to our wedding.”

“We’re getting married? I haven’t asked yet—”

“Oh, you! Let’s get the check and get out of here.” He reached into his pants pocket to pull out his wallet.

“It’s on me. Put that away.”

“I’ll pay for myself. Is this a date?”

“Look, consider it an additional advance on your salary. Or I’ll just expense it. We discussed the script, didn’t we?”

“For like a minute? Between appetizers? Okay. The next one’s on me. There’s a great sushi place on Sunset that just opened.”

“Our next date?”

“Stop it! Just get the check already.”

Paul rented a craftsman style house in Los Feliz. Built in the first decade of the 20th century, it displayed the signatures of a classic craftsman home: low-pitched gable roof, overhanging eaves with exposed rafters and beams, heavy, tapered columns, patterned window panes and a covered front porch. It was sparsely furnished.

“I moved in about six months ago. I guess I should think about adding some furniture, eh? I kinda lucked into a super cheap sublet. Some actor I’ve never heard of couldn’t get someone to house sit.”

“I heard you could make good money housesitting celebrity homes. Even more than being a dogwalker in New York City.”

“You brother and my cousin not paying you?”

“Hell, no. I told you, they emptied out the fridge before they left. Like the two of them aren’t swimming in dough. One’s a sculptor who just got paid millions for those stupid pyramids in front of the Netflix building at Sunset and Van Ness and the other’s an actor on Broadway.”

Paul showed Philip the sketches he’d been working on. Yes, he still used graphite pencils and a sketchpad. All digital artwork and animation begin with those two things. Philip was duly impressed by the depictions of 10th century China, soldiers in their leather and metal armor, noble persons in royal costumes, Buddhist monks, Northern China landscapes, and, finally, Wu Dip herself, both in military garb and dressed as a lady of high social stature. It was the portraits of Wu Dip that troubled Paul.

“I’m not happy with these sketches of Wu Dip. Somehow I’m not capturing my mental image of her.”

“There are loads of illustrations you can look at from that period. I went through a whole bunch at the UCLA library. Of course, a lot of it’s kind of stylized and not particularly realistic.”

“There are apps that can take paintings and drawings and turn them into realistic looking photo images, They can even inject movement into them. Maybe I can try using one of those apps. Still, I have to confess. I’m beginning to fall in love with Wu Dip. If only I could capture that mental image I have of her. I’ve tried. And I keep falling short…”

“Maybe you’ll dream of her. I do.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s never happened before with anything I’ve written but most nights I have these vivid dreams of Wu Dip and the story we’re working on. It’s like a live action movie version playing in my head.”

“You can’t just order up a dream, Phil. It happens or it doesn’t. I need to get this right. Wu Dip is literally the face of this movie.”

We arrived dirty and bedraggled from two days hard ride at the estate of Lady Su in Songzhou. Lady Su was the prince’s maternal aunt, the widow of a legendary naval commander. She welcomed us with hugs and tears. Seeing our condition, she bade us sit down to eat a veritable feast, served to us by her phalanx of servants. As we ate, she sipped pungent dark tea and asked us what twist of fate had brought us to this juncture. She was mildly surprised that Prince Cao had embarked on a reign of terror to eliminate possible successors to the throne. She had always suspected that Prince Cao had something to do with her husband’s death.

“Why are you dressed like a soldier, my dear?”

“Because she is, my lady. This is Wu Dip, my closest bodyguard. She’s saved my life innumerable times now.”

“A woman warrior? Well, now, that is a novelty. My late husband told me that there were women in the military during the Han Dynasty but that was centuries ago. You poor dear. Were you forced into this?”

“No, it is the legacy of my father and his father before him. We have served the emperor loyally and courageously. I am just continuing the family tradition.”

“Surely, you’re pretty enough to be the wife of a great and noble man. Perhaps even a prince…like Jin Kwan.”

“That is not why I serve the crown.”

“Jin Kwan, your charms are apparently insufficient to sway the heart of this wonderful girl who has, you say, saved your life innumerable times.”

“We could continue this banter interminably, my lady, but time is of the essence. Our pursuers are at most a day behind us. I have a scheme in mind that could see us safely to the garrison in Chuzhou. But we need your help with a couple of things. Firstly, let us borrow your carriage and two of your fittest horses. We can appear as ordinary travelers to any inquisitive eyes. Secondly, I want you to transform Wu Dip into a lady of high social standing. Clothes, hair, jewelry, what have you. Can you do that for us?”

“Of course, Jin Kwan. Come my dear. First, we must have you bathed and perfumed. I believe we might have the perfect dress for you…”

Evening drew near as Lady Su led me to the courtyard to present my transformed self to the prince. He was dressed as a wealthy merchant, someone not conspicuous in a horse-drawn carriage and not suspected of being a royal personage. His back was to us as he fed apples to the two horses tethered to the carriage.

“Jin Kwan, meet the Lady Wu Dip.” The prince turned around and his mouth fell agape.

“Hello, your highness. I feel a bit uncomfortable looking like this.”

“I’m very comfortable seeing you looking like that. Come my lady, your carriage awaits.” Instead of taking his hand, I tried to climb up into the carriage by myself, but the narrowness of my skirt impeded my efforts. He laughed and extended his hand again. This time I took it.
“God speed, my dear nephew. May the Buddha protect you and your beautiful bodyguard on your journey to Chuzhou. Are you sure it is wise to travel at night?”

“I trust in the Buddha, my lady. He will keep us safe. As for traveling at night, we have no choice. Our pursuers are only hours away. They will have us for breakfast if we wait until daybreak. Farewell!” He shook the reins to move the horses into a canter as we left the courtyard. I waved to Lady Su, who waved back, a wry smile on her face.

“I’ve got my sword strapped on and a long staff hidden under that blanket. In that dress, you’re unarmed. You must feel defenseless.”

“Dressed as a woman, I have the element of surprise. And I also have this dagger hidden up my sleeve.” The prince laughed uproariously as the lanterns on either side of our carriage illuminated the road before us.

With the deadline to submit the completed first draft of the script to Mr. Yin coming up within a week, Philip received some unsettling news. His sister-in-law’s Broadway show, Swift Revenge, had closed, not due to poor ticket sales but a fire in the theater. The police believe it may have been set by one of Ms. Swift’s former boyfriends or someone hired by one. Fortunately, there was no one in the theater when the fire occurred. Regardless, the show was suspended until a vacancy can be found at another Broadway venue. Something that could take months. While this was bad news in itself, the unsettling part was that Christopher and Annie were on their way back from New York. And take back their house.

When his brother and sister-in-law walked through the front door, Philip was prepared to leave, his worldly possessions stuffed into two backpacks and a duffle bag.

“Hey, Phil, what’s with the bags?”

“I’m going to crash at Paul’s house until I can find a new place—”

“You don’t have to leave, sweetie,” Annie cooed. Philip used to think it was grand that Annie always regarded him as a girl, but the cloying tone in her voice when she spoke to him annoyed her. He also thought it was a bit of an act that she put on to tease Christopher for having a trans little brother. “Chris and I would love you to stay as long as you want. You’re my favorite sister-in-law.” She giggled. Chris rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, bro, stay. Please. Annie made reservations at Nobu for 7PM. If we leave in half an hour, we can just about get in the door on time.”

“Can I go dressed like this? I’ll need a sports jacket, right?”

“Oh, sweetie, I’ve got just the perfect outfit for you to wear. Something I picked up in New York. We’re almost the same size. Come…”

“Whadda ya mean, outfit? And we’re the same size?” She took his hand, pulled gently, and he reluctantly followed her into Chris and Annie’s bedroom.

The first thing Annie did was set about brushing and styling Philip’s shoulder length hair to add some flattering volume to it. Then she sprayed it all into place. The head that Philip saw in the vanity mirror was that of a cute young woman. Reflexively, he raised his hand to feel his hair, but Annie slapped it away. “Don’t touch. Let it set!”

Then she told him to strip off everything, including his underwear. “Don’t be bashful. Believe me I grew up with three younger brothers. I’ve seen it all. Here, this bra and panty set is brand new. Hmm. I guessed right. You’re a 32A. Those hormones are doing their job, alright.”

Annie had Philip step into bell-bottom jeans and slip on a long-sleeve lace peplum blouse, which she zipped up in back. “You’re smiling. That’s a good sign. Here, sit down again and I’ll do your face.” Foundation, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, and, finally, a little lip gloss. Philip kissed the air in front of the mirror. He giggled and exclaimed, “It tastes like cherries!”

“Well, do you like what you see?”

“Yes, Annie, I can’t believe that’s my face.”

“The makeup only enhanced what you have naturally. You’re a pretty girl. Paul was always saying that. Even when you were a boy.”

“Really? I wish he would say that to me now. And I see him almost every day. I don’t think he’ll ever accept me as a woman. And, truthfully, I’m not…yet.”

“Paul’s not good at expressing his feelings. He’s a man. They’re problematic. Believe me, he’s got feelings for you. Now shoes! Let’s see what might fit you.”

The garrison was in sight, not more than 1 li away on the horizon, as Prince Jin Kwan drove the carriage at a deliberate pace. No need to rush. Our harrowing journey was almost complete. Tiny figures dotted the ramparts, watching, waiting. For us. We were days late. The prince turned to me and smiled. Sighing in relief, he said, “We’re home safe, Wu Dip. We made it.”

“Can they see us from the ramparts? Or do we look like ants at this distance?”

“There are too many trees between us. Once we reach the clearing, we can even shout to them. They’ll hear our voices echoing in their ears. Lord Feng will be relieved that we finally showed up. I can imagine he thinks we’re a lost cause by now.”

Suddenly, three horsemen emerged from among the trees and blocked our way.

“You almost made it, Prince Jin. Almost is not what you had hoped, I’m sure. You will unsheathe your sword, my lord, and throw it onto the ground…harmlessly, please. There are three of us and one of you apparently. The numbers are not in your favor.”

“I think I’ll keep my sword, my friend, just where it is. I might need it momentarily.”

“Are you in the habit now of hiding behind the skirts of a woman, my lord? I won’t think twice of slicing her throat if you will not cooperate. I have no pretensions of chivalry. Now, my lord. Your sword!”

I quickly reached for the dagger in my sleeve, pulled it out and, in one motion, threw it toward the talkative horseman. The point of the dagger stuck in the middle of his forehead, silencing him forever, and he slid off his mount like a heavy sack of sorghum from my father’s farm. The other two were shocked into paralysis. I reached into the back of the carriage and grabbed the long staff while the prince jumped off his seat, rushed to one of the horsemen still immobile in his saddle, and thrust his sword deeply into his chest. The last horseman watched in horror as the prince dispatched his partner. That’s when my long staff knocked him off his horse. The prince had the point of his sword at the would-be assassin’s throat when Lord Feng and a group of his regulars rode into view. They had seen the commotion from the ramparts, mounted up, and discovered we had the situation well in hand.

“I see we weren’t needed, after all. Good work, my nephew. We’ll want to make him give us some information about Prince Cao’s plans. Tie him up and take him away!” He dismounted and embraced the prince. He nodded toward me. “And who is this lovely maiden? Another of your many conquests, Jin Kwan?”

“No, my lord, this is Wu Dip, who has yet again saved my life for the umpteenth time it seems. You are my witness, uncle, if I ever ascend to the throne as emperor of the great Han nation, Wu Dip shall be my empress. Make it so, oh great Buddha.”

Philip and Annie stood in the garden sipping cups of coffee in the early morning sun. Monarch butterflies were swarming the trellises of Mexican flame vines for nectar as they did every morning. Mr. Posada was watering his plants with a garden hose, dressed in his multi-colored golf shorts, as always. He waved to them. “How are you two lovely ladies this fine morning?” They waved back. “Lovely as always, Mr. Posada. Lovely as always,” laughed Annie.

“Paul is worried. He can’t come up with a sketch of Wu Dip that comes close to his mental image of her. He says she needs to be extraordinary. More than just beautiful. He wants to express her inner strength, the beauty of her character, not just her face. He’s all sixes and nines about it.”

“But the script is finished, isn’t it? The film doesn’t go into production for months. By then, he’ll have it figured out.”

“We’re meeting with Mr. Yin next Monday. He thinks having a picture of Wu Dip would put the whole project over the top. And if the portrait isn’t awesome, what’s the point of producing it as an animated feature? You might as well just do it as live action. And that knocks Paul out of the picture. Maybe Mr. Yin would just pass on the whole idea.”

“I think I know what image Paul is trying to capture. I’ve got an idea. When are you meeting Paul again?”

“Tomorrow. We thought meeting outdoors might be a helpful change. The Exposition Park Rose Garden is a nice quiet, contemplative environment. I’ve done some productive thinking there in the past.”

“Let me make some phone calls and pull some favors. Don’t go anywhere, will you? This could be one of my most epic feats!” She rushed into the house. Mr. Posada shut off his garden hose and turned to Philip.

“I overheard you talking about the Rose Garden in Exposition Park. You know that’s right next door to the USC campus. Elena’s nephew is a grad student there. Going for his PhD in Economics. That’s all about money, that is.”

“That’s good to know.”

The sky was clear blue and the sun shone down in all its golden glory as Philip waited on one of the benches facing the fountain in the Rose Garden. He had told Paul to bring his sketchbook. Some people walked by and stared at Philip, making him uncomfortable. But he’d agreed with Annie that this was what he had to do, for Paul as well as himself.

When Annie showed him the costume she had ‘borrowed’ from the wardrobe department of Netflix studios, he blanched at her audacious scheme. Later on when he looked at himself in the full-length mirror, he was even more dubious. But Annie argued convincingly that this was exactly the mental image Paul had been trying to capture. Philip looked in the mirror again and smiled.

Paul strolled in to view, his head down, sketchbook in hand. When he looked up, he stopped in his tracks. He opened his mouth, but no words emerged. He did a sort of slow double take.

“Of course. Wu Dip. Of course. Yes, it’s perfect!” He grabbed Philip’s hand, pulled him to his feet and they both ran through the Rose Garden, past perplexed and bemused onlookers. Paul kept shouting, “Perfect! She’s perfect!”