In the kitchen’s oil lamp, the light and shadows were dim yellow. Through the crack in the door, that person smiled and looked back. The lamplight shone in his eyes—usually deep and slightly cool, but now warm and gentle as jade, like black jade Go pieces immersed in rippling water.
Feng Zhiwei leaned against the doorframe, frozen in place.
A thin layer of night dew had formed all around. Her fine eyelashes gathered ice-clear moisture, making her eyes appear even more misty and hazy, so one couldn’t see clearly what thoughts churned behind that gaze.
Seeing her like this, Ning Yi smiled.
His smile bloomed like an udumbara flower in the dim yellow halo of light.
He dropped what was in his hands and walked over, holding the door panel, smiling as he leaned down to look at her. “What? Scared silly?”
He casually scraped the nose of someone who remained dazed there.
Feng Zhiwei’s nose itched. “Achoo!” She sneezed, white mist rising before her face. She widened her eyes, rubbed her nose, and discovered her hand was covered with flour.
Looking at Ning Yi again—his hands were full of flour, and even the door panel he’d just grasped bore white five-finger prints.
Feng Zhiwei’s gaze traveled up along those white fingerprints, looking at Ning Yi with his sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands full of flour, even his brows somehow bearing a bit of flour. He still seemed unaware, habitually raising his eyebrows slightly. The white speck on his brow tip fluttered down, falling on his jet-black brows in scattered dots. The more she looked, the fresher it seemed; the more she looked, the more amusing. She felt he looked much more adorable than his usual cold, deep demeanor. She couldn’t help but laugh.
“What are you laughing at?” Ning Yi leaned against the doorframe, asking her leisurely. Not brushing off the flour on his hands, he instead looked at her body with ill intent, as if searching for where to leave a handprint. Feng Zhiwei warily stepped back two paces before relaxing her brow and smiling: “I’m laughing that Prince Chu’s romantic reputation fills the imperial capital. If your countless lady admirers saw you like this, I wonder what expression they’d have.”
“They won’t see me like this.” Ning Yi smiled, attempting to use his flour-white hands to habitually smooth Feng Zhiwei’s temples, but she alertly jumped away. He could only helplessly lower his hand. “Under all heaven, only you will see me like this.”
Feng Zhiwei made an “mm” sound: “That’s right. This appearance really damages Your Highness’s stunning elegance. It’s fine for this humble subject to catch a glimpse, but best not frighten the beauties.”
After saying this, she felt something was wrong. Sure enough, that quick-reacting fellow immediately smiled and said fox-like: “I seem to smell thick vinegar?”
“Perhaps the cook knocked over the vinegar bottle?” Feng Zhiwei, afraid he’d pursue this topic, squeezed past him and saw several dough balls on the cutting board, a basket of fresh, chopped wisteria, several small bowls holding lard, clear oil, salt, sugar, and such. The cook stood to the side smiling—but it wasn’t her estate’s cook. Ning Yi must not trust her side and simply brought his own cook.
“You came back too early.” Ning Yi stood behind her, waving to dismiss the cook, saying with some regret: “I originally planned to have fresh wisteria cakes ready to present to you as soon as you returned. Now Marquis Wei will have to wait a while before eating the delicacies this humble one offers.”
“Oh please.” Feng Zhiwei couldn’t help but laugh again. “Stop gilding your own face. A great man whose ten fingers have never touched spring water—what wisteria cakes could you make? This thing looks simple but isn’t so easy to make. I’m afraid even if I wait until tomorrow morning, I won’t get to eat any.”
“So much talk from you.” Ning Yi didn’t argue with her, just seated her at the table. “Just watch.”
Feng Zhiwei sat by the table with amusement, watching the magnificently dressed Grand Chef Ning stand before the cutting board, kneading dough in a seemingly proper manner. She felt his kneading posture looked wrong no matter how she looked at it, worried she’d end up eating a lump of dead dough. She stood up: “Let me do it. Watching you do this looks uncomfortable no matter what.”
“Whatever I do for you, I’m very comfortable doing it.” Ning Yi wouldn’t let her, making a show of patting and beating the dough on the cutting board. Feng Zhiwei was helpless and could only let him perform, watching as though his technique was clumsy, his steps were correct—kneading dough, pinching pieces, adding wisteria and lard, rolling cakes. He became more and more skilled. The dough pieces at first were large and small, but gradually became very uniform. He truly was an extremely clever person—whatever he did looked beautiful. Finally, those dough pieces flew out in an unbroken stream, each one identically sized, falling like snowflakes in sequence on the cutting board. His slender fingers shuttling and bustling rose and fell with beautiful rhythm, like a stunning dance.
Clearly, Ning Yi had definitely asked about how to make wisteria cakes beforehand. In her memory, Mother had made them this way too.
Feng Zhiwei sat at the table, propping her head up, quietly watching Ning Yi’s back busy at the cutting board. The water in the pot bubbled and boiled. Ning Yi lifted the lid. Great masses of white steam rushed out, interweaving with the weak lamplight, creating a hazy moon-colored yellow that obscured Ning Yi’s figure and also concealed Feng Zhiwei’s gaze half-hidden behind her fingers.
Her gaze gradually began to show something like moisture, slightly wavering… That mass of white steam drifted uncertainly, like a thick cloud separating heaven and earth. The figure revealed through the dense cloud was straight and slender, shoulders thin as if cut by a knife. Facing the oncoming heat, she opened the pot lid to check the water, without turning her head to instruct: “Wei’er, the water’s boiling. Put the steamer on.”
“Mm… Mother.” In the drifting clouds, Feng Zhiwei murmured hazily in a low voice.
“What did you say?” From the other side of the steam, a voice from reality pierced through, instantly shattering her illusion.
Half-obscured by white vapor, Ning Yi looked back somewhat puzzled.
Feng Zhiwei blinked. For an instant, her misty eyes showed a glimmer of moisture, then she smiled: “I said, it smells good.”
“Smells good?” Ning Yi turned around to look at her with amusement. “The water just boiled, the cakes just went in to steam, and you’re already telling me it smells good?”
Feng Zhiwei leaned back against her chair, arms crossed, smiling as she looked at him without speaking.
Her warm, soft gaze made Ning Yi’s heart soften too. He felt as if something warm and tender was also warming within his cold interior, gently spreading through his limbs and hundred vessels—wherever it reached, spring buds opened.
He gazed at her eyes brimming like autumn waters, couldn’t help but lower his head, gently leaning against her forehead. “Zhiwei, you also smell very good…”
Feng Zhiwei laughed lightly and reached out to push him. Ning Yi gripped both sides of her chair back, wouldn’t let her go, closed his eyes and let his lips roam over her forehead, his voice gradually carrying some breathlessness, “…Let me eat you too…”
Feng Zhiwei cried “Ah!” and quickly leaned back. Ning Yi had already released her, reaching out to grip her chair back tightly to prevent her from falling backward from leaning too hard. He smiled: “What are you afraid of? Afraid I’ll do it right here… mm… ow.”
Feng Zhiwei kicked him.
“Truly the cruelest woman’s heart.” Ning Yi brushed off the large footprint on his robe and smiled. “Don’t worry, I’m not that impatient. What’s this?”
He turned to check the steamer, walking halfway then suddenly turning back, leaning against the cutting board, speaking seriously: “Zhiwei, even if something in my heart knows it’s a fantasy, or you might laugh that it’s a fantasy, I still want to tell you—what I truly hope for is a proper marriage with wedding candles, wholehearted devotion for a lifetime together. I have ten thousand ways to obtain your person, but I’d rather use the ten-thousand-and-first way to obtain your heart.”
Feng Zhiwei trembled, lowering her head without speaking, not asking what that ten-thousand-and-first method was.
Ning Yi didn’t expect her to answer. Having said this lightly, he turned back to check the steamer’s heat.
The kitchen fell silent. Feng Zhiwei covered her face with her hand, half-turning her face toward the oil lamp in contemplation. Her expression was very calm, but something in her eyes kept churning like waves on polar coastlines constantly beating the shore, rising and falling ceaselessly, stubbornly struggling between advancing and retreating.
Ning Yi had his back to her. He couldn’t see her expression through the dense steam, and he hadn’t planned to look. Feng Zhiwei was the world’s most cloud-veiled and mist-obscured woman—he’d long known this.
So let her live like that mist. Because once she fully opened herself, she would feel uneasy and alarmed.
This was his gift to her.
He was willing to accompany her as a man and woman walking with closed eyes through this mortal mist, relying on the heart’s feeling to guide direction. He believed that as long as he kept persistently extending his hand, someday it would touch her fingertips.
The steam bubbled and gurgled. He lifted the lid, tested it, and smiled: “Done.”
Then turning to instruct her as she was about to stand: “Don’t move, my Marquis Wei. Let this humble one serve you thoroughly today.”
Feng Zhiwei couldn’t help but smile, shaking her head. She proactively arranged two sets of bowls and chopsticks, smiling: “Yes, this humble subject will risk life accompanying Your Highness today.”
“Here it comes.” Ning Yi had his sleeves rolled high. With a whoosh, he lifted the steamer from the pot, quickly brought it over, set it down with a clack, and blew on his fingers saying “shoo shoo.”
“Don’t you know to use a cloth?” Feng Zhiwei was about to take it when he’d already brought it over burning his fingers. Looking at his reddened fingers, she couldn’t help but frown and gently scold, then said: “Apply some soap or soak it in water.”
“I think if you blow on it, it’ll heal faster.” Ning Yi extended his fingers before her, raising one eyebrow, smiling as he looked at her.
This person always had to take advantage of opportunities… Feng Zhiwei wanted to refuse him, but seeing those fingers truly scalded bright red, she felt some pity and could only lean forward to blow gently.
Just as she leaned close, Ning Yi raised his finger and brushed it across her lips. Feng Zhiwei only felt burning heat sweep across her lips. Startled, she pulled back, her face already slightly flushed.
Ning Yi smiled with complete satisfaction. “Mm… lip therapy truly stopped the pain.”
Feng Zhiwei ignored him. The best way to deal with teasing was to act as if the teasing didn’t exist. She pulled over the steamer and used chopsticks to remove the wisteria cakes, placing three on each plate.
Looking at those cakes—soft and slightly pink, exuding wisteria’s fresh fragrance—they actually truly resembled the wisteria cakes from years ago. For someone like Ning Yi, a heavenly noble who’d never entered a kitchen, to achieve such results on his first attempt—Feng Zhiwei felt ashamed of her own inferiority.
Gazing at those cakes for a long time, Feng Zhiwei hadn’t moved her chopsticks. Her expression was complex, but a pair of chopsticks reached over, gently helping her tear open the cake. Billowing wisteria fragrance rushed out, instantly washing over her face. In the steamy mist, it seemed just like years ago.
“Too beautiful to eat, staring in a daze?” Ning Yi’s low laugh sounded beside her ear. “Unfortunately, no matter how much you stare, you can’t eat it with your eyes.”
“His Highness’s first personally made delicacy.” Feng Zhiwei slowly picked it up. “I feel it’s necessary to treasure it and place it on a high altar.”
“What you need to treasure is only the cook himself.” Ning Yi’s voice was low, blowing on her earlobe. “As for the cakes, there’s a long time ahead with many opportunities for me to make them for you.”
Feng Zhiwei’s lips curved slightly. Without speaking, she gently bit into the cake.
It was still fragrant and soft. Ning Yi’s martial arts were good, so his kneading was forceful. The dough was flexible and chewy—just this alone surpassed Mother’s cakes from years ago. Only the salt wasn’t measured, so it was a bit heavy, somewhat affecting the wisteria cake’s fresh fragrant taste.
She smiled: “Delicious.”
“Is it?” Ning Yi also tasted it, making an “oh” sound. “So this is wisteria cake? So this is the taste of something I made myself?”
“How is it?” Feng Zhiwei asked him with a smile.
“What do you think?” Ning Yi didn’t answer but asked in return.
This person had this temperament—accustomed to concealing, never willing to speak properly. Feng Zhiwei sighed and said softly: “True flavor isn’t on the tongue but in the heart. Without heart, even the finest delicacies taste bland. With heart, even cabbage and steamed buns leave lingering sweetness.”
Ning Yi smiled without speaking, slowly finishing that cake.
The two ate cakes in the warm, steamy atmosphere of the single room—eating the flavor and also the mood.
After a while, Feng Zhiwei reached out and used her sleeve to wipe the flour from Ning Yi’s brow and cheek, smiling: “Look what you’ve become. At first glance, one might think your brows have turned white.”
“I’d hope for that.” Ning Yi let her wipe, leaning back against his chair with eyes closed, unmoving. His tone was leisurely. “This scene isn’t now but many years later—me with white-grayed brows making cakes for you. Then we dine at the same table, you wipe my sweat and tell me: old man, I’m tired of cakes. Tomorrow I want dried bamboo shoots with wind chicken.”
Feng Zhiwei laughed, but halfway through, she stopped.
Ning Yi opened his eyes and looked at her.
There was a moment of quiet in the air.
After a long while, Feng Zhiwei said slowly: “Mm…”
Ning Yi’s eyes lit up.
“…Tired of cakes… I want to sleep.” How could Feng Zhiwei follow his script?
Ning Yi sighed: “Close, but the end isn’t right. Never mind that—the first three words, the most important ones, how did you leave them out?”
“Which three words?” Feng Zhiwei looked at him with innocent ignorance. “It’s dark? I’m full? I’m tired? You’re tired?”
Smiling, Ning Yi was too lazy to quibble with this bad woman. He pulled her over, gently pressing her shoulders. “Zhiwei, remember that year when you told me you wanted to be a simple woman, matched with the simplest man and the simplest life—a small house, a few good fields, and one suitable simple person who would stand up for you when you were humiliated, wield a knife when you were betrayed, warm you by the hearth when you were disappointed, scold you impatiently when you were hurt and crying, then hold you and let you cry… Perhaps I’m not simple enough, perhaps I also won’t wield a knife to cut people, but look—I’ll shield you from wind and rain. I don’t cut people, I scheme against them. I like sharing a room’s hearthfire with you. As long as you’re willing, I can coax you all night—I’d only fear you’d find me noisy. When you’re hurt and crying, I don’t think you’d let me see, but if I truly saw, I absolutely wouldn’t scold you impatiently. Whoever makes you cry, I’ll make them die, and before they die, I’ll make them cry their fill too… Zhiwei, I don’t meet your conditions. Those things you required, I can’t do. But don’t you think such a me might be more suitable for such a you?”
This long passage, tone leisurely, like midnight wind circling by her ear. Feng Zhiwei, facing away from Ning Yi, trembled at the shoulders in her silence.
Her slightly trembling, thin shoulders fluttered like a butterfly folding its wings—this rare delicate, vulnerable posture, seen by others, would birth faint chill within the light tenderness.
Ning Yi’s fingers didn’t move away, maintaining a posture without applying force yet tender, resting on that butterfly wing’s tip.
Even the strongest woman has untouchable fragile softness deep in her heart. At this moment, he seemed to hear from the depths of her heart fine and long sighs of tossing and turning.
He smiled gently.
Everything that should be said had been said. Those things he treasured and presented—she could see them. He was willing to give her time.
“It’s late.” He smoothed her slightly disheveled hair. “Tomorrow morning you must rise early for a long journey. Rest early.”
There were words in his heart that couldn’t be spoken aloud, only in moments alone could he raise a cup in distant blessing.
Feng Zhiwei slowly turned, smiled, and said: “Supervising the traveling palace construction is complex, and you have other duties. It must be very hard. Take care of your health.”
Ning Yi made an “mm” sound: “Although the Ministry of War and Ministry of Personnel are managed by Seventh Brother, I’ll find a way to assign as many as possible of the Qingming group of successful examination scholars, including Ning Cheng, to the Minnan, Nanhai, and Longbei frontlines. Then you’ll also have it easier. Additionally, the northern border just achieved victory. In the most recent battle, Tiansheng won a great victory. Jin Siyu retreated a hundred li, yielding Tiansheng territory he’d originally occupied. I heard the Da Yue imperial palace had an incident—the throne may change. Jin Siyu has no heart for continued warfare and seems to be preparing to lead troops back to the capital to seize the throne. From this great victory, Chunyu Meng, Yao Yangyu, and the others will all return to the capital to report meritorious service. I’ll have them help you then.”
“Little Chunyu and Yao established merit?” Feng Zhiwei raised her brows with a smile. “No need. Minnan has poor mountains and bad waters—being an official there has no profit. For this short mission of mine, make them stay there for at least several years? After I leave they’ll still have to remain there—that’s too unkind.”
“I think they’d be very willing.” Ning Yi said lightly. “In terms of your reputation in the hearts of Qingming and the common people and scholars, I’m afraid you long ago surpassed me.”
Feng Zhiwei turned to look at him. Ning Yi showed nothing unusual. “Times create heroes. Scholars and common people need someone like you as their leader. This position isn’t suitable for me to hold. Zhiwei, you go ahead.”
Feng Zhiwei lowered her eyes. Who in this world had a mind as clear as a mirror? Who could see all the sunken thoughts behind the dense fog yet still stand far off, daring to let everything go?
“Go rest. I see you’re very tired.” She pushed him.
Ning Yi made an “mm” sound, gently letting go, lowering his highly rolled sleeves. Yet beneath the sleeve, he pinched her fingertips again. His fingers were warm, carrying the slippery texture of flour. In the caressing, the familiar faint fragrance of his sleeves meandered. Feng Zhiwei lowered her eyes. Her ice-cold fingertips gradually warmed. In that tender touching, it seemed fine electric light passed through her body, vibrating out slight trembling.
She sat without moving the whole time, watching Ning Yi open the door and leave, his back disappearing into the increasingly dark night. The warm steam in the kitchen gradually settled heavily, ghostly like frost breathed on glass, adhering to tables and surfaces. One wipe left a layer of crystalline moisture, emitting faint coldness. She slowly extended her finger, unconsciously drawing something on the table surface, but just as she was about to finish drawing, her body suddenly trembled and she pulled her finger back.
After a long while she stood up. The warm steam had already dispersed, making the kitchen’s emptiness and coldness even more apparent. She slowly tidied the already-cold cakes, carefully wrapping them in mulberry paper, preparing to take them on the road tomorrow to eat.
The paper-wrapped cakes emitted faint wisteria fragrance. In that fragrance, she remembered that over all these years, eating wisteria cakes was always on one fixed day.
Her birthday.
Her real birthday.
Only on that day would Mother go to the trouble of picking and selecting wisteria—of a large basket, only some tender shoots could be used to make cakes. Washing them bit by bit, kneading and rolling dough, she even had to go to the main kitchen to beg for lard. They were always self-aware and self-respecting people. Only once a year would she agree to let Mother smile ingratiatingly at those snobbish women in the kitchen, because she knew if she didn’t let Mother do this, Mother would feel she’d failed her. She didn’t want Mother to spend such days with a heart full of debt.
Those years, she didn’t understand why her birthday was different from what Mother proclaimed publicly, didn’t understand why birthdays always had to be celebrated secretly. She’d asked. Mother didn’t answer, only stroked her head with slight sorrow, gently saying: “Zhiwei, someday you’ll understand.”
Now she truly understood, but it was already too late.
Since that year of heavy snow, she thought she’d never again eat wisteria cakes on any birthday, nor did she plan to make them for herself. Some things, once past were past, once deeply buried stayed buried. Digging them up would only uselessly tear open old wounds.
She never expected that tonight, from one casual mention, she’d encounter another wisp of wisteria fragrance.
Feng Zhiwei’s hand pressed against the cutting board, feeling that bone-deep cold. Shattered light flowed in her eyes, rippling with faint questioning.
Tonight’s meal of wisteria cakes—was it coincidence, or…
After a long while she closed her eyes and sighed.
Turning in another direction, her frost-and-snow gaze shrouded the Imperial Temple. There, two women with sinister hearts were plotting cold schemes beneath ancient Buddhist lamps.
There, the dynasty’s new-born child was gestating, waiting to be presented at the most suitable moment to shake this imperial clan’s struggle for the great throne that “the tree desires stillness but the wind won’t cease.”
She contemplated, took the paper package, closed the kitchen door, and slowly walked to the back courtyard, sitting by the well that led directly to Prince Chu’s estate.
The well water was clear and bright, reflecting tonight’s hazy moon. Tree shadows swayed on all sides like countless powerlessly grasping fingers.
She sat on the well platform in a posture of looking up at the moon, looking for a long time until she saw through the moonlight, shattering it into rosy clouds that painted the dawn sky’s edge.
At daybreak, she slowly stood, carrying a robe covered in dew, leaving the well platform.
The well platform remained silent, as if it would remain silent forever, silently recording this night’s quiet churning.
Dawn’s broken-gold light shot over, shining on the well platform.
There, in a not-too-conspicuous corner, were two fine characters that looked as if carved into the well’s edge with fingernail using internal force.
“Imperial Temple.”
When day broke, in the front courtyard carriages and horses were already prepared. One large and one small figure were already waiting spiritedly at the gate.
Feng Zhiwei barely managed to compose herself, believing she’d already concealed her haggard appearance from not sleeping all night. But as soon as Gu Nanyi saw her, he said: “Didn’t sleep.”
Feng Zhiwei gave a fake smile and changed the subject: “Did you bring everything? Gu Zhixiao’s large pillow she must have every night for sleeping…”
Something bumped her leg. Looking back, Young Miss Gu had a large pillow tucked in the crook of her left arm, a cage in the crook of her right arm—the cage too heavy to lift, dragging on the ground. On her shoulder were her two monkeys. The whole person was like a mass of rampaging mobile cart, causing maids and servants on all sides to scatter in avoidance.
Feng Zhiwei squatted down. The cage was very delicate but had nothing inside. This girl—carrying a cage all this way, what was she planning to do?
She sincerely consulted Young Miss Gu. Young Miss Gu gave her a big eye-roll and said matter-of-factly: “I heard there are many fun things over there.”
Feng Zhiwei suddenly understood. So Young Miss Gu had heard that the Minnan-Xi Liang area had many rare and exotic beasts. She was preparing to catch a pair of Golden-Silk Brush Monkeys Mark II to strengthen her pet squad.
“But you don’t need to bring a cage from here…” Feng Zhiwei earnestly instructed, feeling that if this thing appeared in the court’s envoy delegation to Xi Liang, others would misunderstand that she was out strolling birds and walking dogs.
Young Miss Gu said nothing. With a clack, she flipped a protrusion on the cage’s base.
“Bang.”
With a muffled sound, the top of the golden-silk bamboo-woven cage suddenly scattered. Several originally curved strips sprang up sharply. The strip tips were sharp as arrows, stabbing straight at Feng Zhiwei’s eyes!
Feng Zhiwei was in a bent-over inquiring posture, extremely close to the cage. She never expected that this not-yet-three-year-old child’s cage would also be a killing weapon. Startled, the strips had already arrived close!
“Crack.”
A hand suddenly reached over, pulling Feng Zhiwei away. Then the fingers flicked, and the strips turned into green powder in midair and fell to the ground.
After completing these two actions, Gu Nanyi didn’t stop. His sleeve swept out, and the cage in Gu Zhixiao’s hand immediately flew out, shattering against the wall.
Gu Zhixiao was already scared stiff. Seeing the cage broken, she shrieked and rushed over, picking up the cage. When she turned back, her voice already carried tears: “I pestered Number Four to make this for seven days! Compensate me!”
She rushed forward head-first, not toward Gu Nanyi who’d broken her cage, but toward Feng Zhiwei: “Compensate me, compensate me, compensate me!”
Feng Zhiwei caught her in her arms, looked up at the sky with a bitter smile. Indeed, even children knew to pick soft persimmons to pinch.
Looking at Gu Zhixiao crying with snot and tears all over her face in utter dishevelment, it seemed this cage had truly cost her much effort. Feng Zhiwei’s gaze swept over the powdered strips on the ground. She didn’t believe a child as young as Gu Zhixiao would be vicious enough to use this thing to harm her. When the strips shot out just now, she’d also stayed frozen there, apparently not expecting the mechanism spring to be so powerful. Thinking this way, the child hadn’t committed any great wrong. She was just about to turn and persuade Gu Nanyi—he looked very unhappy, his whole body’s aura much colder.
Before she could speak, Gu Nanyi had already come over. His hand lifted and pulled Gu Zhixiao out from her arms, heavily setting her down by the wall.
His gesture was absolutely not light, so much so that when Gu Zhixiao landed, the ground raised a cloud of dust. Feng Zhiwei suspected the little girl’s feet had gone numb from the impact.
Gu Zhixiao was shocked into shrinking back. Tears instantly retreated. She raised her head to stare at him blankly. This time she dared not act spoiled or make a fuss.
“You stay behind.” Young Master Gu was concise. He turned and walked away.
Feng Zhiwei saw this was bad—the young master was angry. When the young master was angry, it was hard to say what would happen. She had to take care of other people. Thinking about Gu Zhixiao’s temperament, staying behind wasn’t necessarily bad. Zong Chen would take care of her anyway. She could only say “take care of the young miss” herself and followed him.
“No—”
With a sharp cry, Gu Zhixiao threw away her beloved large pillow that no one else was allowed to touch. With a whoosh, she sprang over, jumping toward Gu Nanyi’s shoulder. Gu Nanyi’s shoulder shifted. Gu Zhixiao missed by a hair’s breadth—a tiny difference amounting to a thousand miles. With a whoosh she fell. Feng Zhiwei behind quickly caught her.
Gu Nanyi didn’t look back, proceeding on his own to board the carriage. His hand waved, lowering the curtain: “Watch her.” Two maids came forward to restrain Gu Zhixiao.
The carriage driver held the whip aloft, looking at everyone in difficulty, not knowing whether this whip should fall. Gu Zhixiao’s eyes turned blue. Watching the carriage about to drive away, she suddenly lowered her head and bit hard into the hand of the maid protecting her.
The maid cried “Ow!” and let go. Gu Zhixiao had already rushed out, grasping the carriage shaft in one motion.
A hand extended from the curtain, lightly brushing her aside.
Gu Zhixiao rolled on the ground, crawled up from the mud, and climbed again.
Gu Nanyi brushed her aside again.
Gu Zhixiao fell and rolled, hitting the wheel with a bang. A large bump immediately rose on her forehead, but she neither cried nor fussed. While touching her head, she climbed again.
Gu Nanyi brushed her aside again.
Everyone stood frozen, watching this iron-hearted father and daughter dispute publicly for the first time. Even their dispute was different from others—silent yet obstinate, each displaying their own stubbornness, heart-stopping.
Feng Zhiwei stood frozen. She knew Gu Nanyi was an extremely persistent person, but she also knew Gu Nanyi’s doting affection and value for this adopted daughter. Many times, Zhixiao was more important than himself. She never expected that merely because Zhixiao had nearly accidentally injured her, he could treat his precious darling, the apple of his eye, this way.
“Nanyi—” She couldn’t bear to watch. Suddenly reaching out, she blocked Gu Nanyi’s seventh outstretched hand. “Don’t be like this. She’s still a child.”
Gu Nanyi also brushed her hand aside.
“Harming you—unforgivable.” He spoke each word simply yet decisively. “No matter who.”
Gu Zhixiao, climbing up from the dust for the seventh time, suddenly paused.
She raised her head, lifting her small face covered in dust and tears, all colorful and mottled. She looked at that corner of face veil showing through the curtain’s light and shadow, then suddenly stopped climbing the shaft.
She shuffled over to the wheel, hugged it, and lay down.
A gasp arose from all around.
Everyone stared wide-eyed at that resolute three-year-old child. She placed her body before the wheel—if the carriage advanced one step, it would have to roll over her.
The carriage driver hurriedly jumped down, reining in the horse, afraid that if he wasn’t careful and the horse moved one step, it would crush that small body.
Feng Zhiwei silently watched that child. Of course she could easily reach out and pull Gu Zhixiao out. Her small strength threatened no one. But what was truly fearsome was the determination and killing intent this child displayed—if you don’t take me, I’ll die.
To truly abandon her would face tragic consequences.
“Nanyi.” She took a deep breath, patting his hand. “Zhixiao didn’t mean it. I’ll speak well with her. We can’t delay any longer—if we miss the time, I’ll lose my head.”
Gu Nanyi was silent in the dark shadow behind the curtain. After a long while, he said dryly: “Gu Zhixiao.”
Feng Zhiwei thought Gu Zhixiao would persist in lying under the wheel, but unexpectedly, hearing Gu Nanyi’s voice, she got up and obediently walked to the carriage door, head lowered, listening.
Gu Nanyi lifted a sliver of curtain and pointed at Feng Zhiwei.
“I am hers.” He said. “You are also hers. Either protect her with your life, or leave me.”
Feng Zhiwei wanted to laugh, feeling it was a bit excessive to demand a three-year-old child protect her with her life. Yet after that instant of absurdity, she suddenly felt heartache.
But Gu Zhixiao listened very seriously, then turned to look at Feng Zhiwei. The child’s clear bright eyes shot over with no concealment. For the first time, Feng Zhiwei felt this proud, obstinate, indifferent, and noble child had placed her into her own eyes.
After a long while, Gu Zhixiao said slowly: “Alright.”
Gu Nanyi was silent for a moment, then pulled Gu Zhixiao up. The child broke into smiles, tightly hugging his neck, pressing her mud-covered little face beside his veil, quietly saying: “There’s a bump. Rub it for me.”
Young Master Gu didn’t move. Feng Zhiwei tactfully immediately lowered the curtain.
Let the young master secretly pamper his precious baby in the carriage.
The carriage rumbled away. Gu Zhixiao poked her head out from the carriage, calling loudly: “Pick up the cage—I still want to fix it!”
Feng Zhiwei passed the already-broken cage through the window. She took it. Feng Zhiwei asked: “Why must you have this one?”
Gu Zhixiao felt around the cage while sighing: “Protect Daddy.”
Feng Zhiwei’s hand stiffened, suddenly remembering the child in the Li Lake reed marsh who’d cried while holding the “dead” Gu Nanyi. She’d been frightened so badly that she was preoccupied with “protecting Daddy.”
Powerful as Gu Nanyi was, he bore the responsibility of protecting others his whole life. No one thought of protecting him.
Only this child.
Only this child who’d nearly been abandoned, who’d roll in mud to follow, to protect her daddy.
Feng Zhiwei’s hand frozen in midair finally descended, slowly smoothing over Gu Zhixiao’s head. Gu Zhixiao pulled away, still looking at her with that distant, cold gaze.
“Right, protect Daddy.” Feng Zhiwei sighed, telling her this: “He’s worthy of everyone paying everything to protect him.”
Inside the carriage, Gu Nanyi was silent, feeling this woman was talking nonsense.
Outside the carriage, Feng Zhiwei boarded another vehicle. Before lifting the curtain, she turned back, looking from afar at a certain corner of the street.
There, a black steed’s body was faintly visible, a corner of moon-white robes with hidden silver dragon pattern fluttering in the wind, leisurely drifting.
Despite his extreme busyness, Ning Yi had still come.
At this moment he should be on the road to Luo County. His Majesty hadn’t ordered him to see off the Xi Liang envoy delegation, so it wasn’t convenient for him to appear in this crowded place. He could only hide in a street corner, using his silent presence to see her off.
Feng Zhiwei nodded slightly toward that direction. Her lips curved in a faint smile, reflecting crystalline warm light in the sunlight, like a transparent flower blooming in early summer’s gentle wind.
The curtain fell. The carriage convoy drove away quietly and orderly. They would meet with the deputy envoy and Ministry of Rites officials, perform ceremonies outside the city gate, then head straight for distant Xi Liang.
Behind the rumbling convoy, from far away, leisurely flute sounds suddenly drifted over.
The flute sound was clear, deep, tender, and gentle. Though the melody was quietly cool, it held no mournful, sorrowful meaning. Instead, it faintly held a transcendent, expansive atmosphere that, when heard, made one’s heart tender yet open.
Inside the carriage, Feng Zhiwei turned toward the flute sound traveling against her direction.
The bamboo-thread curtain cut the sunlight into fragments, mapping her expression in mottled blur. She sank into solitary darkness, turning her face slightly.
Toward.
That silent street corner.