Several times Ling’ai had been on the verge of asking Huicun — but the moment she opened her mouth, he would, as though knowing her thoughts, lightly steer the conversation elsewhere.

Ling’ai understood: if Huicun wished to say something, he would certainly tell her. His current manner was unmistakably clear — he had no desire to let her in on anything.

“Ai-ko, there is no need for you to worry about the dowry — I prepared that long ago. This evening I will give Qing Pu his instructions; when he handles things, I am at ease.” Huicun smiled. “And as for the wedding dress and everything else — we will follow the customs here; let everything be done according to the practices of Xin Guo. Oh, and by the way — if you do not care for Zheng Yun’s courtyard, I have purchased a manor house for you in Qingshan Lane. You may move in whenever you like.”

Ling’ai was taken aback. “Father, when did you buy a manor house?”

“About half a year ago.” Huicun said. “I had been planning on it for some time. It so happened that someone was selling a manor house at the right price half a year ago, so I bought it. The deed is in your name as well. Though a father is reluctant, sooner or later you will marry — and certain things that should be bought must be bought, and certain things that must be provided must not be lacking. My daughter cannot be worse off than anyone else.”

Ling’ai’s nose stung. “Thank you, Father.”

“There is also a bank account I have opened in your name at the Northern Flag Bank, along with a safety deposit box. The money inside is available for you to withdraw whenever you wish — no one but you can take it out. Once you are married, you will not need to look to your husband’s family for anything. That money is more than enough to last you half a lifetime.”

“You haven’t given everything to me, have you?” Ling’ai frowned. “If you give it all away to me, what will you do? And once I am married, you might wish to remarry as well — surely you cannot have your new wife come home to a life of poverty.”

“Don’t worry — I have more than enough for myself.” Huicun playfully patted his own pocket. “And if that is not enough, I still have my daughter and my good son-in-law.”

Huicun lovingly patted Ling’ai’s head. “Isn’t that right?”

Ling’ai smiled. “How can you still pat people on the head — I am grown now.”

“No matter how grown you are, in my eyes you are still a child.” Huicun looked at her, his eyes filled with tender devotion. “No matter what time it is, you will always be my beloved child — even when you are as old as I am now, that will still be true.”

“Yes, I will always be your beloved child, and I will always love you.” Unable to help herself, Ling’ai rested her head against Huicun’s chest. “You must stay healthy and strong, and watch this child of yours grow older and older still.”

“Yes.” Huicun smiled. “I will, certainly.”

As he spoke, his gaze drifted toward the window, drifted into the distance, drifted toward that unknown and formless void.

~

Ling’ai could no longer clearly remember her childhood. Her impressions of her mother were also very vague — only a silhouette in a kimono remained in her mind, a figure slender and graceful, with neatly coiled hair.

She imagined the owner of that silhouette must have been very beautiful. And each time, she hoped desperately that the figure would turn around so she could finally catch a glimpse of her face.

Yet in her dreams, every time this silhouette was about to turn, she would always be startled awake.

That memory was suspended within a blinding halo of light, and the half-turned blurry face within that halo.

She knew that figure was her mother. Her father had told her that her mother was a very gentle person — that she had loved her so dearly, had sewn little garments and toys for her with her own hands, had fed her bite by bite, and when she fell ill, had lain awake in anguished sleeplessness all night long.

Her mother must have loved her — but she truly had no memory of it at all.

From childhood to now, the only constant in her memory had been her father.

“Father.” In her dream, Ling’ai saw another figure appear beside that silhouette — a figure that was not particularly tall or imposing, but from head to toe radiated a sense of safety and shelter upon which one could lean.

It seemed this figure had not heard her call, and instead walked forward, taking that silhouette’s hand. They both turned to look at her at the same moment, and within the halo of light she could not make out their faces — but she could sense that they were smiling at her, and then they raised their hands together and waved.

“Father, don’t go.”

“Father, don’t go.”

“Father!”

Ling’ai jolted awake from her dream. Staring up at the empty expanse of ceiling, it took her a good while to accept that it had only been a dream.

Thank goodness it was only a dream.

Ling’ai let out a long breath and turned to look out the window. Dawn was just beginning to pale; outside, the roosters had not yet crowed.

She lay back down again, gradually closing her eyes. The doll that Zheng Yun had given her was nestled in the crook of her arm all along. Whenever she felt uneasy, she would hold it close — and it would always, in some ineffable way, lend her strength.

Ling’ai lay still for a while, but finding she could not fall back asleep, she sat up.

She fetched water and washed her face. When she pushed the door open, the cold air outside sliced at her like knives, the chill piercing through her collar and making her shiver involuntarily.

She quickly pulled her collar tighter, and just as she was about to step outside she noticed it was a sheet of white all around.

Snow had fallen through the entire night. The ground and the rooftops were blanketed in a thick layer of white, and the world between heaven and earth had become a dazzling expanse of white.

Ling’ai stepped into the snow, which crunched softly beneath her feet.

She rubbed her hands together and jogged to the kitchen.

Breakfast was already prepared in the kitchen. The servants, seeing her come in, quickly bowed in greeting.

“Father’s breakfast — let me take it to him.” Ling’ai said with delight. “Give it to me.”

The servant placed the breakfast tray in Ling’ai’s hands and carefully reminded her, “Miss, please be careful — don’t burn yourself.”

Ling’ai cheerfully carried the tray and knocked on Huicun’s door — but after several knocks, there was no sound from within.

“Father.” Ling’ai pressed herself against the door and called out. “Father, time to wake up.”

She knocked a few more times. “Father.”

Huicun never had the habit of sleeping in. At this hour, he was usually already doing his morning exercises.

With one hand holding the tray, Ling’ai tried to push the door with the other — and it was not locked. The door swung open with a creak.

“Father.” Ling’ai went in and set the tray down on the table.

She went to Huicun’s bedroom. The bedding inside was folded neatly and tidily. She then went to the study — there too was no trace of Huicun.

“Father?” An ominous premonition suddenly gripped Ling’ai, and she hurried outside, running to find Qing Pu.

Qing Pu was Huicun’s most trusted person and his right-hand man. Nearly all of Huicun’s affairs were handled through Qing Pu.

Qing Pu usually lived in this courtyard, always on call.

“Qing Pu.” Ling’ai hadn’t even had time to knock — she shoved the door open and burst in.

Qing Pu was kneeling on a meditation cushion with his eyes tightly shut. It was only when he heard the door open that he slowly raised his eyelids.

“Miss Ai-ko.” Qing Pu remained perfectly still on his knees — had he not just spoken, he might have seemed in a state of deep meditation.

Ling’ai said urgently, “Qing Pu, where is my father? He is not in his room — has he gone out?”

Ling’ai’s face was anxious, flushed from running, her large eyes filled with unease.

Qing Pu said, “The Director has indeed gone out.”

“Where did he go — is he at work?”

If he had gone to work, he could not possibly have left without bringing Qing Pu.

Qing Pu shook his head. “No. The Director has gone to a very distant place. He has gone to Qian Guan Cheng.”

That day, Ling’ai had overheard the conversation between Nagase and Huicun, and knew that Prince Wenren was currently in Qian Guan Cheng. If Huicun had gone to Qian Guan Cheng, he must have gone to find Prince Wenren.

In Di, the principle was one of absolute loyalty and obedience — a command issued by the imperial family or a superior could only be fulfilled or answered for with one’s life.

Ling’ai seemed to sense what this meant. She turned and ran to Huicun’s study, where she began searching frantically through his bookshelves. As her hands moved, books and objects tumbled to the floor in succession, and she paid them no mind at all — her eyes were fixed only on one thing.

It was a small, elegant wooden box. At this moment, the little wooden box was still in its place — but when she opened it, what had been inside was gone.

Ling’ai’s legs buckled beneath her, and she clutched the edge of the table to barely keep herself upright.

What had been in the box was a dagger — and this dagger was used for self-execution. Those found guilty would use this dagger to slice open their own abdomen and wait as the blood drained from their body until death.

Huicun had failed to obey Prince Wenren’s command, and so he had gone to answer for his failure with this dagger in hand — and his manner of atonement was ritual disembowelment.

Clang!

The box dropped from Ling’ai’s hands and fell to the floor, which gradually jolted her out of her shock and back to her senses.

She wanted to go find Qing Pu — but she knew that Qing Pu was aware of Huicun’s intention, and that he would unconditionally follow Huicun’s orders. He was staying here, she supposed, only to see her through the wedding and ensure that she could live a safe and undisturbed life in Shun Cheng.

Huicun had arranged every escape route for her — and yet he himself had, without hesitation, set out on a road of no return.

At this thought, Ling’ai could not help but sink to the floor and weep aloud.

She hated herself for not having seen through Huicun’s plan sooner. Had she known of his intention earlier, she would never have let him go to Qian Guan Cheng.

He had given her all his love, and was willing to sacrifice his very life for her future happiness. From childhood to now, he had done so much for her, had sacrificed so much — yet in the end, even her happiness had to be purchased with his life.

Ling’ai wiped away her tears, rose, and strode quickly out the door.

A knock came at the door, and Nagase slowly rose from his chair. He walked to the doorway and opened the door unhurriedly.

A tear-streaked Ling’ai appeared before him. He started, then quickly said, “Ling’ai, what’s wrong?”

Ling’ai grabbed his lapels, her eyes bloodshot. “Nagase, save my father.”

“Ling’ai, what are you saying? What has happened to Uncle Huicun?” Nagase tried to guide her to sit down to one side, but she shook her head and refused.

“You don’t need to pretend to be the kind one. I heard everything you said that day. So it turns out that you had already allied yourself with Shi Guang long ago.” Ling’ai gave a cold laugh. “I saw you with Shi Guang that morning, but I didn’t suspect you — because I still thought of you as the Nagase I had known since childhood. But looking at it now, I was far too naive. The Brother Nagase of my childhood has long since died.”

Nagase was briefly taken aback, then smiled. “So it really was you that morning.”