The Commander passed away, and the entire Shi Mansion was draped in mourning white.

The Commander had been wise and powerful throughout his life, wielding great authority—yet in the end, his wish went unfulfilled, and he never lived to see his grandchild born with his own eyes.

His only son was far away at the border and could not return to attend the funeral. Only the female members of the household kept watch before the coffin.

He had lived a life of both achievements and failings. All of it dissolved now into the smoke of a single incense stick, sealed in place, recorded as legend.

With the Commander’s passing, the Shi Mansion grew even quieter.

San Yitai came to pay her respects to Luo Huaimeng each day, then spent the rest of her time in the courtyard looking after Jing’er. The temple on the abandoned grounds was nearly complete, and Shi Yutong, dressed in plain clothes every day, divided her time between overseeing the construction and chanting sutras in the old grandmother’s courtyard.

Yan Qing had seen her a few times while walking in the courtyard. Shi Yutong would press her palms together in greeting and say nothing of past grievances or resentments.

Seeing the serene clarity in Shi Yutong’s eyes, utterly untouched by worldly concerns, Yan Qing could tell she had truly given herself to the faith and was preparing to enter the monastic life.

“It is hard to believe Shi Yutong has changed so much. Fate truly plays its games with us,” Luo Huaimeng said as she and Yan Qing worked on small garments together.

Not knowing whether the baby would be a boy or a girl, they had made each piece in two colors.

Luo Huaimeng was deft and gifted with her hands—the little clothes she produced were finer than anything found in a tailor’s shop, and Yan Qing knew that even ten more years of practice would not bring her to the same level.

At least Luo Huaimeng no longer criticized her needlework, and only offered a few words of guidance from time to time.

“Mother, are we not making rather too many?” Yan Qing looked at Xiang Xiu packing clothes into a trunk that was already overflowing.

“Not at all,” Luo Huaimeng laughed. “The older ones can be passed down to the younger—the eldest gives to the second, the second to the third.”

Luo Huaimeng imagined such a scene, and a warm smile spread unbidden across her face.

“Then I will follow Mother’s lead,” Yan Qing said, sewing soft buttons onto a little jacket. “I also have many new garments back in my room—all fine fabric. They could be altered into children’s clothing. It would be a waste for adults to wear them; styles change in a few years anyway, and we ought to be thrifty now, with the war going on and money needed everywhere.”

“That is thoughtful of you,” Luo Huaimeng said. “Adults have more clothes than they can wear, and in a few years they go out of fashion anyway—better to alter them for children. Besides, we should be thrifty now.”

Mention of the war made Yan Qing instinctively turn her gaze toward the gate, as she did countless times each day. Her one and only hope was that one day, he would simply push open that gate and walk toward her with long, unhurried strides.

She could not stop herself from imagining that scene. She held onto it as hope, let it sustain her through every dull and quiet day.

“Young Mistress, there is someone at the gate asking for you.”

In the midst of their conversation, Xiang Xiu came in and dropped a curtsy. ‘This person insists on seeing the Young Mistress. When I asked what it was about, she would not say.’

“What sort of person is it?” Yan Qing was puzzled.

“A young woman—dirty all over, like a beggar from the streets. Oh, and she is holding a bundle wrapped in cloth in her arms. No knowing what’s inside.” Xiang Xiu said warily. “Young Mistress, it would be better not to see her. I think this person is of uncertain origin, and who knows what is wrapped in that bundle—it might be a bomb.”

Yan Qing smiled. ‘Let us go and have a look first.’

She rose and said to Luo Huaimeng, ‘Mother, I will be back shortly.’

Luo Huaimeng was uneasy and came along.

When they reached the gate, they saw indeed a young woman in gray plain clothes, her hair disheveled, her whole person grimed and dirty.

Yan Qing felt a flicker of recognition when she saw this woman.

When the woman raised her face, Yan Qing’s suspicion was confirmed.

“Are you Qing Mei?”

Qing Mei was the maidservant of Shi Guang’s concubine Qiu Cao—she had escaped the hospital together with Qiu Cao long ago.

Qing Mei saw that Yan Qing had recognized her and stepped forward, dropping to her knees with a thud.

Murong and Xiang Xiu immediately moved to shield Yan Qing, on guard against any sudden move Qing Mei might make.

“Young Mistress, I beg you—please save my little Young Master.” Qing Mei raised the bundle she had been clutching tightly. “The little Young Master is nearly gone. Young Mistress, you are a divine physician—you must have a way to save him.”

Both Yan Qing and Luo Huaimeng were stunned.

After a moment, Luo Huaimeng asked: ‘You say this is the little Young Master—which little Young Master?’

Qing Mei wept as she spoke: “After Concubine Qiu Cao fled the hospital, she intended to find a place to settle down and safely deliver the little Young Master. But barely had we escaped when we ran into rebel soldiers. These rebels, seeing that Concubine Qiu Cao had some beauty to her, seized and took her away.”

Luo Huaimeng recalled that Yan Qing had once said Qiu Cao, even if she escaped, would most likely meet a bad end—and that prediction had turned out to be right.

Qing Mei continued weeping: “Those men were worse than animals. Concubine Qiu Cao was still pregnant, and they—they just…”

“Beasts. Every one of them,” said Luo Huaimeng—any woman who heard of such a thing would be filled with righteous fury, even if Luo Huaimeng had always harbored resentment toward Qiu Cao for having harmed Yan Qing. Even so, hearing of Qiu Cao’s fate filled her with deep sorrow.

“Concubine Qiu Cao knelt and begged those men, saying she would let them do as they wished with her after the child was born—only let her deliver the baby first.”

Qing Mei broke into fresh sobs at this memory. ‘Those men agreed to spare Concubine Qiu Cao for the time being, but the moment her child was born, they began their brutish ways again. The little Young Master, having been malnourished from birth, nearly lost his life then and there. Yet those men neither cared for him nor let Concubine Qiu Cao tend to him—only I, bearing the risk of beatings, dared to look after him.’

Qing Mei thought of her own ordeal, and her tears came faster still.

If only she had not listened to Qiu Cao and had stayed in the Shi Mansion, life would not have been pleasant, but at least she would not have suffered so inhumanly. Those men had not only kept a hold on Concubine Qiu Cao—she had not escaped their attentions either, though being of ordinary looks, she seemed to hold little appeal for them; on their territory, she was made to do the work of a servant, and any disobedience brought a beating.

Rather than being a plaything there, she would sooner have been placed under house arrest in the Shi Mansion. She truly regretted it to the marrow of her bones.

“Young Mistress, Second Madam.” Qing Mei still did not know that Luo Huaimeng had become the proper Madam of the Shi household, and still used the old form of address.

“The little Young Master seems about to pass—he has had a fever for the past two days, and those men have refused to find him a doctor. If the fever goes on like this, he will certainly die.” Qing Mei was deeply attached to this child—she had been by his side since he came into the world and had cared for him throughout. “I truly did not know who else to turn to, and so I came back to the Shi Mansion. No matter what, this child carries the blood of the Shi family in his veins—he is a descendant of the Shi household. I beg the Young Mistress and the Second Madam to have mercy on an innocent child and save him.”

As Qing Mei spoke, the child wrapped in the bundle suddenly let out a cry. One corner of that tattered blanket was pushed open by his small arm.

Yan Qing saw the child’s face—thin and sallow, like a small underdeveloped monkey.

Because of the fever, the child’s face was flushed a deep red, and his throat, raw from incessant crying, could only produce a hoarse and rasping sound.

The little arm exposed outside the blanket was as thin as a stick of bamboo, his tiny hand like the wizened claw of a starved chick.

Seeing this child, not only Yan Qing but even Luo Huaimeng felt a pang of heartache and pity.

This should have been a healthy and thriving child. He should have been the little Young Master of the Shi Mansion. Yet here he was, struggling at the very edge of death.