“That night of New Year’s Eve, when you were at my house — you said that war is all the same for the dead. But actually, it isn’t the same. The battle at Mingsha River was last October. I kept thinking — what was I doing in October? I remembered eventually: I was busy chartering boats to ship cotton cloth from the northern frontier to the capital. I used shallow-hulled grain barges; each one could carry five hundred stone of grain, and ten boats loaded with cotton came to two hundred thousand jin — I had to account for the cotton absorbing water and risking the boat capsizing. Two hundred thousand jin of cotton arriving in the capital meant two hundred thousand people could put on warm padded jackets. And that was only what my one household was trading — the capital had countless other cloth merchants doing the same, to say nothing of the rest of the country.”

“Because your five thousand soldiers died at Mingsha River — because you and your men held the northern frontier. The capital had countless people this year who were able to wear cotton cloth from the north, and countless people across the country were able to have a warm winter. Among them were the parents of those soldiers. Their brothers and sisters.” She looked at Pei Zhao calmly. “Their deaths were not without meaning. Victory and defeat are different. When you win, the country is able to flourish; the people are able to live in peace and security. The ten thousand lights of this Lantern Festival that you are looking at right now — this is the meaning of your five thousand soldiers who died at Mingsha River.”

She was not Qinglan. She could not speak the words of sages and scholars. She schemed and competed and fought her way forward, and compared to the wellborn daughters of great families, she was, in many ways, more like a merchant. But she had her own understanding, and she would use it to reason with Pei Zhao.

She had not expected his answer.

“I know.” He told her with a calm smile. “That is precisely why I gave the order to send five thousand men to fill the river — only to buy Cui Jingyu half a day.”

Lingbo’s eyes went wide with shock.

So he had known the consequence. He had known the cost. When he gave the order, he had known they would certainly die — that he would lose the entirety of his own troops — and that when commendations came, his own name would not be among them. Because of his losses, Cui Jingyu would receive the honors.

“Besides, I’m not in low spirits over that — I have my own reasons,” Pei Zhao added.

Lingbo could not help herself. “And what reasons are those?”

Pei Zhao smiled and winked at her.

“Can’t tell you.”

Lingbo had no patience for him. She turned to look at the people below, watching the lanterns — this was the height of the festivities now, and everyone was strolling along Baixi Street with lanterns in hand, the river of lights stretching out like a great dragon.

Call her unsubtle, sharp-tempered — she knew she had reached out first, had laid bare a soft part of herself to draw out what lay deepest in Pei Zhao. It was something her mother had taught her: Yanyan had been too young to remember, Qinglan had heard it more, not quite like her — but she had understood from the age of twelve, the year their mother died, just as she was beginning to understand the world, and so every lesson her mother had taught her was fixed in her memory. Treat those who are “your own people” with care. Be the kind of master who can shelter others from wind and rain. Reach out with good faith first, even when it runs against your nature — strive to hold to it.

Even knowing, as she did, that very often it was not the right approach — that sometimes it was simply whoever had the power who prevailed. At the Spring Welcome Banquet, when everything had gone wrong, it had not been Han Yueqi’s principles that saved the day — it had been the sudden arrival of the King of Rui. And Father Ye and Pan Yurong had faced no retribution whatsoever; they were enjoying wealth and glory to the fullest, and tonight, of all nights, had made a grand procession through the Lantern Festival.

“Are you angry?” Pei Zhao leaned in again to look at her — smiling in that way she knew all too well by now, and which she knew made him feel enormously pleased with himself.

Being able to rile someone up and then coax them back gives a great sense of triumph — like holding the thread of another person’s moods, where the very possession of it brings satisfaction — much like the way Lingbo, after acquiring the Ruyi Pavilion, found herself suffused with a sense of sweetness even without eating a single confection.

“You think I’m like you — that petty.” Lingbo scolded him once, and seeing him only listen with that placid smile, felt a wave of wistfulness wash over her. She could not hold herself back from asking.

“Pei Zhao, I genuinely don’t understand you. What’s wrong with having power? To my mind, influence is the finest thing — it lets you protect the people you want to protect, take the revenge you want to take. And if not power, then wealth will do. I’ve told you about what happened to my family when I was twelve. From that moment, I swore that no one close to me would ever live like that again.” She asked him: “And look — things are good now. Qinglan, Yanyan, A’Cuo — I can protect every person in my household. If you were willing, you could be far more capable than I am. What of your family? What of your ambitions?”

“They’re all dead,” Pei Zhao said — just those three words.

Lingbo was so exasperated she almost laughed.

“All right, I’ve given up on you. Let’s go — I’ll take you downstairs to see some of the festival. Stop haunting this dark place all the time; if someone sees you, they’ll think you’re a thief.”

Lingbo brought Pei Zhao down, though in practice it was more Pei Zhao leading her — the eyes of an archer were sharpest in the world, and Lingbo’s little rabbit lantern was nearly burned out, its light grown very dim. Pei Zhao held the lantern in one hand and took her arm with the other, guiding her down from the city wall. Lingbo was genuinely afraid of the dark, and could hardly see at all — but following him, step by step, she found she was at ease.

She really had not been wrong about him. He was born for a grand occasion like the Lantern Festival, and there is an instinct in all people for beauty — those who possess it naturally enjoy an advantage from birth. She had heard that even the court, when selecting officials, favored those of distinguished bearing. A man like him, the moment he chose to step into the world, would find no shortage of people willing to take his hand and lift him up.

Even the small merchants on Baixi Street were no exception. Pei Zhao, seeing her lantern had gone out, went to a lantern riddle stall to borrow a flame, asking the stall keeper: “Excuse me — might I trouble you for a light?” The keeper was a couple in their thirties — the wife looked sharp and capable. She came over readily, but when she caught sight of his face, she stopped short.

“Your candle is nearly burned through, sir — let me replace it for you,” the woman said warmly, and without waiting for Pei Zhao’s reply, went ahead and did so at once, then smiled and said admiringly: “What a fine-looking gentleman. You must be the son of an official household?”

Pei Zhao only smiled faintly and said nothing.

He was, in truth, not easy to be around. He seemed perpetually unhurried and good-humored, yet in reality cared about no one — drawing nearer by degrees from a distance, unlike Lingbo, who came close by degrees from afar, scolding people one moment and turning around to earnestly worry on their behalf the next.

But only someone with Pei Zhao’s temperament could be properly matched with a face like his.

Baixi Street was already crowded on any given day, but tonight — the one evening each year when the daughters of every household came out, attended only by a maidservant or two, free to wander the streets until deep into the night — every family had sent their most beautifully dressed young women out into the world. All along the street, young ladies and married women alike filled the air with perfume and soft laughter, walking shoulder to shoulder. A man of Pei Zhao’s looks, and his height, in that brocade robe, was like the moon descended to earth among men — and everywhere he passed, countless young ladies and matrons turned to stare. Some, the shy ones, only looked back with reluctance; more, emboldened by the festive night, followed quietly behind. The daughters of modest households, where rules were less strict, had already pushed their sisters-in-law and aunties forward, pestering them to ask “which household’s young master might this be?”

Pei Zhao only smiled, said nothing, did not look back, and simply kept pulling Lingbo along. Lingbo had always been wary of these sorts of situations — not at all like Qinglan, who was effortlessly composed in any company — and for all her understanding of people, she was genuinely fearful of crowds. She always felt that being watched by many eyes boded ill, so she was even more ill at ease than Pei Zhao, almost burying herself in the hood of her cloak as she walked.

It was precisely because of this that almost none of the young ladies paid any attention to her — all eyes were on Pei Zhao. Some asked his name; some asked his family; some offered lanterns, some offered sachets… Every one of them red-cheeked, smiling, faces bright with hope.

But Xiao Liu’er was having none of it.

“Why are you all crowding in like this? There’s a whole wide road — walk your own way! Why are you following us?”

But anyone daring enough to trail after a handsome young man and pepper him with questions was hardly going to be put off by a timid young miss — and even the shyer ones had their own servants and aunties to speak for them. The crowd burst into laughter at once:

“What a temper on this young lady!” “The Lantern Festival is meant for young men and women to look each other over — what’s wrong with asking a name?” “The gentleman hasn’t even said anything yet — why is the maid getting worked up?” “This little maid is getting anxious — is she worried someone might take a liking to her young master?”

Xiao Liu’er, clever as she was, found herself no match for so many voices. Lingbo saw that she was too flustered to hold her ground, and restrained her: “Don’t start a quarrel, Xiao Liu’er.”

But there were sharp ears in the crowd, and someone immediately caught it: “So the surname is Liu?” “Is there an official household in the capital with the surname Liu?”

The crowd following them grew thicker by the minute, until they were pressed up against the front of a teahouse below the stretch they’d been heading toward, with no way of getting back to Han Yueqi’s booked venue. Pei Zhao had no choice but to stop, step in front of Lingbo and Xiao Liu’er to shield them, and turned to face the crowd with an easy smile: “If the young ladies would please allow…”

But, by some odd stroke of fate, there happened to be people upstairs in the teahouse watching the lanterns as well — an entire family had booked the place out, bringing all the women of the household with them. Five or six young ladies of their own, plus relatives and close friends, made a gathering of some twenty-odd young women, all upstairs watching the commotion. When they heard the noise and leaned over the railing to look, Pei Zhao happened to glance up — and the upper floor erupted in a wave of sound.

“It’s the young general of the Northern Garrison,” a sharp-eyed girl cried at once. “The one who bested Marquis Cui at Cui’s enfeoffment banquet.”

Instantly the young ladies upstairs all rushed to the railing to look. No one knew quite who started it — perhaps someone fumbled their grip — but a plum blossom fell down from above, the one used for a drinking game upstairs. That single flower set things off: flowers and fruit came raining down after it, and the floor below responded in kind, with some throwing fans and others throwing handkerchiefs and sachets, everyone calling out to the young general.

“It really is a shower of gifts for a handsome man,” Lingbo observed from behind, with a hint of amusement in her voice. “The upstairs must be the Jin family — they’re the new money of the capital now. At this rate, there’ll certainly be a Gao Huan for General Pei before long.”

Pei Zhao laughed despite himself.

But he was nimble — after all, he had led men in battle. Without pausing for Xiao Liu’er, he grabbed Lingbo’s hand and pushed quickly through the crowd, ignoring every attempt to engage him, and on the way past a mask stall, picked one up in passing and put it on — then tossed the vendor a silver ingot. Lingbo’s sharp eyes caught that it bore the mark of an imperial commendation from a victory banquet.

He really was generous. No wonder he was perpetually out of money.

Baixi Street was not large, but he wound through it with ease, losing most of their followers; for the handful of persistent ones, he led Lingbo into a side alley and ducked behind a plum tree at the entrance, and those last few lost the trail as well.

“You certainly know your way around here,” Lingbo said, laughing at him. “General Pei is remarkably skilled at running away.”

“I memorized the layout from the city wall,” Pei Zhao said, glancing outside to confirm no one was following them. He turned back to her with a smile: “Surely Miss Ye hasn’t forgotten which way is home?”

Lingbo’s response was to step on his foot.

“We really should have let them carry General Pei off — there’d certainly be a fine husband’s post waiting for him.”

But she knew, of course, that it was only a joke. Anyone bold enough to chase after a handsome man through the streets was at most a girl from a modest household. The truly great families — even newly risen ones like the Jin family — would keep their daughters properly reserved; they were more likely to quietly note the young man’s face, then have their aunties and mothers whisper to their fathers, who would approach Pei Zhao’s elders through proper channels.

After those three arrows from the望 Tower, she imagined no small number of people had quietly made inquiries about him with the Northern Garrison. Pei Zhao had barely shown his face at any of the social gatherings since — she guessed this was probably why.

And yet here was a man who simply refused to advance.

The splendor of the festival outside, the flowers and the lights, were the perfect setting for his looks, his skill, his youth — all of it was made for the golden hall, for spring breezes and triumph. One appearance was all it would have taken for his name to be on every tongue in the city.

And yet he refused to go. He would rather hide in this quiet alley, leaning against a plum tree that had already shed its blossoms, keeping company with her as though they were both standing outside the world.

Pei Zhao knew Lingbo far too well. One look at her expression told him what she was about to say.

“Miss Ye is preparing another lecture,” he said — she could hear the smile in his voice even through the mask. He leaned lazily against the plum tree: “Have mercy on me. You know I’m a hopeless case.”

“Who said anything about lecturing?” Lingbo glanced at his face and said, with distaste: “That thing looks ridiculous on you. Absolutely hideous.”

Pei Zhao took no offense, and smiled, pushing the mask up to look at her.

If she were as good-looking as he was, wearing a mask? She would have gone straight to the lantern tower and made the whole capital kneel at her feet. The Lantern Festival, and all those brilliant lights — this was exactly the time for joy and glory.

A’Cuo managed all right, and wasn’t making herself miserable. But Shen Biwei was just the same as him — always wearing fine clothes in the dark, always wasting her gifts. On a night like this, Biwei had thrown on any old outfit, paid no attention to the lanterns, and vanished without a trace.

“It’s exactly people like you who enjoy wasting their time,” she scolded him again. “Look at Cui Jingyu — he seems cold and distant, but he hasn’t let a single advantage slip past him: the marquisate, the public recognition, and here he is tonight for the Lantern Festival, same as everyone else. Don’t you feel like you’re missing out?”

“He and I are different,” Pei Zhao said simply. “He’s the mountain; I’m the rain. Each of us has our own way.”

Lingbo naturally understood that he meant their different camps. Cui Jingyu was the prized disciple of General Wei; his own Fire character camp had a more complex web of factions.

“His is the Mountain character camp, yours is the Fire character camp — where does this Rain character camp come from?”

“Rain is water — water and fire are both forces of nature, different but alike,” Pei Zhao said, laughing at her.

Lingbo gave up trying to determine how much truth there was in any of it. This man’s circuitous thoughts were all deployed in service of jokes, and never once turned toward anything productive.

“You’re so fond of wordplay — why don’t you go solve some lantern riddles?”

“I don’t like lantern riddles.”

“Then what do you like?” Lingbo had finally found a bit of space to tidy herself — she set about straightening the ties on her cloak, seriously working at a knot she was undoing and retying. She was in the middle of it when she heard Pei Zhao say, with a smile: “I just like this — hiding in an alley with Miss Ye, playing with words.”

Lingbo was used to these occasional remarks of his by now. She knew this was the nature of someone like him — always ready with a light provocation, like a person who perpetually carries a scented sachet on their person, the fragrance drifting out at all times. If you took it seriously, the awkwardness was entirely your own.

“I’ve no patience for you either — you’re someone who doesn’t know what’s good for you, anyway. I don’t know why I spend all my time worrying about you when my own family keeps me busy enough…”

“I know why Miss Ye spends all her time worrying about me,” Pei Zhao said suddenly, with a smile.

“Why?” Lingbo looked at him with a hint of disdain.

She already knew the answer, of course — even as she asked. She expected that even if Pei Zhao couldn’t quite bring himself to say something like “Miss Ye has always had my best interests at heart,” he would at least make a joke about it: “Because Miss Ye claims me as her own.”

What she did not expect was for Pei Zhao to say: “Miss Ye only wants information from me.”

Lingbo’s temper flared so sharply she nearly kicked him.

“I’ve clearly wasted my time knowing you. As if I need anything from you!” She scolded him, and went to strike him. But Pei Zhao had already hung her rabbit lantern on the plum tree — the light fell into his eyes, full of laughter like spring waters in Jiangnan — and Lingbo realized only then that he had been watching her with that smile all along.

She remembered. Those words had been her own, spoken that day on the mountain.

The vengeful scoundrel.

“All you know is how to hold grudges,” Lingbo scolded him. “I said that back then to make you push yourself forward…”

Pei Zhao said nothing. He only turned his face toward her. Lingbo was in the middle of scolding him when he suddenly drew close, startling her.

“What are you doing?”

Pei Zhao pointed to his ear, and seeing Lingbo’s bewilderment, turned his face back to her and smiled: “Look — the calluses have already formed.”