Xiao Liu’er ultimately still cared whether Pei Zhao lived or died. Seeing her own young miss go cold-faced, clench her fists, and refuse even to attend the evening banquet, she knew some General Pei was in for trouble.
She knew her own young miss’s gift for holding grudges better than anyone, being her maidservant.
But her brother was equally capable — on Lingbo’s word alone, word came in no time via a maidservant: “He’s in the apricot grove.”
Lingbo immediately picked up her lantern and marched off toward the apricot grove. Xiao Liu’er followed behind, watching her young miss storm off with that murderous air, her own heart in tangles.
She had also heard from her brother — by all rights, the young miss and General Pei had agreed to part ways. Since they had parted, Pei Zhao showing favor to anyone was entirely his prerogative and couldn’t be called fickle. So why was her young miss still this angry?
But Xiao Liu’er had seen enough plays and heard enough stories to understand perfectly well why. Thinking about it, she had to suppress a smile. So even someone as clever as her young miss could be blind to her own heart when she was in the middle of it. Pei Zhao, by drawing flocks of young misses to him, had managed to overturn her young miss’s jar of vinegar.
Xiao Liu’er walked ahead with the lantern, leading the way. This season the apricot blossoms hadn’t actually opened yet — it had been a cold winter, and spring was coming late. The flower branches traced diagonal lines in the dark, branches heavy with tight clusters of buds. The sight called to mind, for some reason, a line from a play: The shadow of flowers stirs along the wall — could that be the figure of my beloved approaching?
When she finally caught sight of Pei Zhao standing quietly beneath the apricot tree — arms folded, leaning against the trunk — any notion of a late-arriving spring seemed suddenly worthwhile.
Xiao Liu’er smiled inwardly and found a pretext: “Young miss, I’ll go and see if any of the apricot trees have bloomed.” And with that, she slipped away, giving the two of them space to talk.
It had only been a fleeting glance, but she had trained herself well by now — she didn’t only look at Pei Zhao’s face anymore. She also noticed that he was casually holding both flower balls in his hand — assembled from silk flowers, apricot blossom sprigs, plum blossoms, and satin ribbons, all put together hastily from the banquet, yet still delicate and charming thanks to the skillful hands of the ladies who had made them.
General Pei might have made a show of flirting, but in the end he hadn’t tossed either flower ball up to the gallery. He had kept them for her young miss after all.
What a pity Lingbo didn’t see it that way.
She held her own lantern, and though she had come with a fierce stride of fury, she stopped the moment she drew near — standing still, regarding Pei Zhao coolly.
Pei Zhao smiled at her.
In truth Lingbo could see it too — when she had arrived, Pei Zhao was folded-armed beneath the tree, looking loose and unhurried, his eyes naturally carrying that warmth of his, those peach-blossom eyes. But what had surrounded his whole person was a certain detachment. The moment he saw her, he gave a genuine smile, the kind that reached his eyes.
But she had gone soft on him before, time and again — if she let it happen again now, she would spend the rest of their time being thoroughly held in the palm of his hand.
“For you.” Pei Zhao teased her again, in the manner of Shen Biwei and himself — people who enjoyed mischief for no reason at all. Lingbo called it having nothing better to do. He tied both flower balls to a branch, like a pair of small lanterns, and presented them to Lingbo with a flourish.
Lingbo took them — and threw them at him.
The first one he dodged; it struck the apricot tree behind him, and the ball, loosely bound to begin with, burst apart on impact, scattering apricot branches, plum sprigs, silk flowers, and satin ribbons all over him. The second one he didn’t dodge — he caught it steadily, still smiling.
“When you toss a flower and it lands on someone, it means you’ve set your eyes on them — no taking it back.” He quoted the ladies’ words from earlier to tease Lingbo.
Lingbo, seeing that he had remembered them so clearly, grew even more furious.
“Since General Pei remembers so clearly, he ought to have tossed those flower balls up to the gallery,” she immediately snapped at him. “Such fine looks, such gallant bearing everywhere you go — why not go and seek yourself a noble husband? The whole gallery full of young misses adores you. General Pei has boundless prospects — what do you need to give them to me for?”
She knew herself that this temper of hers made no sense: you won’t be with Pei Zhao, but you won’t let him be with anyone else either? No matter who admired Pei Zhao, or who he might come to admire, that was only natural. This was the Flower Festival Season — banquets held precisely for men and women to look each other over. Even betrothed couples were free to break off engagements. And you have no claim on Pei Zhao whatsoever…
But picturing Pei Zhao pledging himself to another woman still made her feel as though her lungs might burst.
It wasn’t even about gain or loss — it was something closer to a primal fury. By the time she became aware of it, she had already torn several small slits in her handkerchief.
What she actually wanted to tear was not the handkerchief, but Pei Zhao’s face.
And yet Pei Zhao just smiled and asked: “Wasn’t it the young miss who said we should go our separate ways?”
Those words pricked Lingbo’s conscience. It was indeed she who had done it — things had been fine before her birthday, but the morning after she woke up from drinking too much at the celebration, lying in her room feeling an inexplicable hollowness, the peregrine falcon gone, the fortune-teller nun’s prophecy already spoken — peach blossoms and flowing water, a beginning without an end — it had seemed better to cut things off cleanly rather than let more trouble arise. So she had told Liu Ji to carry the message to him: go their separate ways, let bridges be bridges and roads be roads.
And Pei Zhao hadn’t clung or argued — hadn’t said a word extra. Yet she herself had grown anxious and come racing after him halfway through a polo match, which was thoroughly undignified.
Lingbo knew she had no leg to stand on, so she said no more — simply stood where she was, cold-faced, in the manner of someone stubbornly refusing to surrender. Seeing her like this, Pei Zhao was both exasperated and amused, and took a step toward her. She immediately stepped back. Pei Zhao watched, then smiled and said: “In that case, I might as well go to the peacock-screen selection…”
The peacock-screen bride-selection was a famous old tale — Pei Zhao was deliberately teasing her.
“Don’t you dare!”
Pei Zhao immediately broke into a proper laugh, then leaned closer to look at her. Lingbo’s instinct was to pull back, but Pei Zhao said: “Watch out.” Her back had been to the apricot tree — her foot caught on a root and she stumbled backward. Luckily Pei Zhao had already extended his arm, catching her around the waist and pulling her upright.
No wonder the ancients always used the stratagem of beauty — a face that striking, drawn up this close, truly could make one’s spirit go adrift and lose all composure.
But Pei Zhao’s character was deplorable in this precise way: he was perfectly aware of his own effect, and still smiled and teased her: “Well. I’m going to get hit again.”
“Don’t talk nonsense.” Lingbo immediately pushed him away, assuming Qinglan’s manner, drawing herself up and wielding the dignity of a noble young lady, saying tartly: “When have I ever hit you? ‘Going to get hit again,’ indeed.”
“You just hit me.” Pei Zhao only smiled at her, showing her where his clothes had been stained with flower sap from the branches.
“Worthless rags,” Lingbo immediately said with contempt. “You penniless border soldier — wearing nothing but worn-out clothes, and you have the nerve to show them to me.”
Pei Zhao, having received a scolding, immediately put on an injured expression. When Lingbo relented and stopped, he immediately smiled again and said: “When I was wearing my worn-out clothes, Miss Ye still scolded me. If I’d worn something decent to the polo match, Miss Ye would certainly have jumped off the gallery to beat me.”
It was a remark both cutting and funny, and it hit Lingbo’s weak point precisely. It was true — today he had only worn an old, faded blue battle robe, and it had already brought down a rain of blossoms from the whole gallery. If he’d come in one of those two robes of embroidered brocade — the outcome was too dreadful to imagine.
Lingbo couldn’t argue against it, so she grew even more irritated, and immediately turned to leave. Pei Zhao, being mischievous, caught her sleeve. Lingbo made a motion to strike him — and then heard Pei Zhao ask, with laughter in his voice: “Would Miss Ye be willing to accept the flowers of a penniless border soldier?”
“Unwilling.” Lingbo held her heart firm as iron. “I’ve said it before — I want power. If not power, then money will do. Without one or the other, what do I have to protect my family?”
She even turned the question on Pei Zhao: “Why will you simply not strive to advance yourself? Shen Biwei’s indifference comes from feeling the world offers women no path forward. But the court hasn’t grown so dark that there’s no path, has it? Even with someone like Chen Bozong in the mix, both Master Shen and Marquis Wei reached their positions by honest means. You could follow their example.”
These were words that had been said to him so many times, Pei Zhao felt like calluses had grown on his ears. But he had genuine patience, and only smiled faintly, saying: “If I don’t strive to advance, Miss Ye won’t be with me?”
Ye Lingbo steeled her heart and said: “Yes.”
“Then why did Miss Ye come looking for me today?” Pei Zhao only smiled with self-deprecating eyes cast downward. “After all, I’m nothing but a man who refuses to amount to anything.”
Here we go again, here we go again — always the same. Just like earlier under the View Pavilion, he’d shown three parts of a hurt expression and set the whole gallery of ladies and misses spinning. In truth, who in this world had his luck — looks like his, skills like his, wealth and glory a single step away, everything he could ask for — and yet refusing to reach for any of it.
Lingbo pressed herself to hold firm, not letting herself go soft the way those ladies and misses had. Out of pure stubbornness she snapped: “Because I still need you to help me find out about Cui Jingyu!”
The last time she’d said that, it had sent Pei Zhao into a fury. But this time Pei Zhao only raised his eyes and looked at her.
She had always known that peach-blossom eyes were good for conveying affection. She hadn’t known that when they showed pain, they were just as disarming — making one want to agree to anything.
But he was Pei Zhao, after all.
He had lost his entire force at Mingsha River, and lived through night after night of the guilt that followed — yet he had never once brought it out to trade for anyone’s pity.
“I’ll go and kill Cui Jingyu right now,” he said, unhurried and calm.
Lingbo was laughed out of her anger and gave him a shove. “Then go — go right now.” She was half furious, half genuinely amused, urging this wretch: “Why aren’t you moving? Weren’t you going to beat him? Go and kill Cui Jingyu and put us all out of our misery.”
Pei Zhao was shoved, and showed not the slightest irritation — if anything, he laughed.
“I’d lose,” he said, candidly.
Lingbo was fully disarmed at that — furious and amused at once, she gave him two fierce pinches and said: “I genuinely want to beat you to death, Pei Zhao. How can a person be this maddening? Would you die if you went one day without provoking someone?”
Pei Zhao bore her pinches without flinching or pulling away, and only looked at the spot she had pinched. Lingbo suddenly became aware that she had overstepped, and quickly withdrew her hand, instinctively pulling back and watching him with wariness — then laughed a little at her own caution.
This was Pei Zhao. The gallery had been full of misses waiting for his flower ball. If anyone knew, they’d mock her for it — Ye Lingbo, plain as she was, carrying herself in front of him like some precious, sheltered maiden guarding her dignity…
But the way Pei Zhao looked at her could not exactly be called innocent.
Lingbo had suspected many things, but for some reason there was not a single moment when she had truly suspected Pei Zhao of playing her false — of feigning his affection for her while secretly having some ulterior motive.
Perhaps it was the way he looked at her. His gaze was nearly burning in its intensity. Peach-blossom eyes were naturally flirtatious, seeming to glimmer and ripple for everyone — but when he looked at her, it was always with that fixed attention. Lingbo could barely bring herself to meet his eyes. The feeling was like warming by a fire in winter — hold too close, and even through the skin one could feel the heat, as though about to be scorched. The instinct was to step away.
She had never been the object of someone’s deep affection before. But she had the self-awareness of a twenty-year-old young woman, and there were times when she felt something like danger — because she knew this person’s liking for her was real, like a watchful adversary ready at any moment to break into her world and take it over, laying claim to everything in it.
At moments like this, Pei Zhao was always unusually quiet, and it was she herself who felt her thoughts in chaos, always casting about for some words to break the dangerous silence.
If only he weren’t this stubborn, how much better things might be. She could be like Qinglan with Cui Jingyu — pledge herself to him, and from that moment forward, every banquet of the Flower Festival Season would be different, because he would always be there. Peach blossoms seen many times, tung blossoms, the full courtyard of peonies, the pale light of dawn and the sky blazing at dusk — as long as she saw them with him, they would always be different…
But the music of the distant banquet drifted over, reminding her that this was the Apricot Blossom Banquet, and she was Ye Lingbo, and he was Pei Zhao — Pei Zhao who would sooner die than strive for advancement.
In the end, peach blossoms and flowing water — fated to meet, never to stay.
“Is it the He family?” Lingbo asked suddenly.
“What?” There were things even Pei Zhao couldn’t follow.
“Are you an illegitimate son of the He family?” In the faint glow of the lantern, Lingbo put the question to him. Her face was fine-boned and sharp — too sharp, perhaps — every feature narrow and spare, and in the light it had the quality of thin ice: its edge cold and keen. She looked at Pei Zhao’s eyes with that expression of calm and asked: “The He family’s second branch once had a brief liaison in Tongzhou that produced a son who was never acknowledged. Are you that son? Or are you an outside child of the Hao family?”