That beam of light stabbed in from the dark depths, startling her into a tremor — she thought she had seen daylight.

When the ring of light gradually moved closer, she understood her mistake. In this cell dark as eternal night, how could there be any daylight? What came was a lamp.

This lamplight was like a full moon. On ordinary days the jailers carried wind-lanterns that flickered like ghost-fire.

She curled herself and shrank into the far corner of the damp, cold cell wall, narrowing her eyes. Having been long deprived of daylight, her sight had weakened — looking toward the light brought a sharp, stinging pain.

The bright light stopped before the cell door. It was a palace lantern.

The person holding the lantern had her head lowered and her double coils of hair neatly pinned.

Behind her was another person, concealed within a hood, their features unidentifiable.

The jailer stepped forward with a rustle and unlocked the cell door, deferentially saying, “The woman prisoner Ying Niang is within.”

“Bring her out.”

From beneath the hood, the one who spoke was a woman, her voice uncommonly cool and clear.

The cage door creaked open with a musty smell. The jailer stepped inside and yanked the woman curled within a heap of tattered rags to her feet.

The woman prisoner was slight in figure — release her and she collapsed back to the ground.

The palace lantern moved forward, casting light upon her filth-covered body, her disheveled hair obscuring her features, utterly haggard.

The woman beneath the hood sighed.

Ying Niang lay prone on the ice-cold floor. In that sigh she heard compassion, and straining against the weakness in her neck, she managed to lift her head, sending a pleading look.

Before her was the trailing of a robe, revealing a section of palace silk — beautiful and cool in its gleam.

She reached out a hand wanting to grasp that corner of the beautiful cloth, as beautiful as former days.

The robed woman stepped back half a pace, and commanded in a calm voice, “Wash her and make her clean.”

Outside it was already deep in the night, the dew cold and the moon white.

Ying Niang had only tilted her head to take one look at the shape of the moon before she was ushered into a horse carriage, thick felt-matting lowered, and the carriage walls sealed without a gap.

Her wet hair had not yet dried. The clean, plain cloth robe freshly changed into was probably the kind given to prisoners about to be sent on their way.

She stroked the skin on her arms — prison had rubbed them rough. Without a mirror, she did not know what her withered face looked like now.

This was the first time in three months of imprisonment that she had been cleaned up. Watching the mud and filth rinse off from head to foot, she almost doubted that this skin of flesh and bone still belonged to her.

She lay down, softly stroking the silk-cushioned seat inside the carriage. Compared to the cold, damp cell, the carriage interior was already pure luxury. She would not mind dying right here.

Horse hooves rang swift, the wheels rolled and sped — this journey ran longer than she had expected.

At last it came to a stop. The curtain was pulled back, night wind rushed in, bringing with it a sweet, familiar fragrance that startled her heart.

Steadying herself on the carriage shaft to step down, her knees went soft as she landed, and Ying Niang looked at the dark, silent mansion looming before her, swathed in night mist, and for a moment lost her senses.

Three months ago, this had been the formidable Prime Minister’s residence.

Now fallen leaves covered the steps, and a scene of desolation met the eye. A solitary moon hung over an empty eave. Crows circled the trees. There was not a breath of human sound.

Craning her neck to look up at that gate, Ying Niang gave a sharp shudder, remembering that scene of blood spattered across the vermilion gate.

That time — the wolf-smoke had broken the capital’s splendor. Troops had surrounded the prime minister’s residence. Horses had trampled the jade steps. She had been in her room when she heard the whinny of horses and shouting, the panicked cries of young children, the clash of swords and armored soldiers, carrying a smell of blood, bursting through the inner courtyard of the women’s quarters. The household servants had knelt in a row. Those who would not kneel were slaughtered on the spot. Corpses lay strewn across the paths, blood streaming along the ground. She had been terrified out of her wits, and had tremblingly followed the female members of the household as they were herded to the gate, where she saw the formation of the imperial guards, solemn and forbidding, and that woman seated in the carriage in the midst of gleaming swords and cold light — her face bare of paint, covered in frost.

The Princess Consort of Yuzhang.

At the memory of that name, another chill swept through her. It seemed she would see again that gaze, cold as snow and frost, piercing straight through her.

She had never imagined she would return here in this lifetime. This prime minister’s residence. This inner courtyard. This Guangzhu.

He had given her a place to stay in the southern corner of the prime minister’s inner garden, separated by a channel of water, connected by a small bridge, and named it Guangzhu.

The time spent here had been different from time spent elsewhere — the light seemed not to pass through this place, the days only long and the nights only still. Even the flight of birds overhead seemed muted. She had once asked him where the “guang” — the “wide” — was in Guangzhu. He had smiled without answering.

In prison those three months, countless times had she thought of this place. No longer feeling that the square stone cell was cramped or desolate. If she could encounter him again in the underworld below, she wanted to tell him — Guangzhu was the most beautiful place in the world.

She was deep in a daze, letting others do with her as they would, like a small cat badly frightened.

The once-locked gate of the former prime minister’s residence had opened. Inside lay a solemn emptiness. A trail of palace lanterns was lit, winding, lighting the path leading to Guangzhu.

The woman who had taken her from the prison wore a full-body, face-covering traveling hood, and walked in silence ahead of her, until they had walked across the curved bridge and reached the brightly lit gate of Guangzhu, at which point she stopped, removed the hood, and turned to remind her: “Be respectful before the honored guest. Give your answers carefully. There is nothing to fear.”

Those last two words made something warm stir in Ying Niang’s heart. She raised her eyes and saw, beneath the hood, a palace-dressed woman, her face aged, though the refinement of her manner was still apparent.

Within Guangzhu, moonlight pooled and flowed. The pavilions and plants spread as they always had, things in their places, the person returned.

All the candles had been lit. Palace servants waiting in the lamplight of the corridor stood silently out of sight in the darkness. This kind of solemn, formal atmosphere had never been seen here in former days.

She did not dare form even the faintest guess. Her head deeply lowered, she followed the palace woman along the covered corridor toward the center of the courtyard.

This spare and simple place — it was his regularly used study.

In the courtyard, tree shadows stood thick, cast across the ground, stirring the moonlight there into something like rippling waves, as though restless ghosts were trying to break free from the soil.

She was afraid of ghosts. Yet now she secretly hoped for one — hoped that a soul could return from beyond the Yellow Spring.

“Come with me.”

The palace woman’s voice pulled her back to herself. She followed her through the door — back to a place she had been parted from for months, as though a lifetime ago.

Inside, there was nothing left. All four walls were bare.

He had been stripped and searched, she supposed — every box and case taken away as evidence of treason. Only the dust-covered qin that had been resting beneath the window was still there, and that folding screen too remained.

She stared vacantly at the screen that separated the inner room from the railing. Beyond the railing was a courtyard with a crabapple tree, its gnarled branches reaching under the eaves. In the moonlit night, the tree’s shadows were diffuse and graceful, printed on the plain-silk screen like a natural painting.

In former days he had loved this screen, this shadow of the crabapple.

He had always loved to have her sit behind the screen, beneath the flower-shadow, and play qin for him.

He would always drink alone, never speaking, listening to the qin music until he was drunk. Those days flowed by like water — night after night like this, only the sound of the qin flowing through, not many words exchanged between them. He and she were often separated by that screen.

He only came at night, and rarely stayed the night — he slept alone most of the time.

He spoke little, only watched her from afar through that screen, his gaze falling into something like a trance.

A breeze came in from the courtyard.

Tonight’s screen still bore the same moon-shadow of former days — but the crabapple flowers had long since fallen.

On the plain silk, however, there was a faint shadow, lovely as a painting.

In the moonlight, a silhouette was cast — cloud-coiled hair towering high, robes with trailing sleeves lifted and flowing, as though from the heavens.

The palace woman bent in a bow. “This servant has brought Ying Niang.”

The shadow behind the screen shifted slightly, and a low, gentle voice came through. “You may withdraw.”

That voice — it was like cool, deep red silk passing over her — and made Ying Niang start violently.

It was her.

She had heard that voice only once before, yet could never forget it. Cold dread rose from the pit of her heart.

The rustling of skirts across the floor, the clear chime of jade pendants — sounds drifted from behind the screen.

Ying Niang sank to her knees before the shadow in a trembling collapse. “Princess Consort…”

“Are you afraid of me?” the person behind the screen asked.

“This prisoner does not dare.”

Behind the screen, there was a pause. Then the voice softened slightly. “That day I had men press a blade to your neck to force you to reveal the whereabouts of Princess Xiaom… You were frightened then.”

Ying Niang listened in confused half-understanding, not knowing who Princess Xiaom was.

Since she had been imprisoned, she had not heard a word of news from outside. She knew only that he had lost, and had died, and that no one from the Song clan could escape the collective punishment.

The Princess Consort behind the screen seemed to know what she was wondering and guessing at, and said slowly, “Princess Xiaom is the posthumous title conferred upon Yuxiu. She died in chaste martyrdom. She is no longer implicated in the case and no longer bears the name of Madame Song.”

“The Madame has also gone…” Ying Niang was not surprised. Thinking of how the Madame in the household had treated her with kindness, her heart went bleak.

“She took her own life.”

The Princess Consort’s voice was touched with grief, which was not like anything you would expect from someone who had been in a life-and-death struggle with the traitor subject.

Yet Ying Niang clearly remembered — when the troops surrounded the prime minister’s residence, the Princess Consort of Yuzhang had coldly ordered all the Song family women and children seized and taken away.

“His Majesty has pardoned the Song clan’s relatives from collective punishment by death, commuting the sentence to exile.” The Princess Consort paused, and called her by name: “Ying Niang — would you be willing to go into exile in western Shu with the Song clan’s relatives, or return to your hometown and make your own way?”

Ying Niang could not believe what she had heard. She lay prostrate on the floor for a long time, not daring to respond.

Then she heard the Princess Consort continue: “You have no connection to the treasonous case. Your name remains untarnished. From this moment on, you are a person without guilt.”

The trailing skirts and the clear chiming of jade pendants moved past behind the screen.

“Thank — thank you, Princess Consort…”

“Are you willing to go with the Song family into exile in Shu?”

Ying Niang’s heart was a jumble of confusion — joy and fear together, so great she dared not answer. She only shook her head.

“Very well. You may go wherever you wish. In the future, you must not speak Song Huai’an’s name to anyone.”

Ying Niang lay prostrate on the floor, her forehead and the tip of her nose pressed against the cold stone. Her entire body shook with a shudder.

Song Huai’an.

Those three syllables heard in her ears were like an ember jumping out of a cold, dying pile of ash — one brief bright flash, then extinguished without a trace.

“This prisoner understands and will remember.” Ying Niang closed her eyes, and choked on each word.

“You are no longer guilty. There is no need to call yourself ‘this prisoner.'” The Princess Consort paused. Her voice dropped slightly. “Ying Niang — lift your head.”

“This servant does not dare.”

Even though she had been pardoned of her crime, Ying Niang still feared this woman who could kill with a laugh and held the power of life and death in her hands.

“Lift your head.”

That low, gentle voice carried an invisible force.

Ying Niang slowly straightened her body. Her neck stiff, she raised her face, her gaze not daring to lift even a fraction — it rested flatly on the Princess Consort’s waist.

Beneath the flowing sash, the Princess Consort’s slender waist made Ying Niang start in surprise — the Princess Consort of Yuzhang, who had been able to command troops and suppress a rebellion, was in truth built so slight and delicate.

That day at the gate of the prime minister’s residence, she had not had the courage to look directly at the woman in the carriage. She only remembered, against the gleam of swords and cold armor, that gaze as cold and clear as a snowy night.

Her head deeply lowered, she held her breath beneath that same gaze once more.

She did not know how much time passed. She only felt the Princess Consort’s gaze resting on her face without wavering. The sweat gradually seeped from Ying Niang’s temples.

“Where is your home?”

The question let the breath she had been holding escape, and her eyelids trembled slightly. “In reply to the Princess Consort, this servant was a refugee child abandoned by her family. Taken in by a travelling troupe of performers from childhood, I followed the troupe to the imperial capital at twelve years of age… My home region — I truly do not know.”

The Princess Consort’s gaze seemed to move from her face to her hands. “Hold out your hands.”

Ying Niang slowly raised both hands, palms up. Her sleeves slid back to her elbows, revealing thin wrists.

These were indeed hands that had grown qin-calluses and worked hard from childhood — graceful yet not soft.

The Princess Consort said nothing for a long time. A sigh, barely audible, left her lips. “In the days to come, where do you intend to go?”

Ying Niang hesitated slightly, and asked in a timid voice: “If I may be so permitted, this servant wishes to go to… Huizhou.”

“Huizhou?”

The Princess Consort’s voice lifted slightly. In the deep silence of the night room, a trace of something cool suddenly surfaced — enough to make Ying Niang fall silent.

Behind the screen, tree shadows swayed. Outside the courtyard, the leaves rustled softly.

“Why Huizhou?” The Princess Consort asked, her tone level.

Huizhou. How wondrous a name.

Had those two characters not shone like the moon in the sky, day by day down into the dark and gloomy stone cell of the prison — had they not supported her through each day of torment — Ying Niang thought, she might not have endured to this day.

How many times, waking at midnight from freezing, from hunger, from being startled awake by rats and insects, she would huddle and shiver and think: I want to live through this, and go to that place like paradise. He said the place has layered mountains and flowing water, immortal peaks and jade towers, where the Milky Way is within reach of your hand and the heavenly beings are close at hand…

Every word he had said she could remember.

Those times when he was drunk and held her close as they leaned on the railing — only when he was half-dreaming and half-waking would he be willing to say so many things to her. Every word she had memorized. The moonlight had been like water then too. The Huizhou he described to her was so beautiful it did not seem of this world.

That night his gaze had been like a deep abyss, a layer of intoxicated mist floating over it.

That night he had been deep in drink. He had gripped her wrist tightly, his gaze intense, and said: One day I will take you up that high tower again, and look out over the mountains and rivers, over all under heaven!

She had never gone there with him. It was drunken talk, nothing more.

Mountains high and waters long — the capital and Huizhou were a thousand li apart. It would probably have to wait until he retired from office and returned to his hometown in old age, when she herself was an old woman and he an old man, before they could go there together, hand in hand.

She had truly once imagined that day would come. She had not known that what his heart aimed for was those nine layers of the high palace.

“Were those his words?”

The Princess Consort’s voice came very faintly, like a wisp from the sky beyond.

“Those were his words.”

Ying Niang’s expression went hazy and distant. For a moment she forgot her fear, and all the limited good memories of former days came surging back — not forgotten for even a single moment, it seemed.

The promise made in the crabapple shadow behind the screen had gone with the wind.

Yet she had held firmly to what he had once said — that the place he missed most in his life was Huizhou.

Now he was gone. Huizhou remained.

The Princess Consort sat listening in silence. Not another word or half-sentence was said, until Ying Niang’s voice caught and locked in her throat from sobbing.

A square of plain silk lifted Ying Niang’s face and dried her tears.

It was the Princess Consort’s hand — the fingers cool, with the ivory-white wrists below the palace sleeves and jade bracelets, pale as congealed frost.

Ying Niang’s gaze trembled and rose. For the first time she truly and clearly saw the Princess Consort of Yuzhang’s appearance.

Green hair and graceful brows. A brilliance clear beyond description. Something about the tips of the brows and corners of the eyes did not feel unfamiliar — as though she had seen her somewhere before.

The Princess Consort of Yuzhang at the gate of the prime minister’s residence that day was nothing like the person before her now. The phoenix-like eyes were no longer full of frost and snow — there was no cold severity to be seen, only shimmering softness and warmth.

That gaze made Ying Niang forget her fear. In a daze, it seemed as though all the griefs and hardships of this half-life, things that could not be spoken of, were all seen by these eyes — all known to this one person.

“Auntie Xu.”

The Princess Consort lowered the heavy embroidered sleeves, and her gaze seemed to retreat again behind the clouds.

The palace woman came quietly through the door from outside.

“Send her to Huizhou. Find a quiet place and settle her.”

“Yes.”

Something hot and sour surged in Ying Niang’s heart all at once. She pressed her face to the floor. “I kowtow in thanks for the Princess Consort’s life-giving grace.”

The Princess Consort turned, her voice barely concealing her exhaustion. “Go. Live your life well from now on.”

The palace woman came forward and helped Ying Niang, who would not rise, to her feet. Ying Niang struck her head to the ground again heavily. “This servant will remember the Princess Consort’s kindness all her life.”

“It is the Empress.” The palace woman said quietly beside her.

Ying Niang started. So it was — in the months she had been in prison, the world outside had changed its sovereign. Prince Yuzhang had ascended the throne. The Princess Consort was now Empress.

“There is no need to thank me. You should never have been caught up in this enmity to begin with.”

Empress Wang Xuan did not turn her head. Her voice dropped to its lowest point, and its coldest.

Following Auntie Xu toward the door, Ying Niang’s footsteps were heavy. Each step felt as though the ground was caving in beneath her, and once she stepped through, she could never come back.

This study, this Guangzhu, this door — once she crossed the threshold, she would never see it again in this lifetime.

Ying Niang suppressed the surging in her heart, yet could not resist some invisible force drawing her gaze back to the screen for one last look.

She could not move another step.

Her knees went soft, and she sank straight down.

“This servant is bold, and begs the Empress…” Prostrate on the ground, Ying Niang’s tears fell like rain. “I beg the Empress’s compassion — before I leave, may I be permitted to play one piece of music.”

The Empress did not respond.

Only Auntie Xu frowned and asked: “What piece?”

Ying Niang choked out: “The Han River Wide.”

The Empress turned back, her gaze deep and still. “Is the Han River wide?”

“Yes.” Ying Niang lowered her head, tears glimmering at her lashes. “This piece was composed by a musician at his instruction. He commanded me to learn to play it. I was clumsy and never mastered it. Then he was gone… I beg the Empress’s grace — before I leave, let me play this one piece, The Han River Wide.”

A long silence. Then the Empress asked: “Do you know what this poem means?”

Ying Niang’s head hung even lower. “This servant does not know much, does not understand literary works. I only heard him say — this place was named Guangzhu to take the character guang — wide — from the Han River Wide.”

“Guangzhu…” The Empress murmured the name softly. The lowered sleeves of her robe did not stir.

“This servant asks only to play it this one time.” Ying Niang raised her tear-covered face.

The Empress looked down at her for a long time, then gave a slow nod. “The qin is on the desk.”

Ying Niang forgot to express her thanks. She rose, swaying, and went to the desk, carefully using her sleeve to brush the dust from the qin.

The qin was a renowned instrument. The strings were its original strings. But they no longer had the brilliance of former days — even they knew the person was gone and the stage empty, that the one who had listened to the qin was here no more.

That man who had drunk himself drunk listening to the qin, who had tossed cups and danced with his sword — why did he not come back? Why did he not come to hear this one piece, The Han River Wide?

Tears fell onto the strings.

Stiff fingers touched the cold strings. The strings moved — as though cutting into the heart — trembling and spilling out a sound of grief.

The string-sound began so low, became lower still, lower still — lower until it could not be heard.

There is a man by the tall tree — he cannot rest in its shade. There is a woman of the Han — she cannot be sought. So wide the Han River — it cannot be swum across. So long the Jiang River — it cannot be rafted across. (..) The firewood is piled high — cut the southern wood. The woman is returning to her home — let the horse be well-fed. So wide the Han River — it cannot be swum across. So long the Jiang River — it cannot be rafted across.

The lingering notes faded and at last fell into silence.

One piece had ended. The room was filled with a cold, still grief.

Her hands resting on the qin could not bear to leave — with lingering fondness she stroked the strings. The glimmer of tears in Ying Niang’s eyes quietly receded, all her sorrow and bitterness released, and at last, without regret.

This piece of The Han River Wide had been played for him after all.

There was no longer any old matter to hold her back from leaving.

Ying Niang pushed the qin aside and rose. She bowed deeply to the Empress and, without a word, stepped back toward the door.

“Take the qin with you when you go.”

The Empress stood still beneath the screen, no longer turning around.

The qin was a priceless instrument, and now counted among confiscated goods.

Ying Niang stared blankly at the Empress’s back.

Auntie Xu said quietly, “She has given it to you. Take it with you.”

Ying Niang was dazed for a moment, unable to speak. She stepped forward, picked up the qin, and knelt to express her gratitude.

The Empress raised her hand, stopping her from kneeling. “It is all right.”

Ying Niang raised her eyes and, forgetting all propriety, stared at the Empress in a blank daze. “What is The Han River Wide about?”

The Empress bore no look of displeasure. Her gaze drifted somewhere far away. She said slowly: “This poem speaks of a man who longs for a woman on the other shore, separated from him by a river’s width.”

Auntie Xu, knowing she did not have the heart to finish the rest, let this woman know only half the meaning, and thought that was enough.

A river’s width of separation.

Ying Niang lowered her gaze, and a faint smile came to her lips. She thought of how he had arranged for her to live here, with a channel of water all around, a curved bridge connecting the two sides — from one shore to the other, no more than a few dozen steps. The Han River’s wide — it was this kind of feeling, this kind of sentiment.

Ying Niang cradled the qin and took her leave.

Stepping back out the door, she turned her head once more and gave a deep bow toward the shadow of the Empress behind the screen.

She was truly a woman who understood feeling and gratitude. Auntie Xu, who had come to see her out, watched silently from the side, and entrusted her to the palace servants waiting nearby, giving a slight nod.

She watched as she turned and left. That slender figure, step by step, dissolved into the shadows of the covered corridor.

Auntie Xu’s gaze rested upon it unblinking. She saw that thin retreating form, in the depths of the night, quietly straighten. In the moment of departure, something showed through that no one else was meant to see — a resilience not yet broken.

She had always thought it absurd — how could there be a resemblance? One of dragon’s bearing and phoenix’s grace, one slight and delicate — it was nothing more than a slight similarity about the brows and eyes.

And yet, in this moment, Auntie Xu let out a long, long sigh.

She turned back into the room. The room was cool and still. It seemed the sound of the qin still lingered, the regret within the melody still drifting in long threads. She saw the Empress standing beneath the screen, gazing out at the tree shadows in the courtyard, lost in thought.

“The night has grown cold.”

Auntie Xu placed a large cloak gently over the Empress’s blade-sharp shoulders.

A’Wu, still thinner… In her private heart, Auntie Xu still called her by this milk-name. She had called it for so many years — through little county princess, to Princess Consort, through to Empress — and it was always that small A’Wu.

But A’Wu was silent.

“No one has lived here for a long while. The yin energy is heavy. Your body has only just recovered — you should not linger here long.” Auntie Xu spoke her mind plainly.

“This estate is to be demolished.” A’Wu said softly.

Auntie Xu was slightly surprised. She thought for a moment and said, “That is also good. If left to go to waste long term, it is a pity.”

“The Emperor originally wanted to keep it — to return it one day to the children of the Song family… Brothers-in-arms, he always remembered them.” A’Wu looked around the room, her expression detached and level. “To demolish this estate was my idea. Moving the entire clan into exile in western Shu was the place His Majesty personally chose — the scenery there is beautiful, the fish and grain plentiful. To have the old and young of an entire clan move there, to farm and weave and settle in, to live their days in peace — it is already doing right by an old friendship and loyalty. Only the Junwen siblings — I require that they cannot leave Shu until they have passed their thirtieth year, and are never to return to the capital in all their lives.”

“Why thirty?” Auntie Xu did not understand.

“By that time, even the youngest of the children will have started a family and have a wife and children. The hatred in their hearts, though it may not be resolved, will be softened by the ties and comforts of those around them.” A’Wu’s profile was lit by the palace lantern, carrying a lustre like jade. The only warmth was the small color of her lips. “When a person has something to hold onto — it is always different.”

Auntie Xu could not find words. Her heart ached quietly — with this kind of meticulous thinking, accounting for things ten-some years ahead, how could she not wear out her body and spirit? How could she be expected to live a long and healthy life?

“Junwen is already old enough to remember things. Mountains and rivers may change, but old grievances are hard to dissolve. I cannot protect him from anything else. A great mansion and fine house cannot secure a lifetime of peace, cannot give Yuxiu rest in the world below. The only thing I can do is send him far away, to make his peace with his fate… At heart, it is my generation’s enmity, my generation’s to resolve. My only hope is that a hundred years hence, I can leave Che’er a clean and pure realm.”

Her eyes reflected the pale brightness of the moonlight. Even Auntie Xu felt she could not look at them directly.

“The capital is the place where his parents died. The coffins have also followed the clan west. With the person gone and the house empty, why keep it — what remains are nothing but regrets.” A’Wu walked slowly to the railing, tilting her head up to look at the courtyard tree. “I still remember — when we first came here, this tree was only as tall as the railing. Yuxiu loved it very much and wanted to move it into her courtyard, but Huai’an would not allow it. He was outside repairing channels and diverting water, building the separate courtyard, and would not easily let anyone enter. Yuxiu told me about it at the time, and laughed at his solitary ways. That year on Huai’an’s birthday, the Emperor brought me to join the feast — and after the banquet, the two of them, lord and minister, drank together here… They had not yet become lord and minister.”

After a moment of quiet, A’Wu said softly, “Huai’an refused to submit until his death. In his eyes, there was no longer any need to distinguish between lord and minister.”

“That treasonous rebel — he nearly brought harm to the Empress and the two young Highnesses. How could His Majesty’s pardon be worthy of him?” Auntie Xu, unable to hold back, spoke out the hatred in her heart. That day it was she who had taken charge of protecting the infant pair and fleeing — all the harrowing moments were still fresh before her eyes.

“He was originally a man of great potential… The lure of power and position was his undoing. And I too played a part in his undoing.”

A’Wu’s eyes closed slightly. Her pale fingers stroked the railing, which had gathered a layer of dust.

Auntie Xu fell silent, moved despite herself. When she thought about it carefully — what a fine Guangzhu it was, what a fine Han River Wide — that traitor was truly a man lost to love.

Outside the courtyard the tree shadows shifted. Throughout heaven and earth, there seemed to be only the sound of sighing.

A’Wu shook out her sleeve, and at last said with quiet sorrow: “So long the Jiang River — it cannot be rafted across… Huai’an — you always knew it was something that could not be done.”

Wide as the Han River, long as the water’s flow — there was no crossing to the end.

The person before your eyes. The wound upon your heart. Forever on the other shore.