Xiao Nanhui stared at the cloth pouch on the table, then looked toward Yaoyi.

“This is…”

Yaoyi did not look at her, and his voice carried a kind of self-loathing.

“Sixteen years ago, when the Qinghuai Marquis established his mansion, he had keys made at Zengrong’s Locksmith in the western part of the city. According to the records, a total of fourteen bronze keys, three silver keys, and one iron key were made. They are all here.”

Xiao Nanhui picked up the cloth pouch and held it in her palm, feeling the heavy weight of it, and her vision suddenly grew a little blurry.

In this lifetime of hers, having even a few friends who were genuinely sincere was no easy thing. Others did not know Yaoyi’s character, and perhaps they would think nothing of this. But she knew.

Having grown up in a place like Wangchen Tower — where people’s hearts were so complicated and the establishment itself was so looked down upon as a lowly, filthy place — Yaoyi was, in truth, a very selfish person. Even the smallest sliver of warmth within that selfishness was rare and precious, and what virtue or merit did she possess, to always be on the receiving end of his care?

Seeing that the person before her was, for some inexplicable reason, about to burst into tears, Yaoyi’s expression shifted in an instant, and his whole body twisted like a wrung cloth as he turned his back to the wall.

“Don’t put on that disgusting face in front of me. It fills a person’s heart with gloom just to look at it.”

Taking a deep breath, Xiao Nanhui reined in the snot that had already begun to run halfway down.

Yaoyi composed himself, then spoke with some awkwardness.

“Since you are investigating matters concerning the Xiao Family mansion, why not go directly to ask Xiao Zhun? Even though the two of you have had a falling-out—”

Because Xiao Zhun did not know what Bai Yun had once said to her, and if he did find out, she feared that the relationship between the Qinghuai Marquis Mansion and the Emperor would become tense and fraught with complexity overnight.

Xiao Nanhui sighed wistfully: “You wouldn’t understand.”

Seeing the person before him now wearing that familiar expression — the one that made one lose all reason — the nameless fire in Yaoyi’s chest surged up again, and his voice took on a few notes of cold mockery.

“Is it that I don’t understand, or that you don’t? A clever person ought to know which matters can be confronted openly and which should be feigned ignorance about. A year ago, when you came to me prying about the secret imperial seal, I already warned you — there are some things that cannot be done by your strength alone. Be careful not to be too clever by half and end up entangling yourself in it for nothing.”

Xiao Nanhui stuffed the pouch of keys away haphazardly, and rose to her feet with a grin.

“I have never been a clever person — you know that perfectly well. But I am a person with a tough life. I have made it through all these years, and this time will be no different.”

Yaoyi fixed a hard stare on the woman before him, as though he wanted to crack open her skull and see what was inside.

“Stubborn blockhead. The day will come when you regret this.”

Before his words had even faded, the woman had already slapped her backside and stepped out the door, humming a little tune that had gone somewhat off-key.

The sound of her footsteps gradually grew distant. Yaoyi turned his gaze toward the window.

Night had fallen, and a crescent moon hung among the treetops.

Something flickered past in the darkness — it seemed to be a barn owl that had spent the whole day roosting and was now preparing to hunt.

Yaoyi withdrew his gaze, rose, and shut the window that faced the rear courtyard.

Warm lamplight brightened the space, and the rear courtyard side room of Wangchen Tower was once again filled with the crackling sound of an abacus.

As the lanterns first came alight and warm voices murmured in the growing dusk, the night of Yanfu Street had only just begun to come alive.

Dozens of streets away, the palace walls stood silent and ice-cold. Layer upon layer of rammed earth and iron-armored guards defended an unseen throne. The Yuanming Hall, which in daylight had been filled with rows of officials, was now entirely empty, its long corridor of brilliance visible from one end to the other.

Behind the great hall, only a single palace lantern moved.

The rapidly approaching attendant’s footsteps made no sound at all. He walked with bowed head through the long, deep palace corridor and slipped inside through the entrance of Yuanhe Hall.

The wavering candlelight cast dancing shadows through layer upon layer of gauze screens onto the tall palace doors, and the young emperor’s figure flickered half in light and half in darkness within.

“Your Majesty.”

The attendant called out softly. The figure behind the gauze screens paused, then raised his head.

“She has gone?”

The attendant nodded.

“She just left — it was approximately a quarter past the hour of You when she departed the tower.”

After these words were answered, the great hall fell into a brief silence.

The attendant had evidently grown well accustomed to such scenes long ago, and on his own initiative began replacing the charcoal in the cloisonné copper brazier inside the room.

The figure behind the gauze screens had not left the desk before him from start to finish. That plain and simple table was piled with documents stacked like mountains. He finished one scroll and opened another, his speed so swift it seemed to stir the air, and not the slightest hesitation was visible even in his left-handed brushwork.

After a while longer, the emperor seemed to recall something and spoke again.

“Has Qu Mo not yet arrived?”

“In reply to Your Majesty — word came from the relay station only two days ago, saying that this time the old head of the Qu Family has come in person. The old head is now nearly a hundred years of age, and moreover has not left Wancheng in ten years. The carriages and horses of his traveling party are much slower than usual, and it is estimated that he should arrive within another ten days.”

Su Wei was silent for a moment, and casually picked up a document from the jade box beside him to look through.

It was the most recently submitted detailed itinerary for the spring hunt submitted by the rites officials, including the date of departure and the various arrangements to be made after arrival at Yu’an.

Dan Jiangfei observed his expression carefully and asked with caution: “Does Your Majesty wish to postpone the departure date and set out after the Qu Family representatives have arrived?”

“There is no need. Everything proceeds as planned.”

Su Wei set the document back into the jade box and picked up his vermilion brush once more.

“There is one more matter—”

“Speak.”

“Word has come from Shaofeng Pass that three days ago, Master Zong had already passed through the gate and was heading toward Quecheng.”

The hand holding the vermilion brush paused. The brush tip, laden with vermilion ink, dripped onto the document, leaving a circle as startling as blood.

“What has he come for?”

“It is said that the Xuanyuan Prince’s Mansion has a new little prince, and there is a full-moon celebration banquet to be held.”

“Quite a convenient excuse.” He gave a light laugh, the smile not reaching his eyes. “Since Father Wang passed to the west, he has been away from Quecheng for a full nineteen years, yet now he has chosen precisely this moment to return.”

“Does Your Majesty mean—?”

Su Wei lowered his eyelids, raised a hand, and gently wiped away the vermilion ink on the document.

“Let him be for now. After some time has passed, things will become clear of their own accord.”

Past midnight, in the rear courtyard of the Xiao Family mansion, a figure was moving stealthily.

Xiao Nanhui wiped the sweat from her brow and stopped in her tracks at the side courtyard.

She truly did not like this feeling of acting like a thief, yet somehow she always found herself in precisely such circumstances.

Xiao Zhun had not returned to the mansion today. Bolao had been worn out from a whole day of activity and was sleeping with unusual heaviness. Dujuan and Steward Li had hearing far inferior to that of a martial practitioner — as long as she was careful enough, she would not disturb anyone.

After searching through the old mansion on Yukun Street, she still ultimately needed to go through the current Xiao Family mansion as well.

Most of the old belongings from the Xiao Family’s former residence had been piled in the side-wing room of the courtyard where Aunt Dai lived. That side was the most remote and least frequented, and was a relatively safe place.

Pressing against the bag of keys in her bosom — by now warmed to something of a heat by her body — Xiao Nanhui felt a surge of excitement, her hands trembling faintly.

The keys Yaoyi had given her could be roughly matched to the shape of their locks by their style. After ruling some out, she tried them one by one, and very quickly opened the door of the side-wing room.

A gust of musty old dust mixed with the smell of mildew came rushing at her face.

Xiao Nanhui was fairly certain: over the past decade or more, not even Dujuan had ever set foot in this place.

Thinking it over, she did not light her fire-starter, but instead left the door wide open so that moonlight could filter into the room.

In the thin, pale moonlight stood row upon row of enormous wooden crates thick with accumulated dust. Those crates were still sealed with their original paper strips, and by their appearance had never been examined from the moment they were thrown in here.

A moment’s thought made it understandable — the saying goes that objects remind one of those who are gone. Who would be willing to revisit those memories?

When Xiao Zhun had left the old mansion, he had abandoned a great many things. Whatever he had been willing to bring into the new mansion must surely have held some unusual significance.

Xiao Nanhui did not rush to rummage through the crates, but instead examined the room carefully, and finally let her gaze settle on a flat lacquered box sitting in the corner.

The box was locked — it was the only locked object in the entire room.

Somehow sensing something different about it, Xiao Nanhui hesitated for a moment, then walked over to it.

The bronze lock was the most common style, yet also the hardest kind to pry open. After a moment’s thought, Xiao Nanhui selected the one iron key from among those Yaoyi had given her and carefully inserted it into the keyhole.

There was a faint click, and the bronze lock snapped open and fell to the ground.

Xiao Nanhui carefully brushed the dust from the box, steadied her nerves, and opened the lid.

To her surprise, what was inside did not appear to be anything particularly special. There were only a few women’s hairpins and hair ornaments, all of rather simple styles, and beneath them was a green gauze robe.

Xiao Nanhui took hold of the garment and lifted it with both hands, and the swath of green unfurled.

In that instant, Xiao Nanhui sharply inhaled a breath.

The back of the gauze robe was almost entirely dark with staining — the discoloration left behind after blood had soaked through it and time had worn on. Over that stain was a gash that had nearly cleaved the garment in two, and even after all these years, the ferocity and sharpness of the original blow was still visible.

The cool silkiness of the fabric transmitted slowly through her fingertips to the rest of her body. The night breeze of early spring blew over her and drew out a cold sweat all over her.

A realization suddenly surfaced from the depths of Xiao Nanhui’s heart. She knew now what the box before her truly contained.

That was Aunt Dai’s clothing.

The clothes she had been wearing on the most terrifying day of her life.

At that very moment, something long and slender slipped out from within the garment and fell to the ground.

Xiao Nanhui’s gaze drifted slowly downward, until she saw the strip of cloth.

She picked it up and held it in her hand, examining it carefully.

It was a hand-woven strip of plain, unadorned hemp.

Wait.

Something flashed before her eyes — fragments of memory.

Throughout all these past years, why had Aunt Dai been so obsessed every single day with weaving strips of cloth?

She had once assumed that on the day misfortune struck the Xiao Family, Aunt Dai must have been weaving strips of cloth for the younger generation, and that her memory had stopped at that day, which was why she kept repeating the same actions over and over again.

But…

She knew Aunt Dai’s handiwork well. She would never weave a strip like this. Aunt Dai liked bright, colorful things — the threads she used were always vivid and brilliant.

Yet the strip in her hand had not a single colored thread, plain and coarse as the white mourning cord used at funerals.

This was not Aunt Dai’s strip of cloth.

A voice rose up from within Xiao Nanhui’s heart, startling even herself.

If this was not Aunt Dai’s belonging, then there was still one other possibility.

This was something left behind by the person who had tried to kill her.

On that rainy spring night, someone had dyed this gauze robe red with the blood of the Xiao Family. Before the woman plunged into the abyss of despair and anguish, she had, in a frenzy, seized hold of something from the body of the assailant.

She had barely escaped with her life, but the shock had left her mind fractured, and she had forgotten many things — all except the very last thing she had seen before she fell into the well.

She had carved it deep into her memory and rehearsed it again and again, hoping that one day, if she ever encountered that person again, she would recognize them at a single glance.

But tragically, she had long since forgotten her own original purpose.

Who, in the end, had Aunt Dai seen?

That Xiao Zhun had kept these objects meant that he had perhaps also investigated the matter back then, yet the result was all too plain to see.

Xiao Nanhui stared blankly at the strip of cloth in her hand, sinking into a kind of panic that had no edge she could find.

Past the third quarter of the Hour of Chou — the Hour of the Crowing Rooster — the south gate of Quecheng had already been closed.

The great wilderness around it was still silent, the myriad insects of the earth not yet awake. Enormous torches blazed atop the city gates, and drops of pine resin crackled in the darkness. Beyond that, heaven and earth lay in a profound stillness.

Old Guo the gate guard had just refilled his pot of tea, and was preparing to warm up the two sesame flatbreads his wife had tucked into his bundle, when he suddenly heard a sound.

He froze, pricked up his ears suspiciously and listened for a moment, and confirmed that the sound was someone knocking on the city gate.

Who would still be trying to enter the city at this hour? Some drunkard, no doubt.

Yet thinking of all those Black Feather Camp soldiers who had been coming and going frequently of late, Old Guo could not help but raise his guard somewhat.

His fellow night watchman Old Liu had gone to the gate barracks to hand over his duties, and the shift change had not yet come. Old Guo grabbed the fire tongs leaning against the wall and cautiously edged alone toward the side door beside the gate.

He pulled open the iron window on the side door a crack and peered outside. There he saw an elderly figure with a somewhat stooped posture standing outside the city gate.

The light outside was dim and murky, and all he could make out was that the person was wearing a heavy, floor-length brown cloak of rough fabric, beneath which a faint glimmer of silver hair and beard could be seen.

Ah, how could it be an old person of all things.

“The city gates have already closed for today. Please find a relay station nearby to rest for the night, and enter the city again first thing tomorrow morning.”

Old Guo cleared his throat, calculating inwardly how best to gently persuade this person to leave.

“Very well.”

The old man in the brown robe accepted this without argument and turned to leave with a shuffling, limping gait, appearing not in the slightest bit displeased or dejected at being turned away.

Old Guo was taken aback.

The nearest relay station to the city was still a stick of incense’s worth of riding away at a gallop, and by this hour the sky had turned as black as a ball of ink — even the official road would be difficult to travel.

He turned and closed the iron window, and gradually a feeling of misgiving grew within him.

He had been serving as a guard at this south gate of Quecheng for some years now. Quecheng was the capital after all, and what manner of person had he not seen? If the person had been some young, arrogant face full of unreasonable demands and bullying swagger, he would at this moment have been feeling as satisfied as could be. But this person was clearly well on in years, and had the look of someone meek and long-suffering about them — which made him feel a twinge of sympathy, a sense that they were both poor common folk, so why cause one another difficulty?

His mind made up, Old Guo pulled the iron window open again, intending to call out to the old man in the brown robe. But when he looked out, the dark empty ground outside the city gate had not so much as the shadow of a person anywhere to be seen.

On the city wall of the capital a hundred paces away, a cloaked figure in dark clothing was moving without a sound.

His movements were slow, yet defied all natural logic. Quecheng’s city walls were nearly sheer vertical, yet he was walking up them with his legs as casually as if strolling through a courtyard.

Dozens of steps brought him to the top of the great wall. Dozens more steps and he had landed on the inner side of the wall.

The capital’s city walls, tens of zhang in height, had become something of a joke in his presence.

The streets of deep night were empty of all people, and no one witnessed this strange and uncanny sight.

The old man in the brown robe lightly brushed his hem, as though he had done nothing more than descend a few steps of a staircase, and resumed his stooped, shuffling walk forward.

The night wind lifted his wide cloak, briefly revealing a glimpse of what lay beneath.

Some thick, some thin; some long, some short; some new, some old.

Countless strips of plain hemp, woven together, like living roots and tendrils of trees all wound and tangled into one.