◎Epilogue◎

Song Shixuan didn’t stay long—affairs of state were pressing, and even managing to leave the capital for two days during the New Year holiday had been no small feat for him.

Su Chaoci, even more so—on the very night they stayed over, he had documents brought in and spent a long while discussing matters seriously with Zhou Tan.

Ai Disheng went up the back hill to inquire about the wine business in Lin’an with a tavern owner Qu You knew well, and Qu You, seizing the opportunity, invited Song Shixuan alone to Sky Shadow Pavilion.

The guards trailed at a distance, understanding the Emperor had something private to discuss, and didn’t approach.

Qu You was in no hurry, warming a pot of wine for him. Song Shixuan accepted it with both hands and took a sip, the corner of his mouth curving slightly. “Mistress never used to let me drink.”

“You’ve grown up,” Qu You said gently, chin propped in her hand. “Naturally I won’t treat you like a child anymore.”

Song Shixuan finished the wine in his cup. “Rong’er’s recently taken in a white cat—it looks quite a lot like the one she used to have.”

“Rong’er” was the Empress’s childhood name. Back when Song Shixuan and Zhou Tan had first arranged their scheme of feigning closeness with Luo Jiangting, the Empress had known the whole plan from the start.

That he still used such an affectionate name for her now suggested their marriage was a good one.

The historical Emperor Ming had, by all accounts, been a wise and virtuous ruler, with no recorded rumors of excess or favoritism.

Qu You smiled. “That’s wonderful to hear.”

Song Shixuan asked, “Mistress, is there something you wanted to say to me?”

She didn’t want to waste time on pleasantries. “Ziqian, ever since you first came to this house, I’ve never once called you ‘Your Majesty.’ What I’m about to say now, too, is only what I want to say to you as your teacher’s wife.”

Seeing how solemn she’d become, Song Shixuan’s own expression grew serious as well. “Please, speak freely, Mistress.”

“There’s something I need to ask of you.” Qu You lifted a thick stack of manuscript pages from the bamboo basket beside her and handed it to him. “Have a look at this first.”

Song Shixuan flipped through it briefly, and his expression froze. “This is…”

Qu You didn’t answer directly, asking instead, “Ziqian, I heard that while my husband was in the imperial prison, you secretly summoned several court historians. What did you say to them?”

Song Shixuan pressed his lips together and answered quietly, “I… I’d hoped to ask them to clear Teacher’s name in the records. But since ancient times, imperial authority has never interfered with the writing of history, and besides… those who might eventually write our history may well not even be from this dynasty. I couldn’t reveal Teacher’s full plan to them, and with no evidence at all, they knelt and pleaded with me to reconsider, refusing outright.”

Qu You nodded. “Yes… public opinion had grown far too strong by then…”

Song Shixuan continued, “So in the end, all they agreed to was that they’d do their best to keep Teacher’s records vague. If those rumors from the streets ever made their way into the official histories, even if untrue, they’d only grow darker and darker with every retelling by later generations, speculating endlessly.”

Qu You looked at him, somewhat surprised.

No wonder, no wonder Zhou Tan had been listed first in the Chronicle of Treacherous Officials in the History of Yin, and yet the historical record about him was so sparse.

She’d wondered about this before—why, given that Zhou Tan had been involved in such major historical events as the Flower-Removal Reforms and the Chongjing faction struggles, the reference material about him should be so pitifully scarce.

Emperor Ming had done everything in his power to protect his teacher’s reputation, but…

“This doesn’t have to be the way it stays,” Qu You said, shaking her head with a sigh. “Ziqian, do you know what the cruelest thing that can happen to a person is?”

Song Shixuan opened his mouth to answer, but Qu You cut him off. “It’s not being slandered. It’s being forgotten.”

Song Shixuan paused, then said, following her train of thought, “Mistress means…”

“‘Your Majesty’ doesn’t need to intervene, and Zhou Tan doesn’t need anyone showing favor toward those who record his life,” Qu You said, refilling his cup, speaking earnestly. “My father sits in the Hall of Revised Texts. He’s the most upright, incorruptible man I know—he’d never let those under him maliciously slander anyone. All they need to do is record his life fairly and thoroughly, exactly as it happened. Whatever can’t be proven, let later generations speculate on that themselves.”

“But…”

“As long as he isn’t forgotten, then someday…”

Qu You lifted her cup and took a sip, without finishing that last thought.

Because… in truth, she was gambling too.

She wasn’t certain what consequences this choice might bring, but she had turned it over in her mind countless times, and had concluded that being forgotten, reduced to a vague footnote in history, remembered only by the label “treacherous official” — that, for Zhou Tan, would be the cruelest fate of all.

Once the verdict was sealed, there would never again be a chance to overturn it.

So what she wanted to do was leave behind, wherever possible, as many “unresolved questions” in the historical record as she could.

No one understood the instincts of future historians better than she did — as long as there were unresolved questions, they would spend lifetimes searching through mountains of records, trying every means to uncover the truth.

The truth was right there.

It was silence, the blankness of nothing left behind at all, that was the true cruelty.

Song Shixuan thought it over for a long while, then gave a soft “Mm” of agreement, and turned back to the manuscript pages.

On the very first page, in her own elegant handwriting, were four characters.

—Long Song of White Snow.

“Mistress, then this is…”

“Have you ever heard a certain saying?” Qu You said, gazing absently at the wine cup in her hand, remembering the look on Zhou Tan’s face that snowy night in the imperial prison, when he’d asked her if she’d read his poems. She smiled faintly.

“What saying?”

“Poetry… is more truthful than history.”

Song Shixuan looked puzzled.

What she had written was only a work of fiction.

A tale modeled after Zhou Tan.

The protagonist had no real name, referred to only as “Master White Snow.” In this story, she had laid bare every truth without restraint, without a single reservation.

The zither music at Fanlou, the blood on Capital Mountain, the tears in the secret chamber, the flame that never went out atop Burning Candle Tower… and the sun over the frontier, the bright moon over the vast desert, the smoke of war on the city walls, and the burning devotion, carried across two lifetimes, that had never once faded.

They rose and fell with the wish tied to the old tree, drifting like evening mist upon the wind.

That red ribbon still hung right there on the apricot tree before them.

All wishes would come true — this was the one favor the heavens had shown them.

“The court is at peace now, so there’s no need to stir up trouble at this moment. What I want to entrust to you, Ziqian, is to see that this story is passed down.”

Qu You said quietly, “I’ll stay here in Lin’an, hidden deep in the mountains, never to step back into the world. But you’re different. You’re at court — you’ll have generations stretching on for a thousand years. By the time we’re no longer young, or even no longer of this world… I hope this story can still be passed down, carried forward hundreds, even thousands of years, even if people forever argue over whether it’s true, whether… the people in it ever really existed.”

The pavilion fell silent, save for the sound of pages turning.

“As long as they keep arguing, the people within it will live forever.”

“All right,” Song Shixuan agreed at once, making a solemn vow. “Rest assured, Mistress. Before my own hundred years are up, I will do everything in my power — commission plays, seek out storytellers, have it printed and spread far and wide.”

“Everywhere within the borders of Great Yin, people will sing of White Snow.”

Qu You gazed deeply at him. “Do you understand that if this story is to spread, you can no longer be the untainted, virtuous sovereign of the court records? You’ll be dragged down into the mortal world, tarnished by every kind of speculation, even slandered. Are you… truly certain of this?”

Song Shixuan refilled his cup and laughed heartily. “I came from the dust of this world to begin with — why should I fear returning to it, in the mouths of ordinary people? Untainted… no one in this world is ever truly untainted, save perhaps the immortals themselves. If I spent my whole life sitting high upon the golden throne, living like a lifeless idol in a shrine, in both the history books and the rumors alike — what would be the point of that?”

He raised his cup and touched it to hers, something like tears glinting in his eyes. “Mistress, it is I who should thank you.”

The common folk around them had no idea who they truly were, and Qu You had no wish to disturb them further, so Song Shixuan and his party left quietly just as the sun was setting.

Zhou Tan and Qu You stood on Apricot Hill Slope, watching them go, until the dusk gathered and they vanished completely from sight.

By the time they returned to Sky Shadow Pavilion, the moon had already risen to its zenith.

The red silk ribbon tied to the apricot tree had been freshly washed, now light and graceful, dancing freely in the wind against the bare branches.

Qu You set up a brazier in the pavilion, and the two of them brewed tea together.

She breathed in the rising fragrance, eyes narrowing with a hint of mischief. “So what did you and Brother Su talk about?”

Zhou Tan glanced up at her, looking pleased with himself. “Guess.”

“Fine, don’t tell me then,” Qu You pouted. “It was probably just more talk of state affairs, I’m sure — some people can’t even stop worrying about the realm while living in seclusion in the mountains. What else could I possibly guess…”

“State affairs?” Zhou Tan seemed to find this amusing, brushing the soft fur collar of his cloak over the top of her head. “Ziqian was right there. If we’d wanted to discuss state affairs, why would we need to step away from him to do it?”

Qu You leaned in eagerly, wheedling. “Then what were you two talking about?”

Zhou Tan casually wrapped her in his cloak, cleared his throat, and said, leisurely and at ease, “Let me think… ah, never mind, I won’t tease you any further. He only told me your parents are well, your sisters are all safe, and they’re thinking of coming to visit you soon. And Xiangwen — Xiangwen’s doing quite well for himself lately, with a fine reputation at court.”

“That kid really does have a knack for this,” Qu You said with a pleased smile.

She wondered, if she ever fell on hard times in a few years, whether she could write to her little brother and have him help her out.

Zhou Tan continued, “Miss Gao thinks of you often, and so do Zhiling and the others. Little Yan and A’Yang keep winning battle after battle, and everyone’s doing well. Changling… has been fully rebuilt too.”

Qu You fell silent for a moment, the tea rippling and bubbling before her.

She sniffled, then broke into a smile again. “Well, if everyone’s doing well, that’s the best news of all… Oh, and what about you? Now that your health’s much better, what do you want to do from here?”

Zhou Tan thought it over carefully. “Open a small academy, perhaps? Teach the children around Apricot Hill Slope… and once they’ve all grown up, and we’ve grown tired of it, we’ll pack up and leave without a trace, and let Ziqian and Brother Su search for us in vain — I think that sounds rather amusing.”

Qu You looked at him in genuine surprise, reaching out to pinch his cheek. “Not bad — I quite like that idea. You’ve learned to be a bit wicked.”

Zhou Tan took her hand, and together they looked out into the distance.

Through the hazy night came the mournful moan of the cold wind, sweeping past the imperial city, past green mountains and towering peaks, past great rivers and vast waters, howling as it reached them at last.

Qu You pointed up at the sky, her sleeves fluttering wildly in the cold wind. “The rivers and mountains carry eternal splendor…”

She turned back to him, her eyes bright and intent. “You ought to be carved into it too.”

Zhou Tan tightened his grip on her hand a little more, and she felt something cold press against her palm — looking down, she found it was, sure enough, that same white jade ring.

“This was left to me by my teacher,” Zhou Tan said, slipping the ring onto her finger. “It must always be passed to the one you treasure most.”

“‘When the Way cannot prevail, one may set sail upon a raft and drift out to sea’… and now, it seems, you and I drift together upon that same vast sea.”

Qu You closed her hand tightly around the ring, and suddenly said, “That reminds me of a line you once wrote…”

Zhou Tan frowned slightly. “Which line?”

Qu You recited, with a hint of teasing in her voice, “‘What remains of this humble life is only to watch the sun rise…'”

He remembered it now — that was the line he’d written on a blank screen, the time he’d been attacked in the Ministry of Justice.

Back then, clinging to life by a thread, every hope extinguished, he had never once imagined he would one day meet someone who could sing the same song of white snow alongside him.

So he answered at once, continuing the line: “‘…before returning to till the southern fields with an early hoe.'”

Qu You looked pleased. “Perfect. Once spring comes, we’ll start tilling the fields — what should we plant, do you think?”

“Whatever you say.”

The night wind carried a faint chill, too cold to linger long outside. Once the tea was finished, the two of them left Sky Shadow Pavilion and returned indoors, Qu You carrying a lamp, walking ahead of him with light, bouncing steps.

He stayed half a step behind her, and asked softly from behind, “History is vast as an ocean — did you find the truth within it?”

“I did.” Qu You paused mid-step and turned back, smiling radiantly. “And you? Did you find me?”

“Of course.”

He opened his eyes within the cracks and gaps of history, and the moment he met his “great sage,” he understood, and was understood in turn.

And so, morning and evening, side by side, he had found his true companion at last.

Overjoyed beyond measure.