◎The Solitary Wild Goose◎

Qu You had assumed this was mere idle speculation, but a few days later the rumors only grew wilder. The Censorate, who loved nothing more than to impeach Zhou Tan, had originally only accused him of failing to manage his household properly—but now several memorials had gone up accusing him of “lechery and greed” and “abusing his lawful wife.”

Under the pressure, Zhou Tan submitted a petition to recuse himself and withdrew from the Three Judicial Offices’ joint hearing on the fall-from-the-tower case.

The world judged from a narrow glimpse, assuming no ordinary woman of a private household would willingly do such a thing—but tie it to Zhou Tan’s name, and there was no end of fresh gossip ready to be embellished further.

With a little attention, Qu You realized someone had deliberately spread this rumor through the streets. She had assumed whoever spread it meant to tarnish Zhou Tan’s reputation—but tracing it back, she found, to her astonishment, that it led straight to Boss Ai.

Which meant Zhou Tan had released the rumor himself.

The study had once stored many instruments of punishment; though it now held only Zhou Tan’s case files, a faint, lingering scent of iron still clung to the air. When Qu You burst in, Zhou Tan was reviewing a file, brow furrowed, drawing a black circle on the page.

“I released it,” he admitted readily. “The Censorate impeaches me daily as it is—one more won’t matter.”

Qu You found this incomprehensible. “Why?”

Zhou Tan glanced at her, then drew a letter from beneath a stack of documents at his side and handed it to her.

The envelope was of thick blue paper, printed with a pair of carp, with a lotus pattern along one side—the most common style of envelope in Northern Yin.

Zhou Tan’s own hand, in the sharp, angular “slender gold” style, had written three characters with forceful, elegant strokes: Letter of Divorce.

“This bears my private seal. It is valid at any time.” Zhou Tan reached for his inkstone to grind ink, not looking at her. “You’ve earned praise from the literati, but in the end, you’ve broken a woman’s virtue. Remarrying afterward won’t come easily. This is the most I can do. When the matter of a future match comes up, simply say you were coerced by me…”

“I told you—I don’t care about reputation.” Qu You cut him off. “I did this of my own will. You don’t need to do this.”

“Why not care? At least you still have a reputation to care about. Since you have one, keep it. I already have plenty of ill repute—one more won’t trouble me.” Zhou Tan set down the inkstone and finally looked up, slowly offering her a smile. “Asking me this—are you pleading my case for me? Don’t forget: this case against Peng Yue was bought with Gu Xianghui’s life. I don’t particularly care what becomes of the women of the Fragrant Heart Pavilion. Taking on this reputation for you—yes, there are censors impeaching me over it, but anyone with sense knows perfectly well that bringing down Peng Yue was, first and foremost, my achievement.”

He stood, a head taller than her, so that she had to tilt her chin up just to meet his eyes from below.

“You say you don’t care? That’s only because you’ve never had to lose it. I’m the one who truly doesn’t care for worldly reputation—empty fame, hollow name—what value does that hold next to real gain?”

The woman in dark teal robes before him watched his face, her expression shifting slowly from shock into a disappointment he knew all too well. She said nothing more, simply reached out, took the letter of divorce from his hand, and swept out of the room.

It struck Zhou Tan then, though he couldn’t say since when, that he had grown quite used to seeing Qu You’s retreating back.

Clever and sharp as she was, she was also rational and composed—when she had nothing more to say to him, she simply turned and left, never wasting a single extra word.

“So much for worrying over Lord Zhou for nothing. Once this case is settled, I’ll seal and sign the divorce, just as you wish.”

Zhou Tan gave a low laugh, tasting a faint, coppery tang of blood rising in his throat.

Qu You left the study as if in a fit of pique.

In truth, she hadn’t quite worked out why she’d come today at all. Everything Zhou Tan did had its own reasons—there was never any need for her to trouble herself over it. It had always been this way: she would rush over, harboring some foolish hope, only to receive the plain truth each time—Zhou Tan had never once dressed up his own scheming in front of her.

And yet, every time she heard people speak ill of him, she felt an irrepressible urge to defend him.

This shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t be happening at all.

When Qu You finally stopped walking, she found she was standing before the folding screen in the back hall of the Ministry.

Master Baixue had, in vermilion ink, patiently responded to everyone who had written upon it. When someone complained of the world’s injustice, he wrote: The whole world may be turbid, but one may yet keep oneself clean. When someone poured out grief over a sick mother, he wrote: I pray sincerely for your honored mother’s swift return to health—the gods and Buddha themselves watch over the good.

Qu You felt she finally understood what the Ministry guard had meant, on her very first day here, by “a few words that comfort troubled hearts.” This Master Baixue possessed great talent without a shred of arrogance—simply reading these calm, gentle lines, one could almost feel the comfort meant for their reader.

She hesitated a moment, then picked up the brush and wrote a line in an obscure corner of the second screen.

History is vast as smoke and mist—how can one glimpse the true nature of a person within it?

Once she’d finished writing, Qu You couldn’t help but laugh at herself. It was, after all, one of the great unanswerable questions that had plagued the entire field of history for centuries—what was the point of asking it here?

She straightened, meaning to leave, but her eye caught something unexpected—Master Baixue had added a line after the poem she had once finished for him.

A remnant life, too humble to see the sun—that had been the line she’d completed that day. Better to return south, take up the hoe among the paddies.

And beside her final line, Master Baixue had now written the ending he had originally meant to write.

—Swallowing his voice, sick and old, weeping at the road’s end.

For three springs I might hear the white snow’s song / no longer that virtuous tune, laughed at in Gusu. / A remnant life, too humble to see the sun / swallowing his voice, sick and old, weeping at the road’s end.

So this was what he’d truly meant to say.

Qu You lingered before the screen for a long while.

A master like snow, able to soothe others’ hearts—why could he not soothe his own?

For the next few days, Qu You did not leave the residence—partly out of laziness, partly because the street gossip had grown so thick she had no wish to hear it and invite more grief upon herself.

She and Zhou Tan lived in separate wings. By day, she slept until the sun was high, and if the mood struck her at midday, she cooked for herself; if not, she wandered about, observing the household staff at their work. She and Zhou Tan hardly crossed paths at all.

In her remaining hours, Qu You picked up an old habit and began keeping reading notes again.

Zhou Tan served as Vice Minister of Justice, which, in a sense, made them something like colleagues. The Zhou household’s library was extensive, holding every dynasty’s legal codes and commentaries on criminal law. Having spent much time in the past studying classical texts, she found the reading came easily.

As she wrote her notes, her thoughts kept drifting back to Zhou Tan—and toward more distant matters as well.

The previous lecture in her advisor’s course on notable figures of the Northern Yin period had covered Zhou Tan’s mortal political rival, and had mentioned Zhou Tan in passing, describing him as one who “served two dynasties, sought no empty fame, a true villain, and a true gentleman.” At the time she hadn’t understood what that meant. Now, for reasons she couldn’t quite name, she found she understood it just a little.

What a complicated figure. To truly examine a person, one must examine the age they lived in, she thought wryly—and yet, even living in his very era now, she still felt she couldn’t touch the true depths of his thoughts.

Zhou Tan was like a stream running through dense fog—he seemed to have laid everything plainly bare before her, and yet the surface of the water showed no ripple at all; still waters ran deep, and within them lay an entire hidden world.

A few days later, at midday, Bo Ying came calling and discussed a few medicinal food recipes with her—he was planning to start a business selling therapeutic dishes.

The two chatted idly for a while, and Bo Ying suddenly recalled a topic he’d left unfinished before: the pill. “I never got to finish telling you last time—that pill you asked me to examine actually came into the capital from the Xishao foreign tribes. It’s called ‘Solitary Wild Goose.’ I couldn’t be certain at the time, but after testing it further, I confirmed it.”

Qu You was immediately interested. “A foreign substance—what does it do?”

“As for its effects—well, it used to be commonly used by the wealthy and powerful to relieve coughs and ward off cold, but there was a bad incident with it once, and now it’s essentially banned throughout the Yin dynasty. Not many people even know about it anymore.” Bo Ying grabbed a piece of paper from the table and sketched a rough diagram for her. “Besides some common ingredients, its main component includes a foreign flower—I only saw it once, years ago. My master called it…”

Qu You took the drawing from him. The moment she glanced at it, a chill crept up her spine.

She recognized this flower.

Bo Ying chewed on the end of his brush, finally recalling the name. “…It’s called afurong.”

Author’s Note:

Little Zhou: QAQ Say no to drugs!