Huayue recalled the scene from three years ago, when Zhuang Shi had brought her out of the palace.

At the time, Zhuang Shi’s eyes had already lost their sight. She stood outside the palace gates waiting, and through the blur, seeing her approach, only then did she reach out to touch her face.

Her hands were soft and warm, gently tracing the contours of her face bit by bit; once she’d felt it clearly, her once-unfocused eyes gradually brightened, like a nearly-extinguished candle suddenly relit, the flame catching again, making the person seem more alive.

“You’ll live with me from now on,” she said with a smile. “Such a lovely face — don’t wear such a gloomy expression. The world outside is full of beautiful flowers and scenery; there’s plenty to live for.”

Her voice and manner had been gentle and lovely beyond words.

Huayue closed her eyes and quietly instructed Shuangjiang to arrange a few matters. Shuangjiang listened to each one and, without bringing up the subject of Zhuang Shi again, bowed and withdrew, her skirts disappearing around the corner of the room in moments.

“Young mistress.” The steward came around from outside, his face full of difficulty as he cupped his hands toward her. “The third young master just sent word — he’s been kept in the palace by His Majesty for a game of chess, and might not be able to return tonight.”

This was ordinary enough — Li Jingyun had just taken up his new post, and being favored by the emperor was nothing but beneficial. Huayue nodded, then asked, puzzled: “Why do you look like that?”

The steward sighed: “Madam had instructed earlier that you should stay recuperating here in the residence and not go out to socialize with other households. On ordinary days that would be fine, but right now, with the General busy with state affairs, madam gravely ill, and the third young master away, the fifth prince has just been made a prince and opened his own household — he’s sent an invitation asking our household to attend the evening banquet. This servant doesn’t dare not report it for fear of slighting the prince, but if I do report it, when the third young master returns, he might just send this servant off to watch the back courtyard instead.”

He grew more anxious the more he spoke, as if recalling those kitchen servants who’d been dismissed earlier.

“I thought it was something serious — this is nothing,” Huayue said dismissively, lifting her skirts to walk. “I’ll take some people and go.”

“But what will this servant say if the third young master asks?” the steward hurried after her.

Torn between laughter and exasperation, Huayue said: “The third young master isn’t some ferocious beast. Social visits between official households are common enough. With no one else in the residence right now, I’ll go in person — even if he objects, what of it? If he truly minds, just tell him it was my decision, nothing to do with you.”

Relieved, the steward immediately ordered the carriages and palanquins readied, along with the prepared congratulatory gifts to be loaded up.

Since parting ways at Luohua Street, Huayue hadn’t seen Zhou Hemin in quite a while. On the way, she couldn’t help asking Badou about it: “Has the fifth prince achieved some great merit? Why the sudden princedom?”

Badou sat on the carriage shaft, swinging his legs, and laughed: “The fifth prince being made a prince was news that had been coming for a while — it just happened to fall now. As for merit, he’s certainly got none — in fact he was recently reprimanded by the censors for galloping his horse recklessly on Luohua Street and was penalized for it. That he can still open a household and be granted a princedom is purely because His Majesty favors him.”

Huayue paused, then belatedly remembered that the capital did indeed have an imperial decree forbidding horse-galloping on Luohua Street — but at the time, in her urgency to save someone, no one had given it a thought, and it had ended up implicating him too.

Feeling a pang of guilt, Huayue’s bow when they arrived carried an extra measure of sincerity.

“Greetings, Your Highness.”

Zhou Hemin was eating fruit at the time, and catching sight of her unexpectedly, he laughed: “Why are you so lacking in manners? People coming to offer congratulations and gifts are supposed to kneel to greet me.”

Huayue looked up, her expression complicated, taking in his posture: “You look like you actually want a proper formal greeting?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Zhou Hemin raised an eyebrow, twirling the folding fan in his hand and propping up his own chin with it. “Isn’t this the picture of dignity and grace?”

It was indeed rather dignified and graceful — if only the lower half of his body weren’t perched on the courtyard wall.

Huayue shook her head helplessly, rubbed her sore neck with effort, and tilted her head back to ask him: “Why are you up there, of all places?”

“That’s what I should be asking you,” Zhou Hemin said, leaning down slightly from atop the wall, teasing. “Ordinary guests are all drinking tea in the main courtyard — how did you end up finding me here? Was it the Old Man on the Moon’s matchmaking, or did the magpie bridge drop down from the sky?”

Expressionless, Huayue pointed toward the outhouse nearby.

“You do know how to pick your spots,” she said. “If you’d rather I not — this humble one won’t mention it happened at all, and will just pretend I never came here.”

Zhou Hemin: “…”

Half an incense-stick’s time later, the two of them sat in a bright, spacious hexagonal pavilion, maids and servants standing in two rows all around. Huayue sat across from him and asked quietly: “What sort of trouble did you get into?”

He pursed his lips and let out a long sigh: “Palace life is dull enough as it is, and the moment something goes even slightly wrong, it’s always the same routine — go to the central palace to admit fault, then apologize to father, then return to the palace to copy documents, confined indoors for half a month.”

“That’s not so bad,” Huayue said. “At least the palace doesn’t have punishments like the ones at the Overseer’s Court.”

“It’s not much better,” Zhou Hemin sighed. “You didn’t see it when the Empress and Consort Yao got into it in the central palace — whew, if you were kneeling below at the time, you’d have gotten hit by flying objects too.”

Huayue was astonished: “Consort Yao actually dares to argue with the Empress face to face and throw things?”

So you Great Liang people really are all uncivilized barbarians after all.

“You don’t know about Consort Yao?” Zhou Hemin raised an eyebrow. “She’s the crown prince’s birth mother, the most favored consort in the palace — of course she has the standing to argue with the central palace. Father dotes on her too, lets her run wild, never once held her accountable.”

There was such a thing? Huayue clicked her tongue in amazement: “What sort of background does this Consort Yao come from?”

“The Yao family isn’t any prominent noble clan — they actually used to have quite good relations with your General’s residence. General Li even once saved Consort Yao’s life. It’s just that once Consort Yao entered the palace, the two families lost touch,” he said, waving his fan lazily. “It’s not because of her family background that father dotes on her so much either — I can’t quite figure it out myself. Anyway, no matter how lawless Consort Yao gets, she’s still bound to become Empress Dowager eventually.”

Huayue silently broke into a cold sweat. She thought of how Zhuang Shi, on every palace visit, only ever went to pay respects to the Empress — she couldn’t help worrying whether this Consort Yao might bear a grudge against the General’s residence someday.

“You came today to tell me a story, so why is it me who ends up listening with such interest?” Zhou Hemin said, displeased, propping the fan’s head against his chin as he looked at her. “Quick, tell me — what were you doing before you became this maidservant?”

Huayue came back to herself and said helplessly: “What kind of good story could someone of servant status possibly have? I was just raised at home, and grew up with quite the unruly, spoiled temperament — then my family fell on hard times, and I had to depend on others, which is when I finally learned some sense.”

“You don’t strike me as someone whose family simply fell on hard times,” he said, narrowing his phoenix eyes at her, half-smiling. “It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say your entire clan was wiped out — there’s resentment in your eyes, not a trace of openness about you, like someone who doesn’t dare want anything, clearly someone who never expected to live this long.”

The fair-faced young man spoke with a bluntness that cut straight to the bone; Huayue’s heart skipped, and she covered her face with her hand: “Your Highness, can you please stop reading people’s faces like this?”

“It’s not that I go out of my way to do it — you’re just too conspicuous,” he said, spreading his hands helplessly. “I’ve seen plenty of people, and I’ve never met anyone as contradictory as you — genuinely more interesting than those shadow puppets hidden away in a box.”

Realizing she’d become someone’s amusement, Huayue’s expression darkened, and she rose to leave: “The story’s over — I’ll take my leave now.”

“Hey, don’t go, I won’t press on that anymore.” He held up his fan, blocking her path. “Don’t rush off — who ever heard of finishing a story in just one sentence? What did your family do before, and how exactly did they fall on hard times? Tell me all about it.”

If she said all that out loud, the newly opened princely residence would probably get sealed shut right then and there.

Yin Huayue sighed, sat back down, thought for a moment, then pressed her teacup solemnly onto the table: “That’s a long story, Your Highness — please allow me to tell it slowly.”

And then she began, carefully, to fabricate the whole thing.

The two of them sat in the pavilion, one lying, one listening, both quite at ease. Zhou Hemin didn’t interrupt her once, listening as she spun her tale from learning to read at age five to becoming a servant at fifteen, his eyes full of amusement the whole while.

Li Jingyun returned from the palace to find the eastern courtyard without even a single lamp lit, pitch black. He was startled, and grabbed the steward to ask: “Where’s the young mistress?”

The steward stammered: “She… she went to the princely residence’s banquet. Hasn’t returned yet.”

With that, afraid he’d be blamed, he hurried to add, following Huayue’s instructions: “The young mistress said herself that she wanted to go — there was no one else in the household who could hold things down.”

The princely residence. Zhou Hemin’s banquet.

Li Jingyun fell silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on that dark, empty doorway, and nodded with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes: “Fine, understood.”

The steward, thoroughly frightened, edged along the wall to retreat, and once he’d escaped the lord’s line of sight, turned and bolted straight for the side door.

Huayue didn’t return particularly late, but the moment she stepped down from the carriage, she saw the steward rushing up to her, drenched in sweat: “The third young master has already been waiting for you in the eastern courtyard for half an hour.”

“He’s back?” Huayue said, walking inward. “That’s actually early. Doesn’t sound like there’s anything urgent going on lately.”

Stepping over the threshold into the eastern courtyard, the lamps inside were blazing bright. She pushed the door open to find Li Jingyun sitting grimly on the couch, reading documents.

“What’s wrong?” She closed the door and went over with concern. “Did something happen in the palace?”

He glanced at her sideways and grunted: “No.”

“Then why the grim look?” Huayue leaned her head over to look. “Which character don’t you recognize?”

He set the book aside and looked up at her with a smile: “Coming back this late, and you have nothing to say to this lord?”

It was barely past the end of the You hour — was that really so late? She looked him over, deciding to go along with it: “I’m sorry for returning so late, please forgive me, husband. But it wasn’t that I went off to enjoy myself today — the princely residence held a banquet requiring attendance, so I went.”

Recalling what Wen Guzhi had said earlier — that as long as she knew she owed the fifth prince a favor, she wouldn’t be so easy to deal with — Li Jingyun felt unsettled, and asked coldly: “Invited along with others?”

“Not exactly,” Huayue said honestly. “We spoke alone in the pavilion for a bit, with servants nearby, so nothing improper happened.”

Having said this, she sensed something was off and looked down at him: “Husband, don’t tell me you’re actually jealous over something like this?”

“How could that be?” He turned his face away. “Just asking casually.”

“Then why are you being so sarcastic about it?” Huayue found it amusing. “Am I really that hard to trust?”

This wasn’t really a matter of trust or distrust; Li Jingyun felt annoyed. He’d never been a petty person, but he simply didn’t want her meeting the likes of Zhou Hemin or Shen Zhiluo — even ordinary conversations with them didn’t sit well with him, and meetings outside his own watchful eye were even more irritating.

Holding his frustration in, unable to vent it on her, Li Jingyun picked the book back up to shield his face, saying gruffly: “It’s nothing, go rest.”

The person before him fell silent. The room grew quiet.

Li Jingyun stared at the words on the page, absorbing none of them. After a few incense-sticks’ worth of time, his temper cooled somewhat, and he began to feel a little regretful.

Had he spoken too harshly? Would this little thing start overthinking it?

Wouldn’t she start crying again?

His heart lurched, and he quickly lowered the book, glancing anxiously to the side.

Huayue had brought over a plate of preserved fruits and was smiling brightly at him; seeing him look up, she held the plate out to him: “Jing’an Hall was still open on the way back, so I brought some. If you’re really upset, have a couple — it might cool your temper.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes as he accepted the plate, feeling a little sheepish: “You’ve gotten much better-tempered these days — not even arguing with me anymore.”

“Husband’s been working hard lately. If I keep making a fuss too, that would be exhausting for you,” she said, waving a hand. “It’s ordinary enough for someone in a position of authority to have suspicions. My conscience is clear — once you have someone look into it, I’ll be cleared. Nothing worth making a fuss over.”

Something softened in his chest; Li Jingyun pulled her close, bit down gently on the side of her neck, and said gruffly: “This lord isn’t some authority figure in front of you, and won’t have anyone investigate you either. It was just — just a moment of displeasure. Don’t take it to heart.”

Huayue raised an eyebrow and asked, her expression strange: “So were you actually jealous, my lord?”

“No,” he answered decisively.

A smile rose in her eyes; Huayue leaned against his shoulder, thinking that this troublesome man actually had his cute moments too — like a child asked by an adult whether he’d secretly eaten candy, insisting he hadn’t while sugar crumbs still clung to the corner of his mouth.

“Third Master is so magnanimous,” she said, smiling.

“That’s right.” The man chewed on a preserved fruit, mumbling. “A man about to go to the battlefield shouldn’t be as petty as those stuffy scholars.”

“No, indeed not.” Wrapping her arms around his neck, Huayue smiled and looked out at the moon through the window.

The bright moon had just risen, full and radiant; the courtyard held a few faint smiles, coloring the blossoming branches.

The Shen residence wasn’t far from the ritual altar, but it was quite a distance from the main streets of the capital, and every time the carriage went back and forth Su Miao felt her bones might fall apart, so she simply stayed in the residence without going out, draping herself in crimson gauze sleeves and lying on the flower terrace watching the birds outside.

Shen Zhiluo pushed the door open and happened to catch sight of that icy, jade-smooth skin faintly visible beneath the red gauze.

“Su Miao.” He frowned. “What sort of decorum is this?”

The person by the window turned back and smiled at him: “Come quick and look, two birds outside are fighting — quite fiercely too.”

He walked over and glanced out, his violet eyes half-lidded: “Boring.”

Her expression drooped, and Su Miao said with a pout: “Cooped up in a courtyard this big all day — what fun could there possibly be? I asked you yesterday to walk around with me somewhere, and you wouldn’t even do that.”

Shen Zhiluo had no wish to argue with her over this, but couldn’t help gritting his teeth: “Wanting to go wandering up the mountain in the middle of the night — no one in their right mind would agree to that.”

Su Miao hummed coquettishly and tugged at his sleeve: “Then tell me a story right now. You know so many things — pick a couple of interesting ones and tell me.”

He sat down beside her, glanced at the compass in his hand, and hesitated as if about to speak.

He’d just calculated an extremely unfavorable divination, one concerning the General’s residence. He wanted to tell her, but felt there was no need.

Yin Huayue had been right — being able to glimpse the will of heaven was his gift, but insisting on telling others an unfavorable fate was a sin.

After a moment’s thought, he said: “There is one very interesting story — one that probably no one else in this world still knows.”

Su Miao grabbed a handful of melon seeds and stared at him unblinking with her fox-like eyes.

“Many years ago, there was a palace maid selected to accompany a diplomatic mission to a neighboring country. This maid had bad luck — she got separated from the group along the way and ended up stranded on the streets of a foreign land. But her luck wasn’t entirely terrible either — just before she died, she was rescued and taken into a household, made a concubine.”

“This girl was grateful for the kindness shown to her, and rather than think of returning home, she served that household’s masters faithfully. The husband and wife were quite affectionate with each other, and treated the girl kindly as well. But within a few years, the girl discovered that someone in the palace had been targeting the wife all along, deliberately finding fault with her at every turn, endangering the entire household.”

Su Miao listened with delight: “So she was taken in by some wealthy household?”

“Indeed,” Shen Zhiluo said meaningfully. “Wealthy households always have their share of troubles.”

“The girl grew anxious and asked the wife why the person in the palace was targeting the household. Only then did she learn — this master of the house was no ordinary man. He’d once had an old romantic connection with someone in the palace, a consort who, jealous, couldn’t bear his affections turning elsewhere, and whispered constantly into the ear of the man on the throne, causing the master’s career to suffer repeated setbacks, even landing him in prison several times.”

How could that even happen? Su Miao frowned deeply: “That’s despicable.”

Shen Zhiluo gave a light laugh: “Guess what idea the girl came up with?”

Her eyes darted, and Su Miao slapped the table: “Wasn’t it jealousy? She probably pretended to tell that consort that the General’s heart still belonged to her, deceiving and coaxing her along, just to protect the household first.”

…She really was cut from the same cloth as that woman.

Shen Zhiluo was quite moved: “You’re just as clever as that girl was, but the consort was clever too — a few words from you wouldn’t have swayed her. She wouldn’t let the household off unless the wife died. What would you have done then?”

Su Miao clicked her tongue: “The women in the palace are all this ruthless?”

The person before her shot her a look: “Watch your words.”

Scratching her ear in frustration, Su Miao said: “There’s no other way then — what did the wife think?”

“The wife said she was willing, but she was afraid that after her death, the master, loving her too dearly, wouldn’t be able to bear living on and might seek some kind of revenge, endangering the whole household. So she asked the girl to help conceal it, to say she died of illness.”

His gaze swept over, his chin lifting slightly: “And what would you have done?”

Su Miao’s face scrunched up entirely: “Isn’t that putting someone in an impossible position? Who would believe a perfectly healthy person suddenly died of illness? If the master investigated, would there even be a way out for me?”

“This is where you’re smarter than that girl — that girl chose to agree,” Shen Zhiluo said with a snort. “So afterward, she came to no good end.”

Su Miao wasn’t pleased: “And what happened to the consort in the palace?”

“Lived on just fine. Her son became crown prince.”

“What kind of interesting story is this?” she said, growing agitated, lunging forward to grab his collar. “Good people get no good end, bad people get to live it up — does this match what you said about heaven’s cycle of retribution?”

Staggered by her lunge, Shen Zhiluo reached out to steady her arm, saying quietly: “Cycles have to actually cycle first — what’s the rush?”

The two of them suddenly found themselves face to face; Su Miao swallowed, the anger draining from her expression, replaced by a hint of coy charm at the corners of her brows: “Then I won’t rush. I’ll take my time.”

Shen Zhiluo: “…”

Gritting his teeth, he pushed her away: “No time to waste on you.”

Rolling away hurt, Su Miao got up, put on her shoes, and gathered her crimson gauze: “Then I’ll go find someone else to play with.”

His throat tightened, and Shen Zhiluo pulled her back, gripping the cool, light fabric with a scowl: “Change your clothes.”

Her fox-eyes flickered; Su Miao sat down on his lap and sighed wistfully: “You really are Great Liang’s Grand Astrologer, unfathomably deep. That much concern from you almost makes it look like you’re fond of me. But when it really comes down to it, there isn’t the slightest place for me in your heart.”

Shen Zhiluo frowned: “We’re already married. Why bring this up again?”

“I’m just saying it casually — I won’t hold it against you either way.” Rising to change her clothes, Su Miao smoothed her skirts and turned back with a smile: “If His Highness asks, just tell him we’re as close and harmonious as can be — this marriage alliance is rock solid.”

An inexplicable tightness settled in his chest; Shen Zhiluo opened his mouth to say something more, but the person before him had already breezed out like a gust of wind, leaving only two trails of fragrance lingering around his fingertips.

He darkened his expression, staring at the doorway for a while, the rune-embroidered hairband on his head lifted by the wind blowing in through the window, drooping listlessly over his brow.

In the afternoon, Shuangjiang came by once. She knelt before him respectfully and said: “National Preceptor, someone asked me to come and inquire — have you calculated Lady Zhuang’s fate yet?”

Shen Zhiluo sat in his seat and, without answering, only said: “She said she doesn’t believe in it — tell her to stop asking.”

Shuangjiang looked up at him: “Others might not know, but how could you not know? If she weren’t at the end of her rope, she’d never approach you about this.”

Not knowing suffering firsthand, one doesn’t believe in gods and buddhas — Zhuang Shi’s condition had been worsening day by day, which was why Yin Huayue had turned in desperation to seeking any doctor she could find.

Shen Zhiluo understood the reasoning, but he wouldn’t try to stop her anymore.

Everyone had their own fate; even once calculated, one still had to grit their teeth and walk the path to its end.

Silently turning the fortune-telling compass in his hands, Shen Zhiluo sighed, and after a long while said: “Life and death are matters of fate — just tell her to be careful herself.”

Shuangjiang understood, but didn’t dare tell Huayue directly when she returned, and instead made up a few comforting words to put her mind at ease.

Yin Huayue genuinely believed it, and, at ease, poured herself a cup of tea from the porcelain pot in front of her.

She was sitting in a side chamber of Qifeng Tower at the time — this room had a hidden opening in the wall through which one could clearly hear voices from the room next door.

“It’s been quite a few years, hasn’t it?” Kang Zhenzhong said, half-smiling, raising his wine cup and cupping his hands toward the man before him. “Never thought we’d sit together like this again.”

Li Shoutian looked at him with a complicated expression, accepted the wine and drank it down, his voice carrying an unexpected trace of age: “I never expected you’d be willing to invite me.”

“I wasn’t willing to invite you at all — it’s just that Jingyun, that boy, is likable,” Kang Zhenzhong said, his eyes full of mockery. “Even heaven’s ways are unjust — someone like you, getting to have such a good wife and son.”

Full of confusion, Li Shoutian leaned forward: “All these years, I’ve wanted to ask you — where exactly did I wrong you, that you cut off our brotherhood for no reason and have kept mocking me ever since?”

Kang Zhenzhong looked around, then laughed bitterly: “It’s just the two of us here — why keep pretending not to understand with me? If Zhaiyue knew, in the afterlife, she’d probably regret bitterly marrying such a heartless man as you — dying without even a proper death.”