After night had fallen, Pei Xi could hold himself back no longer. He took up a lantern and went to the front corridor. Two people stood watch at Ye Tingyan’s door, chatting quietly between themselves.

He held the lantern up for a look and found they were two of Ye Tingyan’s close friends. One was a wandering physician who had followed them from the southern border — a descendant of the legendary divine physician Jueming — though for some reason he did not carry the surname Li but rather Bai.

The other was a reclusive scholar from Jiangnan whom Crown Prince Chengming had visited every year without fail, surnamed Zhou, given name Jia, with the courtesy name Chuyin.

Pei Xi cupped his fists in greeting: “Physician Bai Sensen, Scholar Zhou.”

Bai Sensen smiled and waved a hand: “Little Pei, no need for such formality.”

“Since returning from the Muchun Field, the Young Master has shut himself in his room. Is he any better now?” Pei Xi asked.

“Not very. Looking at how he is, I would say he is about to…”

Zhou Chuyin shot him a glare. Bai Sensen swallowed the second half of his sentence and amended: “Aiya, a life in this world is but a flash — to torment oneself to this degree, no one who tries to advise him will be of any use.”

“Go in and look in on him,” Zhou Chuyin sighed.

So the two of them hung the lantern Pei Xi had brought on the door frame and departed together. Pei Xi pushed the door open and stepped inside, first catching the heavy fragrance of ink.

Ye Tingyan’s eyesight was not very good these days, and he rarely lit lamps. The room was dim, only a solitary red candle burning in one corner.

The wooden window was wide open, blown about with a creaking rattle by the night wind, so the candlelight flickered and swayed as well, as though it might be extinguished at any moment.

He loved poetry and painting, loved brush and ink. The five-panel plain screen set before the window was already covered with inscribed text, and various pieces of calligraphy and painting hung upon the walls.

White gauze and rice paper swirled together; the whole room was cool with the night breeze.

In the residence, Ye Tingyan did not like to bind his hair, and commonly wore a loose, light pink gauze robe with wide sleeves — which Bai Sensen often teased was reminiscent of “the free and unrestrained spirit of the Wei and Jin scholars.”

Contrary to Pei Xi’s expectations, at this moment his face showed not the slightest trace of sorrow. He simply drew his sleeves together and was concentrating intently on writing.

Hearing someone approach, Ye Tingyan smiled, and without lifting his head said: “Cuo Zhi, come and look — this piece of calligraphy, I cannot get it right no matter how I write it.”

Pei Xi moved over in silence to look, and saw that what he was writing was a verse from Zhang Yan’s lyric ‘Magnolia Flower, Slow — Written for Jingchun’:

Watch the white crane in silence, azure clouds grow still, hidden movements beyond the world. Far from the peach blossom source, farther still — ask: in that year, why did one come to know the fisherman? How much better to keep the double gates shut in daylight, and watch life stirring in the pond.

Everything else was written well. Only the opening line had been smeared over into a black blur, rewritten to one side, still found unsatisfactory — and the process repeated.

Pei Xi understood — this was entirely the doing of the Empress, having that phrase ‘when the azure clouds grow still’ conveyed to him.

But she had only mentioned it in passing.

Seeing that he said nothing, Ye Tingyan looked up and glanced at him. The reddish corners of his eyes held a faint smile: “Perfect timing — let me put you to the test. Looking at this verse, how would you interpret it?”

Pei Xi felt a heaviness in his chest. He deliberately skipped over the first two lines and said with gravity: “Confucius said: when called upon, act; when set aside, withdraw. Su Dongpo said: whether to act or withdraw is determined by circumstance, but the choice to act or withdraw lies within oneself. The ancients often spoke of entering the world as caring for all under Heaven, and withdrawing from it as serene and transcendent seclusion. Zhang Yan disagreed — he said plainly that both entering and withdrawing remain within the world. Only by placing them beyond all things can one find true freedom.”

“A fine interpretation,” Ye Tingyan said with a smile. “When the white crane falls silent, when the azure clouds grow still — it ought to be a place of perfect stillness and freedom. I cannot reach that understanding, so naturally I cannot write this calligraphy well.”

He put down his brush and casually crumpled into a ball the rice paper he had just been writing on, then discarded it.

In the third month of spring, a sudden crack of thunder rang out. Pei Xi was startled and quickly went to close the carved window — but was a step too late. The red candle in the corner went out, and the whole room sank into a desolate darkness.

He stepped outside, retrieved the lantern he had brought earlier, and brought it back inside, casting light on a potted diseased plum bonsai placed near the doorway.

Pei Xi paused before that diseased plum and opened his mouth: “Since returning to the capital, the Young Master has seen Lu Fengying meet his end and Lin Kuishan drawn into the trap. Everything has gone smoothly. One day, we will be able to cut away every last strip of paper twisted onto this diseased plum’s branches and allow everything to return to how it once was. I know the Young Master carries hatred in his heart. If you carry hatred, you must be all the more ruthless — why torment yourself like this?”

He hung the lantern above the diseased plum and advanced step by step, gritting his teeth: “If the Young Master wishes it, I will go and kill the Empress in the Young Master’s place.”

Ye Tingyan was nearly amused into a cough: “Assassinate the Empress of the Central Palace? Cuo Zhi, what a novel idea.”

“I have asked many times and the Young Master will not say. Scholar Zhou and Physician Bai will not say either,” Pei Xi said in anger. “Although the Young Master now needs to rely on the Empress’s protection while working within the court, their interests are aligned — she is a clever woman and would not destroy the alliance before Yu Qiushi has fallen. That being the case, why does the Young Master insist on maintaining this… lingering attachment with her? Before I left Youzhou to travel to the capital for the examinations, the Young Master said with his own mouth that upon returning to the capital, he would certainly kill the Empress.”

Ye Tingyan unconsciously tightened his grip on the crumpled rice paper, then after a moment lowered his voice: “Cuo Zhi, do you know…”

He slowly lifted his head. The lantern light passed over the unfathomably deep pupils of his eyes: “Before I returned to the capital, I believed the Empress and Song Lan to be of one heart and one mind, utterly inseparable. But this entanglement is not something I fell into through any loss of control.”

“The Young Master is saying… it was the Empress who deliberately did this to draw the Young Master in? She — could she have seen through something?” Pei Xi was briefly stunned, then grasped the meaning.

“I bear not the slightest resemblance to who I once was. How could she see through anything?” Ye Tingyan shook his head. “It is only that… what I believed to be the bond between her and Song Lan — a bond without a single crack — is just like the bond she and I once shared. It appears, when touched by the hand, when seen by the eye, to be softly beautiful brocade, without flaw. Yet it is all illusion. Beneath sunlight, that brocade is in truth riddled with holes — power, ambition, desire — these things destroyed the covenant between those of old, and naturally will destroy those of new as well. As things stand now, I can no longer see clearly what it is she truly wants. Perhaps… I never truly knew her at all.”

“So the Young Master uses her as she uses him, hoping that one day he might see clearly what she is after?”

Ye Tingyan did not answer his question, and only said: “To be betrayed by one who was fully trusted — that must be the greatest of agonies. In those days Song Lan used this tactic to strike at the heart. Now it is my turn — I should let him savor this same flavor thoroughly.”

“The Young Master has feelings; the two of them have no honor. One cannot know whether such methods will have any effect on wolves without heart or conscience,” Pei Xi muttered in a low voice.

Before leaving, he pressed his case earnestly: “At present the Empress does not know the Young Master’s true identity and yet behaves so freely — this is easy to bring within reach. Those in the court she treats this way may not only be the Young Master alone. The Young Master must keep his wits sharp and must not allow himself to grieve for her again.”

Ye Tingyan smiled and closed the door behind him.

With doors and windows all shut, he listened to the soft patter of rain, and suddenly recalled that before Pei Xi had come, Zhou Chuyin and Bai Sensen had entered and said the very same things to him.

But unlike the forthright Pei Xi, after hearing him out those two had clicked their tongues and departed, one shaking his head muttering ‘foolish, foolish,’ the other echoing ‘saying one thing while meaning another,’ and then in unison: ‘Not disrupting important matters is already remarkable in itself’ and ‘beyond the remedy of medicine.’

Ye Tingyan gave a bitter smile and slowly smoothed out the crumpled rice paper. By now, he himself could no longer tell which of his own words had been true and which had been false.

Yet after the exchanges with everyone, a convenient excuse had been found for the desire that had taken root in the depths of his heart.

* * *

The following day Ye Tingyan entered the palace. He was first summoned to the Qianfang Hall by Song Lan.

Before entering the hall, he came upon Chang Zhao, who was standing there with respectful composure.

Chang Zhao’s appearance the day before had been quite abrupt. After leaving the palace, Ye Tingyan had immediately had people look into his background and learned that he had, in seeking to advance his career, presented himself at the doors of Lin Kuishan and Yu Qiushi.

By rights, this should have made Chang Zhao a piece Yu Qiushi was pushing forward to do battle with him. Yet upon meeting him, Ye Tingyan always felt a strange unease.

His own official rank was now higher than Chang Zhao’s. Chang Zhao greeted him with clasped hands: “Lord Ye.”

Ye Tingyan acknowledged this. He had not intended to say much, yet Chang Zhao asked: “Is My Lord a member of the Ye clan?”

The question was peculiar. Ye Tingyan was taken aback for a moment, and thought inwardly that he ought to have someone investigate the connection between this man and the Ye clan. Outwardly he said: “Why does Scholar Chang ask?”

“Only out of admiration. Some other day I shall come to Lord Ye’s door to beg a cup of tea — I hope My Lord will not find me troublesome,” Chang Zhao answered with ease.

“Certainly not. Now that you and I are jointly handling the assassination case at the Muchun Field, there is no need to wait for a future occasion to meet.”

“Indeed,” Chang Zhao smiled.

Song Lan’s audience with him was in all likelihood no different from what he had said to Chang Zhao — nothing more than urging the two of them not to reveal whatever they found, and to report to him first before making any decision.

After all, this had been the imperial family’s spring hunt, with all court officials present, and both the Jintian Guard and Zhuque Division standing guard on either side. That something like this had still erupted right under everyone’s noses — if the reason behind the assassination attempt turned out to be too scandalous, it would make the imperial family lose face greatly.

After acknowledging the Emperor’s instructions, Ye Tingyan went to fulfill his regular duties at the Qiong Ting Academy, and at the appointed time, changed his attire and went to the High Yang Terrace to keep the appointment.

This time Luowei had arrived before him. As the area outside the hall was damp, she had not sat on the stone bench Ye Tingyan had previously occupied, but had taken the initiative to enter the dim interior of the hall.

Luowei was particular about cleanliness. After their first meeting, she must have had this place repaired and tidied. Now, though the exterior remained weathered and old, the interior was spotlessly clean.

Ye Tingyan strolled over and noticed that even the bed curtains in the inner chamber had been replaced with deep blue ones.

Luowei seemed to be lost in thought, slightly dazed. She did not come back to herself until he drew near, and then turned to face him.

She wore her usual indigo-blue today, a red ribbon tied in her hair at the crown, and beyond that not a single pearl ornament.

Her makeup was different from before — applied lightly and delicately, barely perceptible. It lent that face a few traces of the natural, unguarded charm that ought to belong to someone of her age.

Luowei casually set down the round fan she was holding. Unexpectedly, after Ye Tingyan knelt before her, before he had spoken a single word, he first took her hand firmly in his.

She tried to withdraw her hand, but Ye Tingyan held on with force and would not loosen his grip. Luowei frowned and called out: “Lord Ye…”

“Your Ladyship’s hand was injured,” Ye Tingyan said, extending his fingers and with an ambiguous gentleness tracing the small, already-healed wound on the back of her hand. “It would be a shame if it scarred. This servant has brought an excellent scar-removing ointment — would Your Ladyship allow me to apply some?”

Luowei was briefly startled, and withdrew the impulse to pull her hand back, allowing him to carefully apply the ointment for her.

The ointment was cool against her skin, spreading a lingering, numbing sensation across the back of her hand. Luowei made a determined effort to ignore this strange feeling and opened her mouth to ask: “Lord Ye’s boldness is quite remarkable. That absurd performance at the Muchun Field — I do not know how you plotted it, nor how you plan to bring it to a close.”

“Does Your Ladyship wish to know?” Ye Tingyan laughed softly and said slowly.

Luowei’s gaze passed over his reddish eye corners, his jet-black pupils. He was full of implication, and his movements were unmistakably gentle — yet they produced in her a bone-deep, hair-raising sensation.

Then she heard him say: “…Then you must show some sincerity first.”