Luowei frowned, not understanding his meaning. After a moment’s thought, she suddenly recalled the look on Ye Tingyan’s face the few days before when he had mentioned Chang Zhao. She had been told that this person’s intelligence and strategy were not inferior to Ye Tingyan’s — if he were the Grand Preceptor’s man, would that not give Ye Tingyan cause for concern?

After Ye Tingyan said that one sentence, he refused to speak further of the matter, and simply talked loosely and at length about trivial things.

One moment it was the coming of summer and yet no rain in Jiangnan. The next it was how yesterday at the Eastern Market he had bought a bolt of sky-blue fabric. The lotus buds had formed outside of Jinming Pool. A bird had passed over the capital, and one could see everywhere carefree men and women out for pleasure. He had walked through the market lanes and overheard a few hidden old secrets. Old Master Zhang’s illness was serious, and he could not even form words clearly…

He spoke with great animation and without concern for what reaction she gave. Luowei felt a faint ache in her head, propped her chin on her hand and sat before the front hall, listening. After a long while, she found that her heart had actually grown calmer.

Perhaps she herself had not realized it: ever since the third year of Tianshao, she had weighed each step before and behind, every move had been like walking the edge of a deep precipice, treading on thin ice. Living deep within the palace walls, there was something she could not see that kept pressing heavier and heavier against her chest, accumulating more and more.

Like the day she had traveled to the crimson tower — she had worn a golden phoenix crown carved with elaborate detail, set with a peerless pearl from the Eastern Sea that was worth ten thousand taels. She had been radiant and magnificent, without rival in prestige and honor.

To have such a crown, to wear it — this was the dream of many women in the world.

It was a pity that she did not belong among those women. This golden crown and this palace now brought her nothing but a heavy and crushing pain.

These bits of everyday household news, these tales of the lanes and streets — so ordinary, so much the stuff of common life — it had been too many years since anyone had spoken of such things before her.

Luowei sat in a daze in the front hall of Zhang Pingjing’s residence, beneath a plaque reading ‘Reverence for Heaven, Compassion for People,’ and listened with great patience as Ye Tingyan spoke of many things.

When he had talked his throat dry, lifted a bowl of tea to drink, Luowei was seized by something she could not name and opened her mouth to speak. She could not even explain why she would say such a thing, but in that moment, she was indeed filled with the desire to tell it: “I suddenly find myself thinking of a story.”

Ye Tingyan looked at her with full attention, continued drinking from his cup, and said nothing.

Luowei did not care whether he was listening or not, and simply told it in her own way: “I think it must be a story from unofficial histories — I have even forgotten where I read it… It tells that in the chaos of the age before the founding of Great Yan, there was a vassal prince who sought to seize the throne and loved a woman general. The general fought with her life to sweep clear his enemies, and after he ascended the throne, the woman general entered his rear palace.”

Ye Tingyan gave a contemptuous laugh upon hearing this, and offered an evaluation: “What a fool.”

It was unclear whether he was cursing the vassal prince who had confined a fine general, or the woman general who had willingly clipped her own wings.

“Though the Emperor held onto old sentiments even after ascending the throne, the general was imprisoned in the palace, and spent each day amid powder and embroidered silk, her sharp wings being worn smooth inch by inch, her armor stripped away. What had once served on the battlefield against weapons and blades, a deeper agony than any sword or spear, began gradually to reveal itself day by day. On the battlefield one could raise a sword and resist foreign enemies — but within this palace, when the sovereign wished to bestow favor on another, when suspicion was aroused, the general had no sword in her hands, and with the dust of the mortal world binding her, what could she use to resist?”

Ye Tingyan stared fixedly at her face, guessing at the purpose behind her telling this story.

— Are you afraid of becoming such a story?

“And what happened after?”

“Afterward… afterward, the general set fire to her own palace. The Emperor could not save her, turned white-haired overnight and fell into madness, and from that point on dismissed all in the rear palace, devoting himself to keeping vigil at the tomb, alone in desolation for the rest of his life.”

Having said this, Luowei suddenly laughed.

Clearly a bleak and heartbreaking story — yet once she had finished telling it, she laughed as though she had heard something amusing, on and on, unable to stop: “When love runs to its deepest, two sides both lose — a tale of fierce passion and heaven full of hate, Lord Ye, do you like this story?”

Ye Tingyan lowered his eyes, the more he thought the more startled he grew, and could not help but wish that right now he could draw her into his arms and stop that laughter.

In her words, he had heard the decay and corruption of youth and fullness.

The blade within the heart had been sharpened to a fine and cutting edge — it was the self-destruction of one who would rather see everything reduced to ashes.

Before returning to Biandu, he had always believed that Luowei was fond of Song Lan.

Yet if that were the case, how could today’s words carry such a deep and thick grief? Within her story, he had heard only the hopelessness of being imprisoned in the deep palace, the devastating weight of being betrayed by one’s beloved, and the hands that longed to resist — yet were utterly empty.

Could it be… that Song Lan had betrayed her? Just as he had repeatedly warned himself when he first arrived — Song Lan had long since become a suspicious Emperor. Though he had received the support of many people, he would not fully trust Yu Qiushi, and still less would he fully trust her.

She had turned her back on their decade and more of connection, offered up her heart to cast her lot with him — yet had been met with this kind of suspicion in return. Was it this that had her suffering torment day and night, wishing she could die?

His body was torn into two halves. One half floated in the void and laughed in wild delight, stamping its feet in mad joy, crying out: ‘You betrayed me, and it seems you are not happy for it either — this is your retribution.’ The other half hung its head in quiet sorrow, asking over and over in pain: ‘If you had known from the beginning how things would turn out, would you still have made the same choices you made back then?’

The jumbled thoughts were more than he could bear. Hearing Luowei’s question of whether he ‘liked’ it, he could only give a vague and noncommittal reply: “A story such as this moves one to pity. All things pass with the flow of years — both people had something once, and then lost it, leaving each other a sorrow that lingered long. Such is the nature of love in this world — who can escape it?”

The two had been talking for so long that at last there came a light knock at the door outside from a physician who said Zhang Pingjing was a little better, and invited the Empress inside.

Luowei rose to her feet. As she passed the silently contemplating Ye Tingyan, she suddenly stopped.

Ye Tingyan looked up and found that at some unknown moment, the grief and bewilderment that had been on that face had vanished without a trace.

A physician was just outside the door — through the window paper one could even make out a silhouette. And the Empress, beneath the plaque reading ‘Reverence for Heaven, Compassion for People,’ boldly placed a hand on his shoulder.

Before he could open his mouth, the fragrance of roses drew close. Luowei wrapped an arm around his neck, leaning in toward his ear in a pose that seemed as though she were about to kiss him.

Yet her words were mocking and contemptuous, without a trace of tender feeling.

“Only men like you would say ‘leaving each other sorrow’ — only men like you would think the Emperor in the story lost something.” She said this: “I have nothing but respect for the general’s devotion. But had I been her, I would not have let the flames burn only within my own palace.”

She said all this in a gentle, unhurried voice, every word landing with force and clarity. Then she patted his shoulder, returned to her former composure, and with a smile in her eyes said: “Lord Ye, let us go in together.”

Without waiting for his answer, she lifted her foot and walked ahead. Ye Tingyan’s heart, which had been pounding wildly, gradually settled somewhat, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

She had grown up before his eyes — since the first time he had seen her she had been beautiful and poised, bright and unafraid. Even in these years when she had kept her nature reined in and played the well-mannered daughter of a noble family, he had always known in his heart that she was still the young girl from the spring tour who, having been given a sword, wanted to master it at once and would not hesitate for a single moment when she wanted something.

The Chinese rose crepe myrtle had not withered in the depths of the palace walls. Her flowering season was so long that even without sunlight, she was not the kind that appeared resilient only to wilt and lose vigor the moment transplanted to an indoor room.

With that thought, he could not help but curl the corners of his lips.

For this undiminished flourishing.

He turned away and put the grief of just a moment ago entirely out of his mind — only deep into the night did Ye Tingyan suddenly realize that at the time, he had not thought to ask even one question, not even the smallest one.

— What had been the purpose of her casually bringing up that story?

She did not seem to be the Empress he had imagined, one who was in perfect harmony with Song Lan yet occasionally resorted to a few stratagems only for self-preservation.

That story today — she was clearly hinting, in a veiled way, that her heart still held ‘flames,’ only where they had fallen was unknown.

* * *

Before Luowei arrived at the Zhang residence, she had not anticipated that Zhang Pingjing would be so gravely ill.

Not long before, she had summoned him for a conversation, vaguely instructing him to somewhat exaggerate the shortfall of this spring when speaking at the Council of State. He had understood at once, and had given her a crafty smile.

Who would have thought that now he lay motionless on his sick bed, struggling to move and barely able to form coherent words.

People grew truly fragile in old age. She had only glanced at him once before averting her eyes, unable to bear it.

Zhang Pingjing’s wife was keeping vigil at his side, wiping his hands gently with a handkerchief, and in her absorption had not heard Luowei enter the door. It was only when Zhang Pingjing coughed twice that she turned her head. Her eyes were red, and she rose to beg pardon: “This commoner woman pays her respects to Your Highness.”

Luowei hurried to reach out and help her up, settling her back into her chair. Madam Zhang made a valiant effort at a smile and explained: “He had a previous episode. Somehow he could no longer speak then either. Only I in the house can still understand what he is saying, so I must stay close to care for him.”

Su Zhoudou had taken Luowei to visit many times in the past, and she was quite familiar with Madam Zhang. At this moment she did not know what comforting words to offer, and could only say rather lamely: “Master Zhang has the protection of heaven above — this episode, too, will certainly pass without lasting harm. My coming today is also to set Madam’s heart at ease. His Majesty has formally approved Master Zhang’s honorable retirement at the first rank, and additional commendations are presently being discussed with the Ministry of Rites.”

Madam Zhang could only manage a bleak smile, and paid no mind to the honors.

While the two were talking, Ye Tingyan had followed them inside and again offered his greetings to Luowei and Madam Zhang.

For some unknown reason, once Zhang Pingjing saw him come in, he grew agitated again. He opened his mouth and struggled to say several incoherent sentences.

Luowei was puzzled, but Madam Zhang had understood. She patted the back of Luowei’s hand: “Your Highness and young Lord Ye will wait a moment — the old man has something to say to you.”

She rose, preparing to leave with the servants. At the door, however, she turned back.

She drew Luowei into an embrace, just as she would have before Luowei had become Empress: “Weiwei, I know that since the current Emperor ascended, you must have felt the old man has grown distant from you. He is a stubborn person, never able to say things directly. Ever since that year when that thing happened… when you were made Empress, he felt out of sorts inside. Though he managed the affairs of the Ministry of Finance with all his heart, in the end he felt it was a pity. If this caused any offense, do not take it to heart.”

Madam Zhang’s words were muddled and unclear, yet Luowei strangely understood them.

In his youth, Zhang Pingjing had possessed a remarkable talent for accounting — with only an abacus, in an afternoon he could settle the chaotic monthly accounts of the entire Ministry of Finance neatly and precisely.

When Su Zhoudou brought Luowei to call on his friend, one could always hear the clicking sound of an abacus from within.

“Zhoudou, wait a moment — let me finish this month’s accounts, then I’ll see to you.”

In those days, being young and restless, Luowei would wait until she was bored and then lean over Zhang Pingjing’s desk and mischievously knock a few abacus beads out of place. Zhang Pingjing never grew angry — each time he only cast her a mild look, and when he had a free moment, would move the beads back into position. Luowei had never understood to this day how he could recall with such precision where every bead belonged.

Afterward, Song Ling often came too.

Zhang Pingjing treated Song Ling no differently than he treated Luowei. Each time, he smiled warmly and set out the household’s fruits to receive them. Su Zhoudou teased him as the most smooth and slippery man under heaven, and the very next day received at his door two barrels of fragrant oil from Zhang Pingjing.

All these years, Luowei had always assumed it was because her conflict with the Grand Preceptor was too conspicuous that Zhang Pingjing had quietly distanced himself from her, seeking to preserve himself.

She had never imagined his reason could be something like this.

In those days when Zhang Pingjing had watched her and Song Ling together, he had often made jokes, urging the two to settle the marriage arrangement early. Luowei would make faces at him, and Song Ling would blush.

In the garden, willow down had drifted in the air everywhere, swirling and catching in everything.

Song Ling had been invested as Crown Prince at twelve. Emperor Gao’s partiality was blatant and open, and he never minded Song Ling’s association with court officials. Beyond Su Zhoudou and Fang Hezhi, to whom Song Ling bowed as teachers in the Academy for the Virtuous, Zhang Pingjing had also taught him much through his management of the Ministry of Finance.

Luowei felt a tremendous shock pass through her heart.

So it turned out — so it was that there was someone in this world who, like her, had been quietly and sincerely hoping to see the future Son of Heaven grow into his destined form. He had spent his life smooth and slippery, never involving himself in anything — yet he still harbored the dream of a wise sovereign and enlightened ministers, a golden age of peace. And so when she had married another without hesitation, Zhang Pingjing had quietly withdrawn.

Ten thousand words, in one vast silence.

Luowei closed the door, stepped close to the old man who had truly loved and cared for her and for Song Ling, and took hold of his hand, furrowed with lines upon lines of wrinkles. Zhang Pingjing looked at her, and those eyes that had always been sharp and smiling seemed to shimmer with a glint of tears.

She knew what he wished to say, and wanted very much to explain everything. But how could she even begin?

In the end, she pressed out only a vague and muddled sentence: “Master Zhang, set your heart at rest.”

Zhang Pingjing made a labored effort to lift his hand and stroked her hair. Then he looked at Ye Tingyan and silently moved his lips, forming a sentence. Unfortunately his lips and jaw trembled too violently — Luowei studied his mouth carefully, and could make out only that he said something beginning with ‘you two…’

Ye Tingyan walked to his side, took the bamboo-handled writing brush resting on the desk, and gently placed it in his hand. He pulled the small side table closer to the sick bed.

The two interacted with ease and naturalness, as though they had known each other long before.

Zhang Pingjing took the brush. Supported by Ye Tingyan, he leaned on his side with great effort and lowered the brush to the paper.

The characters trembled badly and were barely legible. Fortunately they could still be made out.

Luowei stared fixedly at Ye Tingyan, yet saw that his expression was calm and unhurried, with no sign of panic or evasion.

She looked down, having expected Zhang Pingjing to write some parting instruction. Yet who would have known that after all that trembling effort, with ink dripping freely from the brush tip, he wrote in the end only two lines.

— All ages long as eternal night; all ages long as eternal night.

Afterward he was spent, and Luowei and Ye Tingyan took their leave together.

Passing through the narrow corridor in the Zhang family garden, white wisps of something floated and drifted along their sides. It was unclear whether it was willow down or poplar down.

The path came to its end. The Empress’s white-rattan sedan chair stood right before them. Ye Tingyan, like the Zhang family’s own servants, bowed respectfully to one side to send her off.

Luowei glanced back, then suddenly gestured him forward. She spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear, low and quiet: “When you came to the capital in those years, you had connections with all the imperial princes — with Crown Prince Chengming most of all. Then you departed for Beiyou. Did you ever have any further correspondence with him?”

Ye Tingyan blinked and answered: “I did not.”

“A lie,” Luowei said swiftly. “At the time of the Battle of Youyun He, he sought clemency for the Ye Family. In his words, he mentioned having an exchange of letters with you. This Empress remembers — you two were quite congenial in those days. Has Lord Ye forgotten?”