Luowei did not know of all these calculations within his heart. She lay quietly against his chest, and then all at once she felt his heart pounding frantically beneath her.

One beat after another, thunderous, as though it would leap out of his chest entirely.

She suddenly found it rather amusing. This man before her dared to covet even the center of the palace — wanton and dissolute, with a face so fine he surely could not have lacked for romantic encounters — so why was he trembling like a young man who had never known the stirrings of the heart?

Perhaps this too was an act.

But it did not quite seem so — she had heard the sound of a young person’s heart in the grip of feeling before.

And so Luowei swallowed the teasing remark she’d been about to make and replaced it with: “Why does your heart beat so fast?”

Ye Tingyan was silent for a moment in the darkness, and said quietly: “Yours… is steady as still water.”

At times like these his speech was entirely unlike his usual self — none of the sharp, cutting edges, none of the false and probing words, just one word after another, as though drowning in something real. She had once mistaken his voice for that of someone from long ago, and now that she could not see his face, hearing only his voice, that feeling grew even more vivid and overpowering.

She had no answer to give him. She only wanted to linger a moment longer in this space between the real and the illusory.

Ye Tingyan held her in his arms as she nestled against his chest — at this moment and in this place, they were like a pair of intimate lovers. Yet she knew that these two hearts, beating so differently, were separated by mountains and oceans of distance.

If only he were as calm as she was.

Without the sound of drums, she would know this was only a common tryst of the world — desire greater than affection, safe and plain.

But his unsteadiness made her feel at a loss.

She breathed in the scent of jasmine tea leaves and straightened herself, pulling away from his embrace. Her hands moved back along his spine to that glass bead, intending to fasten it again for him.

Ye Tingyan caught her wrist and stopped her, asking in a low, heavy voice: “What is this — does the Empress regret it?”

A moment ago it had been ‘you,’ not ‘the Empress.’

A moment ago the words had been immersed in longing; now they had gone cold.

Luowei let out a breath of relief instead: “Not at all — only the hour grows late, and I am concerned that my lord may miss the right time.”

She had barely finished speaking when she felt a cool, light touch fall upon the back of her hand.

Ye Tingyan turned his face toward her and kissed the back of her hand. Whether it was her imagination or not, that kiss seemed to carry far more suggestion than the one their lips had shared a moment earlier.

When the kiss was done, he grasped her hand and pressed it against his own chest, asking with a half-aggrieved, half-complaining tone: “Then when might the Empress find a free moment for this subject — or perhaps… might you permit this subject to come to your chambers?”

The tone was reproachful, but the voice was low and hoarse. She could barely tell whether what shifted so swiftly before her was real or false, and could only laugh to cover herself: “Does Lord Ye wish to come to my Qionghua Hall? That would be rather difficult. Why not… have my lord undergo the procedure to become an attendant in this palace? Coming and going thus, no one would question it — and I could see you every day. You are so easy on the eyes — I am certain I would be very pleased.”

Ye Tingyan, somewhat irritated, applied a little force. Luowei felt the pressure, a bit painful, yet laughed more happily: “What is it, my lord is unwilling?”

She braced against the bed, intending to stand up, and found that in their earlier pushing and pulling, she had knocked a gold hairpin loose from her hair.

He still held her hand and would not let go, so she had no choice but to lean toward him with his hand as support, reaching behind him to retrieve the hairpin — a posture of throwing herself into his arms.

Ye Tingyan immediately made unceremonious use of this, with his other hand pulling her firmly by the waist, asking with feigned ignorance: “What is the Empress doing? If this subject’s injuries today are truly not yet healed and there is no strength left in him, I may well be knocked flat on my back by the Empress.”

Luowei retrieved the rose-gold hairpin in her hand and nearly burst out laughing: “Lord Ye speaks with such an air of innocence — why not first release your hand, otherwise —”

The end of the rose-gold hairpin had been sharpened to a very fine point. She held the hairpin and drew it lightly across the side of his neck.

The skin there was delicate — with even this little force, it would leave him a shallow mark of blood: “Otherwise — do be careful.”

Ye Tingyan gave a laugh and obediently released her, spreading both arms wide in a plea for mercy: “The Empress spare this subject’s life — forgive this subject for the great disrespect.”

Indeed, he thought — between them, the one who always held the sharp blade was her.

Luowei reached back and tucked the hairpin into her hair bun, steadied herself against him as she stood, and with one hand swept open the orchid-blue bed curtains.

Ye Tingyan lay half-propped against the sleeping platform. In the sudden presence of light — even that dim, shadowy light — he instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes.

“Lord Ye’s eyes are poor — I keep forgetting,” said Luowei, turning to see his expression, and offered a quite insincere apology. “As summer deepens and the sunlight grows stronger, how will my lord manage?”

Ye Tingyan rubbed his eyes and stood to follow her: “I thank the Empress for her concern.”

Inside and outside the curtains seemed like two different worlds. In the darkness they had been warmly entangled; now, in the light, they resumed their former distant manner. Luowei straightened her clothing and asked: “Lord Ye has still not answered my question — what do you intend to do after today?”

Ye Tingyan also adjusted his collar, which had come askew: “The cause and effect of that previous case — the Empress has surely seen through it all, and this subject need not waste words. This subject would also like to ask the Empress a question: what does the Empress intend to do?”

Without waiting for Luowei to answer, he continued: “The folk rhyme ‘Song of the False Dragon’ that has been spreading through every street and alley of Biandu — was it made at the Empress’s behest?”

Luowei had already walked to the hall door and opened a crack — golden evening light poured in, and it fell in a band directly across his face.

It did not reach his eyes, so he stood in place without moving.

“Certainly not,” Luowei said slowly. “This palace’s opposition to the Grand Preceptor is only for the sake of His Majesty reclaiming power from the Hall of Governance at the earliest opportunity. How could I gamble with His Majesty’s name and reputation? For Lord Ye to harbor such suspicion is to place this palace in a position of disloyalty and unworthiness.”

Ye Tingyan looked at her — but she was now backlit, bathed in a surrounding brightness, and he could neither see her clearly nor bear to look too long, so he withdrew his gaze: “In the Muochun contest affair, the Grand Preceptor suffered a significant setback — he was unable to save the Lin family, with whom he had long been close, and for nothing gained the Emperor’s suspicion with no means to defend himself. He is no lamb led meekly to slaughter. There is no doubt he will make some move in these days. Rather than asking this subject what he intends to do, the Empress might first think alongside this subject — what is the Grand Preceptor about to do? Preparedness makes for better coping.”

Luowei suddenly asked: “Why does Lord Ye not suspect that ‘The Song of the False Dragon’ is the Grand Preceptor’s own doing?”

Ye Tingyan answered without thinking: “It would not be him.”

As the words left his mouth he felt he had been too certain, and hastily explained: “The Grand Preceptor has not yet managed to extricate himself from the Muochun archery case. For him to do something like this at this time would be rather foolish.”

Luowei looked at him deeply, and a smile of ambiguous meaning curved the corner of her lips.

* * *

That night, Pei Xi carried a lantern into Ye Tingyan’s study and found him writing characters at the window by the light of a single candle.

The light was meager as a bean, the dim room barely lit, the curtains all drawn and lowered, completely blocking the bright silver moon outside the window — precisely to the master’s liking.

Pei Xi set down the tea in his hand and leaned closer to look: he saw that Ye Tingyan was tracing a rubbing made from a piece of calligraphy at his side, writing the character for ‘see’ over and over again.

He glanced at it only once, then sat down across from Ye Tingyan and called: “Master.”

Ye Tingyan looked up briefly and asked: “Why only you — where is Master Zhou?”

Pei Xi replied: “Master Zhou said the night air tonight was pleasantly refined, and has taken two liang of apricot blossom wine to go pay respects at a tomb in the countryside outside the capital with Physician Bai — and he wouldn’t say whose tomb it was.”

Ye Tingyan covered his mouth and gave a short laugh, saying with resignation: “Very well, no need to trouble yourself with them.”

From outside the window came the long drone of cicadas. Pei Xi glanced over and reported: “The two of us — Master Zhou and I — searched all of Biandu and could not discover the origin of ‘The Song of the False Dragon.’ We also sent people into the forbidden palace, and likewise found nothing — besides the Empress and the Grand Preceptor, I genuinely cannot think of who else could have set up such a scheme. But why are you certain it was not the Grand Preceptor?”

Ye Tingyan did not answer, but instead asked: “Cuozhi, in your view — what does the Grand Preceptor seek?”

Pei Xi replied without hesitation: “The glory of the Yu family, gold and silver, fame and rank — it amounts to no more than these.”

Ye Tingyan traced shapes in the air with his brush, without letting it touch the paper: “Why did he choose Song Lan at the time, rather than me? First, because my teacher was still alive then — my teacher and he were not of the same path, and while the Su family held power, there was no position of executive councillor in the court, so he had virtually no opportunity to enter the inner government and be appointed chief minister. Second, because he believed Song Lan would be easier to control. Unfortunately, after Song Lan came to power, he found he had misjudged.”

“But it hardly matters. As things stand, he holds great power and the Yu family is prominent; furthermore the Empress holds authority, and as long as he does nothing outrageous, for the sake of this balance of power — and because of what happened in those early years — Song Lan would endure it at most and grant him a peaceful end.”

Pei Xi said in astonishment: “So…”

“So before I came to Biandu, look at how Yu Qiushi and the Empress were openly and covertly fighting — did Song Lan ever intervene? To speak plainly, if he had truly wished for personal rule long ago, there was absolutely no need to wait until now. The reason he has waited until now is only because he wants to use the struggle between the two to quietly cultivate some trusted followers of his own.” Ye Tingyan shook his head with a smile. “Both parties fight to earn favor in front of him — and to earn that favor, how could either of them release ‘The Song of the False Dragon’?”

“I understand your meaning now,” said Pei Xi, who fell into thought and ventured carefully: “Even if the Grand Preceptor has a reputation for wielding power on the outside, setting aside his devotion to Song Lan, he has no other road he can walk. So when you devised the scheme for the Muochun archery contest, it must not have been too blatant — best only to plant a shadow of doubt in Song Lan’s mind, making him begin to wonder whether the Grand Preceptor harbors other intentions. As for the Empress — you said last time that she, in those early years…”

He paused, then carefully began again: “You said last time that you originally thought her decision all those years ago was made out of feelings for Song Lan, but now you find it was not so.”

“Compared to Song Lan, she seems to love power more,” Ye Tingyan said quietly. “She felt that what she wanted was something Song Lan could give — and I… could not, perhaps. That is all.”

He gave a self-mocking laugh: “Or perhaps it is because she thought I would be harder to fight than Song Lan? She is greatly mistaken in that.”

Pei Xi, knowing he was sorrowful, quickly changed the subject to offer some comfort: “If it was the Empress’s doing, she would naturally not admit it before you. ‘The Song of the False Dragon’ reviles Song Lan, yet what it praises is —”

Ye Tingyan said coldly: “Chengming has been dead for years. Why not make use of him?”

He pressed his fingers to his brow, let out a long breath, and said with some fatigue: “But all of this is only our conjecture for now. As for what is truly the case — we must simply wait and see.”

After Pei Xi left, Ye Tingyan cast down his brush and hesitated for a moment, but in the end raised the bamboo curtain.

He saw a perfectly round, full moon. On this seventeenth night, it was still so perfect and round, so enormous — even more beautiful, somehow, than on the fifteenth or sixteenth.

He sat down by the window and felt a stinging in his eyes, though this time no tears came.

* * *

On the same night, Luowei was draped in a robe and lying sideways before the flower window, admiring the moon.

A few fine flasks of wine sat on the small side table. She gazed, lost in thought, and reached for her wine cup — only to knock the jade flask over by accident. Fortunately it was nearly empty, and even spilling it all merely dampened the hem of her skirt.

A sharp yet rich scent of wine spread through the air. Luowei had only inhaled a little, yet felt already overcome, and lay drooped against the window frame in a dizzy haze.

Yan Luo plied a fan to drive away the mosquitoes. She heard Luowei suddenly say something in that muddled state, entirely out of nowhere.

“Crown Prince… may the Lantern Festival bring you peace and prosperity.”