It seemed to be a night many years ago — the night of the seventeenth day, though not the Lantern Festival but two days after the Mid-Autumn Festival.

The night of the full-moon reunion, the Duke of the Yue Kingdom hosted a grand birthday banquet.

That day he seemed to have been in low spirits — thinking back on it now, he could recall it with such clarity.

Shortly before that day, Hang, a court official long renowned for his virtue, had encountered Xue Wenming — a man of opposing political views — on the road home. The two had clashed, and Lu Hang had uttered rash words at the Gate of Established Virtue. Xue Wenming’s faction had seized on the matter and submitted a censure by hearsay.

Emperor Gao, in order to appease the censors and the court, demoted Lu Hang to serve as prefect of Yingchuan.

Lu Hang and his teacher at that time, Fang Hezhi, were old friends. He had submitted a memorial in refutation but was sharply reprimanded. At the Mid-Autumn banquet in the palace, after the festivities, he and Emperor Gao confronted each other on the Zuifeng Terrace where the banquet had been held.

He asked: “Father, why do you insist on demoting Lu Hang?”

Emperor Gao replied with a question of his own: “If you were regent at this moment, what would you do?”

Su Zhoudu had once marveled that he had never seen a father and son, lord and minister, as harmonious as him and Emperor Gao — likely because Emperor Gao was, at heart, too gentle.

He had not understood the meaning behind those words then. Only much later had he come to appreciate them.

Since ancient times the Eastern Palace had been a precarious seat, yet he, as Crown Prince, had perhaps made it all too easy for himself.

Su Zhoudu and Song Rongxiao were of the same mold — perhaps shaped by the teachings of their fathers, perhaps by the writings of the sages. And so even when they perceived the undercurrents beneath the surface, they had not had the heart to speak plainly. They had both naively believed that the prosperity of the Mingtai Restoration, stretching over sixty or seventy years, would allow those undercurrents to remain, as in dynasties past, forever submerged and unseen.

The young Song Ling of those days had not thought that far. Receiving his father’s question, he replied without hesitation: “Lu Hang erred in speech because Xue Wenming turned a blind eye to his son’s corruption and extortion in Jiangnan. Who is right and who is wrong — Father should know this better than I.”

Emperor Gao replied: “You say Xue Wenming indulged his son — is there evidence? Is there a handle on the matter?”

There was indeed evidence and a handle — but at present it was still fragmentary. He had organized half the information from the Huainan officialdom, and to find solid human and material testimony would require more time.

The moon shifted and the flower shadows moved; from behind the palace came the distant sound of strings and winds. Emperor Gao clasped his hands behind his back and said mildly: “Xue Wenming lured Lu Hang into rash words at the Gate of Established Virtue — why would this send the court and the country into uproar? When all is said and done, Lu Hang has an excellent reputation: loyal and upright in his service. And it is precisely because of that that his impropriety is all the more seized upon by the world — second son, do not underestimate the power of public opinion. It is the most intangible, and yet the most bloodlessly lethal weapon in the world. Xue Wenming has stirred this matter up and made clear he does not want Lu Hang to escape unscathed. If I do not demote him, he will face this blade head on — and then what would happen?”

Song Ling was taken aback: “Can it be that in the face of a petty man’s blade, a gentleman can only endure and retreat? Are these deliberately manufactured opinions truly so significant — is there truly no way to change them?”

“Of course there is — but you must wait,” Emperor Gao answered decisively. He seemed about to say more when a sudden gust of wind cut him off. He let out a sigh and softened his tone: “The character for ‘public opinion’ — why does it mean what it does? Heaven fashioned the single cart within its vessel — this vessel can belong to a petty man or to a gentleman. Whether it is of use depends only on whether you can master this way.”

He turned back to the banquet. Song Ling followed two steps, unwilling to relent: “How can this still be called a ‘way’? It is plainly ‘craft’ and ‘power’ — Lu Hang would not stoop to it because he scorned to — and so do I!”

Emperor Gao raised his head to look at the moon, his footsteps pausing for a moment.

“Second son, I have said too many times — you are too young. What is called craft, what is called power — scorning them is not the only attitude one may have. Furthermore, he can afford to scorn them. You — cannot.”

He swept his sleeves and left, leaving behind a single remark: “Both your teachers are old friends of Lu Hang’s — go and learn something from them.”

Court affairs were pressing, and Song Ling had not found the opportunity. He could not puzzle out the meaning of those words, and for two days running he was in low spirits.

On the seventeenth day, the old Duke of the Yue Kingdom hosted a grand banquet. For appearances’ sake, he attended as well, sending his attendants away to walk alone through the Duke of the Yue Kingdom’s estate.

Luowei loved nothing more than a lively crowd, and had naturally come too — but he had wandered two full circuits without finding her, with no idea where she had gone.

Song Ling followed the stone path and walked to its end. In the pavilion ahead, he saw two people seated, drinking together.

One was Lu Hang himself; the other was Qiu Fang, who then served as Censor-in-Chief. Both were deeply drunk, facing each other as they chanted.

Lu Hang wept and laughed by turns, singing a lyric: “The trifling fame of a snail’s horn, the petty gain of a fly’s head — reckoning it all, what toil for so little… All things are foreordained, who is weak and who strong? While this idle body is not yet old, let me give myself wholly — a little wild and unrestrained. A hundred years, let me be drunk through all of it — thirty-six thousand days!”

Qiu Fang, wine-flushed, clinked cups with him: “…Contemplate — how much can one endure, worry and rain, half impeding the way — why speak of long and short, trading blows till death?”

He was moved by the equal parts sorrow and abandon in those words, and was just about to go forward and share a drink with them when, without warning, two young girls came running from the other side.

One wore a pink apricot gown — it was Luowei, whom he had not found all evening. The other wore a light purple dress, and before she had even drawn near she was already scolding: “Father, you have gotten drunk again!”

Qiu Fang turned and saw his daughter, roaring with laughter, and continued to chant: “Fortunate to face the clear breeze and bright moon, the mossy ground spread wide, the canopy of clouds arching high! How fine is Jiangnan — a thousand cups of fragrant wine, one song — Mantingfang!” [1]

Luowei, from across the pavilion, caught sight of him at a glance. She seemed about to shout a greeting but also seemed reluctant to break the two men’s reverie. So she took advantage of the moment when Qiu Xueyu was speaking with Qiu Fang and Lu Hang, hitched up her skirts, and came sneaking over to crash into his arms: “Crown Prince Brother!”

Song Ling steadied himself, only then realizing how rash he had been — had he approached, Qiu and Lu, facing the Crown Prince, would surely no longer have been able to sustain such carefree spirits.

Not wanting to spoil their pleasant mood, he took Luowei by the arm and turned to leave. Seeing that he was silent and unsmiling, Luowei asked: “Why are you unhappy? I had a very happy time today — I met so many new friends…”

“Weiwei,” he interrupted her, “the lyric that Lord Lu and Lord Qiu were just singing — do you know what it means?”

Seeing he still would not brighten, Luowei blinked and immediately reined in her teasing expression, her manner turning serious: “This is a lyric by Su Zizhan. Lord Lu says that court is full of scheming and strife — fighting over a snail’s horn and a fly’s head — it would be more satisfying to get thoroughly drunk. Lord Qiu responds that half a lifetime is spent in worry, and there is no need to say much about it — tonight with the moon above, and tomorrow with Jiangnan ahead — wine and song together, these are life’s great joys.”

Song Ling had not yet replied when Luowei suddenly changed how she addressed him and said, smiling brightly: “Second Brother, you need not pity them, and still less need you envy Jiangnan — we are all held within the palm of the universe, and as the stars turn, so long as we walk the same road, we will always meet again.”

These memories stirred awake alongside the lyric the woman before him was humming in her stupor. The bewilderment and fear he had felt then about craft and power; the meaning of “public opinion” he had not been able to work out; dear friends sharing wine by moonlight; a lover’s understanding and tender accord so deep it defied words…

Ye Tingyan did not know why he had recalled those few entirely unrelated events here and now — perhaps because it was so dark all around, and his heart ailment had not yet healed, and his misguided obsessions still ran deep.

He casually picked up a gleaming dagger from the table and took out a handkerchief to wipe it carefully, hoping it might divert his attention.

His voice, however, betrayed not the slightest agitation — only unhurried and detached: “Your father was the former Censor-in-Chief, Lord Qiu Fang?”

Yan Luo made no response, still turning the lyric over and over in her song.

Ye Tingyan asked abruptly: “Do you wish to live?”

Only then did Yan Luo rouse herself. She lifted her head slowly, saw who it was, and pulled the corners of her mouth: “Lord Ye.”

She seemed only now to recognize his voice.

Ye Tingyan said: “Your mistress wishes for you to live.”

Yet Yan Luo only murmured: “Does she not know that I came into the palace to kill her?”

Ye Tingyan said nothing, but inwardly offered a word of admiration.

What a pair, mistress and attendant. What a pair of old friends.

When Zhuque conducted interrogations without resorting to torture, they would place a person in a pitch-black cell, cutting off all food and water, and only administer life-sustaining medicine when absolutely necessary. Even three or four hours in a place devoid of sound and light was enough to drive a person to madness, let alone twelve full hours of the day.

Though he had given instructions for Yan Luo’s cell to be left with a single candle, that light was barely anything. Yan Luo had been confined in this darkness for a full half-day — dazed and disoriented — and yet upon hearing him, this close aide of Luowei’s, speak of her name, she was still able to resist all appeals for mercy and hold to her original testimony, insisting she had entered the palace to kill her.

Yuanming turned back from the door and said quietly: “This servant, per your lordship’s instructions, has withheld the information Zhuque uncovered about this woman’s entry into the palace. Please review it, my lord.”

Song Lan had assembled Zhuque’s close guards from among trusted hard-liners in the Ministry of Justice and the Censorate, and from loyal and capable men among the Jintian Guards, the Lin Guards, and the Imperial Guard. These people spent their days within the palace walls; whether gathering intelligence or handling secret matters, they were swift and sure-handed.

Yan Luo had been captured that morning, and by nightfall all information about her had reached his hands.

Ye Tingyan unrolled the Zhuque report and was astonished to find that, among all matters relating to her entry into the palace, there was absolutely no trace of Luowei’s involvement.

No wonder the two of them could maintain the same account and refuse to waver.

In those years, Song Lan had carefully plotted the assassination on the night of the Lantern Festival, then chosen Song Qi as the scapegoat, conveniently purging several officials who had formerly been close to him. Though he had possessed a fine reputation at court during his time there, he had kept strictly to the rules and in truth had little intercourse with court officials.

So those who had been close to him were few — Su Zhoudu was already dead, Fang Hezhi had returned to his hometown in the second year of the Tianshou reign and had not come back, and Zhang Pingjing and the others had never shown partiality in court and had thus escaped unscathed.

His favored associations had been upright officials like Lu Hang — men such as Qiu Fang, the Censor-in-Chief of those days, known for his incorruptibility.

Among the three principal instigators of the Thorn of the Tang Case, Liu Fuliang had been a student Qiu Fang had promoted, and had also been mutually devoted to Qiu Xueyu at the time, even exchanging a marriage pledge.

It was for this reason that the Qiu family had been implicated as a whole.

Only Qiu Xueyu alone had changed her name and entered the inner court.

Zhuque had investigated every person who might be connected to this matter within a single day and produced this report. Ye Tingyan read it through carefully and found that Qiu Xueyu’s entry into the palace appeared to have had no connection to Luowei whatsoever.

All involved — over these years — had been transferred away from their posts under various entirely plausible pretexts, or sent out of the palace. Those who remained were not the primary handlers, and gave vague and muddled accounts, but one thing was certain: the matter had nothing to do with the newly established Central Palace — at the time, Luowei had not yet found secure footing in the palace. Had she risked so much to keep Qiu Xueyu alive, she could not possibly have left no trace.

Then what power within the inner court had erased all record and the hands that had handled it?

If even Zhuque could find no trace of Luowei’s involvement within the inner court, then the account the two of them held to was entirely plausible — Qiu Xueyu and Luowei had been friends; when her family fell, she came to beg Luowei for help but was refused. Then, through some turn of fate, someone who wished Luowei ill had erased her name and identity and sent her into the inner court. After entering the palace and spending a full year toiling through menial tasks in Qionghua Hall, she had at last caught Luowei’s attention and been promoted step by step to become a close attendant.

Once she became someone Luowei trusted, Qiu Xueyu began to scheme against her. But Luowei was careful about food and drink and knew martial arts, making it impossible to find a means of escape unscathed. She had no choice but to lie low and wait.

Until the day of the spring hunt that late spring. Returning from her outing, she sensed that her identity might have been exposed, and in her panic she resorted to desperate measures — seizing the opportunity in the early morning when Luowei was still drowsy to stab her with a hairpin.

Yu Qiushi had learned of Yan Luo’s identity on the day of the spring hunt, yet had suppressed this knowledge through the incident at the Lin family and through the mudslinging Luowei had directed at him via the “False Dragon’s Chant” — waiting for the perfect moment before swapping the “False Dragon’s Chant” Luowei had engraved beneath the bronze cup with the phrase “The waterside flowers hold a grievance,” catching her completely off guard.

In this way, Song Lan believed it was Luowei who had deliberately stirred up that old matter to bring Yu Qiushi down. At this point in the struggle, she had completely abandoned any concern for the Emperor’s reputation.

It was at this moment that revealing Yan Luo’s identity as a trump card would cause the entire False Dragon’s Chant affair and the bronze gold cup affair to fall naturally on the Empress’s shoulders.

Unfortunately Yu Qiushi had been too proud, which had bought him the time to investigate.

Once Luowei received this news, a single stab of Yan Luo’s hairpin rendered that hidden card instantly useless.

Though the account Luowei and Yan Luo shared held many suspicious points, in the end there was no evidence whatsoever — the Empress, who had shielded a convicted criminal’s daughter, had now become the victim. As long as neither of them yielded, Zhuque would submit a report that concluded the case as such.

Song Lan had dispatched him for a night of secret interrogation because he wished to know whether Luowei had any hand in the matter — and if not, who was the one who had sent her into the palace?

The method Ye Tingyan had originally devised was to turn the two of them against each other. At the time, not knowing Yan Luo’s true feelings, he had always worried that if she were pushed to the extreme, she would expose the relationship between him and Luowei.

That would be tantamount to handing the blade to Luowei’s own throat — a risk he would never take.

There were other ways.

Only he had not yet had the chance to set them in motion when the assassination occurred. After capturing her, his urgent concern in meeting Luowei secretly had been to extract one answer — what was the true nature of the bond between her and Yan Luo now?

If Yan Luo and Luowei were merely using each other, he would immediately eliminate this confidante who knew too much and posed a threat to Luowei.

If both of them could hold firm and not waver, he could find a way to shift the blame for sending Yan Luo into the inner court onto someone else — turning the table against the accuser.

Yet no matter what, Yan Luo’s life would be very difficult to preserve.

And Luowei’s only request had been to keep her alive for three days.

Ye Tingyan gazed at Yan Luo on the punishment frame before him, and thought of the purple-robed young woman in the moonlit night of years past.

Qiu Fang’s ancestral home was in Jiangnan — was she, singing this lyric in a daze, yearning for her homeland?

Yearning for the days when her father and mother had grown old in peace, when they had been able to leave Biandu and take her with them back to Jiangnan — to drink a thousand cups of fragrant wine, to sing one song of Mantingfang?

What a pity — the homelands where you and I once belonged have long since been swallowed by storm and rain.

Ye Tingyan suddenly drew a long, deep breath.

He had finally understood why he had recalled that night of the seventeenth of the eighth month in those years gone by — he had been so young then. Over a demotion that might yet be reversed, he had had the courage to argue with his father on the Zuifeng Terrace, to speak boldly, to declare that a gentleman upholds the way and builds virtue, and would never stoop to manipulating public opinion through craft and power.

But what was in his heart now?

Though he had never met the person before him, the moment he learned she was the daughter of an old friend, his heart had not stirred with fond remembrance or grief for one long gone — instead it had swiftly calculated what he might exploit through her identity.

Had he not heard this lyric of “Mantingfang,” he would already have been wholly swallowed by the darkness he had once scorned most.

After a hundred years and the turning of the stars, would there still be an old friend waiting on his road?

“My lord?”

Yuanming called to him once, and Ye Tingyan then realized he had been wiping that keen-edged dagger with his handkerchief, and had at some point broken into a cold sweat.

“Mosheng,” Ye Tingyan steadied himself and said quietly, “you go out first.”

Yuanming withdrew as instructed. When she sensed he had left, Yan Luo on the punishment frame laboriously raised her head and looked over, then asked weakly: “What else did she say?”

So it turned out she had been wary of Yuanming, who wore the Zhuque uniform, standing at his side.

Ye Tingyan shook his head: “She said nothing else.”

“And you?” Yan Luo said haltingly. “On the verge of death in Huiling Lake, I realized it was you who sent people to capture me — and that was why I let myself go on living. Lord Ye — you and my mistress share the same enemy. Can I… become a blade in your hands?”

Ye Tingyan raised his eyes to look at her, and found that her eyes shone with a strange brightness in the darkness of night.

“Lord Ye is the most skilled of all at wielding a blade — you ought to know that my mistress is being foolish, and this life of mine cannot be preserved. Why go to such great lengths for a fruitless endeavor?”

Her eyes dropped, and at his ear she murmured on and on — in the half-day since being brought to this place by Zhuque, she had not let the time go to waste, and had worked out nearly every calculation. Though Yan Luo was not supremely clever, she was exceedingly cautious. In her words she did not reveal a single matter connected to Luowei — she only zeroed in on his desire to bring down Yu Qiushi and laid out the gains and losses.

Ye Tingyan said nothing.

When Yan Luo had finished speaking, she hesitated at length, then said only quietly: “Thank you for the candle you left.”

Ye Tingyan suddenly asked: “Do you know why Yu Qiushi was able to discover your identity?”

Yan Luo shook her head, and he continued: “That day of the spring hunt — my mistress had not miscalculated. It was simply that Heaven’s will was not with her. As you passed through the market, you saved a beggar child who was nearly run over by a carriage. Do you still remember?”

Yan Luo paused, then gave a bitter smile: “That was a plain-topped carriage — it should not have been carrying any official.”

Ye Tingyan said: “Yet the Yu family had people in that carriage who saw your face. After Yu Qiushi learned of it, he immediately sent men to follow you up the mountain. The grave you went to pay your respects to had no name — so they opened the tomb and dug up the coffin, and found the keepsake.”

Yan Luo’s eyes went bloodshot with hatred. She strained against the chains at her wrists until they clanged and rang. She forced out several rough breaths, gritting her teeth: “It is I who was unfilial, implicating my parents.”

“But the beggar child in the crowded street was genuinely not something they arranged,” Ye Tingyan said. “I ask you — if you could do it over again, would you save him or not?”

The lashes of Yan Luo’s lowered eyes trembled twice. She did not know why, facing him now, she would speak the truth: “To have brought such danger upon my mistress, even cost myself my life — I very much wish I could answer: I would not save him. But… Heaven has a fondness for life. Perhaps Lord Ye would not understand — in the midst of that moment, there was simply no thought for what came after. Even if I lived those ten thousand times over, I… fear I would not hesitate.”

*

On the second day after her injury, Luowei learned from Song Lan — who had come to see her — that Yan Luo had not died.

Song Lan spoke as he watched the expression on her face: “Ye Tingyan interrogated her through the night at Zhuque. She was tight-lipped and said nothing at all. But Zhuque located one of the palace attendants involved in her entry into the palace years ago — this person had committed an offense and left the palace, but was still living, albeit somewhat deranged. They interrogated him through the night and managed to piece together a muddled sentence…”

“That attendant said the one who had kept Qiu Xueyu alive was a princess.”

Luowei’s expression did not change. She immediately asked: “A princess — is it Shu Kang or Ningle? I have never had any dealings with Ningle — why would she want to harm me? As for Shu Kang… at least we share some former feelings. She should not hate me enough to want my life, should she?”

Song Lan stared at her fixedly but found nothing to read from her expression.

So he replied: “The human heart harbors darkness — who can truly distinguish black from white? That attendant has been addled for many years; it is difficult to get much out of him. He has said nothing beyond ‘a princess.’ But elder sister need not worry — I have already instructed Ye Tingyan to spare Qiu Xueyu’s life for now. I will surely dig out the one behind her and make them pay with their life for your wound.”

Luowei answered warmly: “Very well.”

Though Song Lan spoke this way, privately he had ordered Zhuque and the Lin Guards to surround Qionghua Hall. It was not until Attendant Li happened to hear the sound of armor while fetching food that anyone realized.

Who knew what Yu Qiushi had said to Song Lan.

Had Yan Luo’s identity been exposed before that hairpin strike, it would not have been as simple as merely surrounding the hall.

But after that hairpin strike…

After Song Lan left, Luowei called Attendant Li to her and asked with a smile: “This morning when Imperial Physician Miao left, did he happen to chat with you about the pigeon he had taken away to make into a medicinal stew yesterday?”

Attendant Li answered: “Yes, yes — Imperial Physician Miao said that pigeon was difficult to stew. He slow-cooked it over a low flame for a full twelve hours. He also said Your Highness need not worry — once he found some rare medicinal ingredients from the north and perfected the recipe, he would bring the medicinal stew for Your Highness to taste.”

On the night of the third day after her injury, Luowei was at last able to get up and move about with some difficulty.

She placed a sandglass by the head of her bed. When the sand ran out at the end of the hour of the Rat, it dropped with a clang into the gold vessel placed beneath — and hearing the sound, Luowei rose from within the gauze curtains and pushed open the nearest latticed window in the hall.

But she waited the time it takes to burn a full incense stick before she heard any footsteps.

“Why did you come so late today?”

Ye Tingyan caught sight of Luowei seated before the latticed window from a distance and froze — for a moment he could not find words. Before Luowei could send him a questioning look, Ye Tingyan stretched out his hand and covered her lips.

Not only her lips — he covered her nose as well. She caught a faintly bitter fragrant scent from his palm, and for some reason felt no sensation of suffocation.

“You opened the window like this — are you not afraid of breathing in the sedating incense I left for your palace maid?” Ye Tingyan leaned against the window frame and said languidly. “Breathe a bit more — if you suddenly faint in the middle of our conversation, I cannot promise…”

He let the sentence trail off with great implication. Luowei shot him a glare but, obediently, did not struggle — not until she noticed him pressing ever tighter did she frown and tug at his hand, with quite some effort.

Ye Tingyan watched her with amusement. Seeing that she was losing strength, he finally withdrew his hand.

Luowei immediately gasped several times for breath and said furiously: “What are you doing?”

She wore only her inner robe, her cheeks flushed. Ye Tingyan looked at her with an expression of innocence, then flipped himself over the window ledge and landed inside, pulling the latticed window shut behind him. He said with complete earnestness: “Administering the antidote to Your Highness, of course. This servant only worried that Your Highness had not breathed in enough and might not be cured of the poison.”