Luowei stood there, and the two of them fell together into a strange silence. She didn’t know how much time had passed before she felt someone reach out and, tentatively, take her hand.

Ye Tingyan held it with great care and delicacy, without any of the unyielding insistence that had characterized him before.

Luowei sat down at his side, and Ye Tingyan, holding that hand, pulled her into his embrace.

Still the scent of sandalwood and jasmine. He buried his head in her shoulder and, with a posture of complete reliance, even nuzzled against the side of her neck.

She suddenly asked: “When did you begin to have feelings for me?”

Ye Tingyan was caught completely off guard and blurted out: “Long ago, in my youth.”

Luowei recalled aloud: “Many years ago, you and my elder brother entered Biandu together to escort a funeral procession and took up residence in Qingxi Courtyard. I and… I must have seen you at some point.”

Ye Tingyan also recalled what she had said when they first met on Gaoyang Terrace, and couldn’t help but murmur: “You said back then —”

“I was deceiving you,” Luowei said quietly, cutting him off. “In truth — I can’t even remember what you looked like.”

Ye Tingyan’s arms stiffened around her, his heart full of joy mingled with bitterness.

“But I’m no fool — I could tell your feelings for me,” Luowei continued. “You are the most skilled of politicians. If it were not for those… feelings you could not contain, I would not have been your match — not in ten thousand years would I have dared to test you with the four words ‘treacherous vassal and rebel.'”

“Thank you for those feelings of yours. Without them, I would not know when I might ever have walked out through the palace gates of this imperial city.”

Before he could speak, Luowei turned her head. There was a faint glimmer of tears in her eyes: “These past few days I’ve been living in this garden — it has felt like a dream. I know how you all used to see me. If you hadn’t always been soft-hearted, after Yu Qiushi died, the next person you would have had to kill should have been me… That’s not your fault. Even if he were alive, I’m afraid he would have thought the same. I’ve changed so much, so much — I can no longer recognize myself.”

“He wouldn’t have,” Ye Tingyan said, gripping her shoulders and speaking word by careful word. He spoke with utter sincerity, as though the slightest loosening of his composure would expose his emotions: “He…”

He suddenly could not continue. The words circled on the tip of his tongue and then vanished in an instant.

In the warm stillness of the autumn room, he looked at her, and what came to his mind was that strange face reflected in the bronze mirror on that desolate night.

How was he to open his mouth and tell her — that perfect, unsullied moon in your heart, that sun forever radiant in the high sky, has become this cowardly, venomous, lightless thing.

He could not escape his own inner demon. He had laid bare the most hideous parts of himself before her.

Could all the unintentional wounds be treated as though they had never happened?

Could they truly be erased in an instant after the mask was pulled away?

He did not dare open his mouth. Even if he saw just the slightest flicker of bewilderment cross her face — even if she only asked how you could have become like this — he would wish he had never come back to life at all.

That way, in her heart, he would forever remain the pure and perfect person she had admired from the very beginning.

But now Luowei was in his arms, and he had a constant illusion that if he held her even slightly tighter, she would shatter.

Whether he spoke or stayed silent, it seemed to be a wound either way.

“Did you have a memorial tablet built for him?” Without waiting for him to come to his senses, Luowei raised her eyes to look at him and asked with a measure of entreaty: “Take me to see it, would you?”

There was one — a spirit tablet he had carved with his own hands, made as an offering to his former self.

Why have her grieve before a false shrine? But to say “there is none” would also not dispel the trace of wariness she still harbored toward him — his identity was different from Zhou Chuyin’s and Bai Sensen’s; he could hear the probing concealed between truth and fiction. Luowei ultimately kept a thread of suspicion toward him.

After much deliberation, he wrapped a cloak around her and led her to the garden between the study and the small pavilion.

Fallen leaves drifted through the garden. The crabapple tree was nearly bare; the bamboo grove behind it was still reasonably green. The two of them walked one after the other for a long while before Luowei saw a small stone stele on a platform.

— Spirit Tablet of Chengming Crown Prince Song Ling.

Luowei reached out to touch the small, cold tablet. The back of the tablet was bare — not even a single line of epitaph.

Perhaps seeing her grief, Ye Tingyan placed his hand on her shoulder, just about to say something — but Luowei reacted violently and shoved him away with both hands.

“Don’t touch me!”

A moment later she seemed to come to her senses. Her lips trembling, she said in confusion: “I’m sorry — I’m sorry — could you… let me be alone for a while?”

Ye Tingyan looked at her and called softly: “Weiwei…”

“Please,” Luowei covered her ears, and her legs gave out beneath her — she knelt before the tablet. “I don’t want to hear anything right now.”

He was driven away by her. As he walked away from the bamboo grove in a daze, he suddenly realized — in Luowei’s eyes right now, he was at once a stranger who had harbored feelings for her since youth, and a loyal subordinate who sought revenge for Song Ling’s return. These relations were interwoven through a thousand threads, as tangled and broken as lotus fibers that refuse to truly part — a complete and utter mess.

He had once often been irritated by Luowei’s docility and her attempts to win him over. But her actions just now had been telling him plainly — except for the one whose spirit rested on that tablet, she had never truly cared about anyone else.

Love and desire were clearly separated, divided by a vast chasm.

Wind blew through the bamboo grove, producing a rustling sound.

Ye Tingyan leaned against a bare tree and raised his sleeve to smell the fragrance on his lapels. He had always been fond of burning incense, and even now had not changed that habit — in the study, incense he had loved in former days burned throughout the year.

That lock of hair she had caught — so that had been the reason.

He felt happiness wash over him till he was slightly dizzy, and yet there was also an unspeakable timidity and wistfulness.

Before he could think too much, Luowei walked out from the bamboo grove.

She had not stayed very long. When she emerged she showed none of the earlier distress — her complexion was somewhat pale, but she had become much calmer.

Ye Tingyan had not noticed her; it was Luowei who walked up behind him and tugged at his sleeve. Only then did he hesitantly fall into step.

Luowei said: “Find a place where we can talk.”

“A place to talk” meant a place not to be overheard by others. Ye Tingyan considered briefly and led her to the room where Zhou Chuyin kept his maps and sand formations.

Luowei and he sat across from each other at the table. She first poured herself a cup of tea.

“Have the censors and remonstrators been making any moves these past few days?”

Ye Tingyan pressed down the tangled mass of thoughts within him and replied: “Of course. Yu Qiushi’s death is still fresh, and already the Empress has suddenly fallen gravely ill. The Censorate hasn’t spoken yet, but someone in the Remonstrance Bureau has already submitted a written memorial.”

He cleared his slightly hoarse throat: “Song Lan has been claiming illness and not attending court these past few days, but it can only be dragged out so long. When he next appears at morning court, the censors and remonstrators will surely come at him all at once.”

Luowei said suddenly: “Not only that — I have also prepared another matter on the side.”

Ye Tingyan started: “I’ve also prepared another matter on the side.”

Luowei was momentarily surprised. Very quickly she said: “In that case, let us each write down our thoughts, and see if we’ve arrived at the same conclusion — shall we?”

Ye Tingyan agreed readily. After a moment, the two exchanged the pieces of xuan paper beside them and, after a laugh, placed them together.

Exactly the same single character.

— “Chariot” (Public opinion / The vehicle of public discourse).

“The character for ‘chariot’ — Heaven fashions a solitary vehicle among all things,” Luowei said, pointing to the character with a smile. “Factions and cliques have wielded this one character with great ease and facility. We shall attack them with their own methods.”

She smiled faintly: “Yesterday Chuyin said that when a ruler is without virtue, his ministers must live in constant fear of being raised to glory or dashed to ruin. This is quite true. Song Lan has been on the throne for three years and only just assumed personal rule. With Yu Qiushi gone, he will inevitably find it extremely difficult to suppress his natural bloodthirst. This method is nothing more than a way to tear away his false face and let the world see.”

Ye Tingyan added: “After the censors and remonstrators, there are the Imperial Academy students. The Six Ministries are already hollowed out, and by then, with panic spreading through the ranks, all the ministers will feel threatened. Behind you are the Yan clan’s soldiers and generals and the scholars of the purist faction. Behind me are half the imperial guards and the generals defending the borders. With public opinion arrayed thus — the Mandate of Heaven is aligned as well. What we must truly wrack our brains over is nothing more than how to confine the palace coup, as much as possible, within the red walls, so as not to harm innocent people.”

Luowei had not expected him to think of this point as well, and gave him an appreciative nod.

The two of them spoke in a cursory fashion, leaving unmentioned many of the other perils — for instance, Song Lan could not possibly accept his fate without a fight. Should things reach the extreme, he would certainly seek to drag everyone down with him in mutual destruction.

Then there were also the unsettled border tribes: if they saw internal strife at court, would they seize the opportunity to stir up trouble?

If that happened, they would simply have to adapt to circumstances as they arose.

Ye Tingyan sighed and asked: “After success, what do you intend to do?”

Luowei suddenly asked: “In your original plans, who did you intend to put in his place?”

Ye Tingyan said nothing. She considered and then said: “His elder brother Prince Cheng is a valiant general. After his investiture he guarded the southwest with unwavering loyalty, and made a vow never to return to the capital out of fraternal sentiment — a true gentleman. The Third Prince keeps to himself in seclusion; the Fifth Prince is already dead. The Prince of Linyang is a wastrel interested only in self-preservation — but when truly needed, he could be of use. The Prince of Xiaoxiang is young and has not been harmed by Song Lan’s purges; he is gifted and can serve as heir. And there is also Shu Kang…”

He listened carefully. Then Luowei’s tone shifted abruptly: “But…”

“I had someone search for Lingcheng in the southwest for so long. Since he is here, there is no need to conceal anything from you.”

He suddenly had a strong premonition — formless and intangible, yet it enveloped him completely in an instant.

Luowei said: “After success, I want to find someone and disguise him to look like the Crown Prince.”

“Have you listened carefully to that ‘Song of the False Dragon’? The lotus flower has left its homeland for many years, but if the steadfast iron is lost, the undying true dragon will return — I wrote that song precisely to build momentum for what comes after.”

Ye Tingyan followed her words and suddenly understood where the strangeness in his heart had lain the first time he heard the “Song of the False Dragon.”

Yu Qiushi and Song Lan had been co-conspirators. If one wished to frame Song Lan, would it not be far too risky to drag that matter into the open? It would be enough to simply write of the present emperor’s lack of virtue — why specify that a “true dragon” had been wrongly accused?

And Luowei continued speaking, her voice measured and unhurried, utterly at odds with her near-mad scheme: “Song Lan is certain that he is dead, and only because of that certainty has he dared to fashion a towering posthumous reputation for him — the golden statue at the Floating Flower Terrace, and that ‘Lament for the Jintian.’ He exploited him to elevate a spirit onto a divine altar. So I will simply bring that spirit back from the underworld.”

“As long as he reappears before the world, everything Song Lan has done in the past will dig his own grave — public opinion, overwhelming as mountains and seas, will come crashing back down upon him, and every person he has killed will become a weapon to crush him.”

“I will certainly give him a legacy to be remembered by,” she said. “After restoring great prosperity to the Dayin realm, we will meet again — and he will not blame me.”

These words she had apparently never said aloud to anyone before. As they poured out now, she first let out a breath of relief herself.

Luowei turned her head and saw Ye Tingyan standing motionless, his face white as gold paper. Seeing her turn, he stumbled a step forward and nearly fell on flat ground.

She went forward, about to reach out and help him — but she saw his eyes, red as blood.

In the instant their gazes met, Ye Tingyan suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed downward. His heart ailment had clearly struck again. She hurriedly knelt down beside him, half-embracing his shoulders, and called out loudly toward the doorway.

“I…” Ye Tingyan said with great difficulty. “I have something to say to you…”

But even these few words exhausted all his strength. Luowei gently patted his back and realized blood foam was welling from his mouth, staining the back of her hand red.

Bai Sensen came rushing in and kicked open the door with one foot. Seeing the situation he reached out to take him over.

Ye Tingyan held on to Luowei’s sleeve and refused to let go, coughing up blood while stubbornly repeating: “I have something… to say to you… to say to you…”

Bai Sensen cursed: “Save it for the underworld!”

Ye Tingyan forced himself not to lose consciousness, clutching her sleeve: “…Don’t go.”

Luowei looked at his expression, and her heart gave a tremor. She could not help but say soothingly: “I won’t go.”

She took his hand and repeated once more: “I won’t go.”

Having received these words, Ye Tingyan finally let go with relief and lost consciousness at once. Bai Sensen opened a box to retrieve his needles. Seeing that Luowei’s complexion was also poor, he said helplessly: “You go rest first.”

Luowei nodded softly, somewhat in a daze. By the time she returned to her room and looked at the traces of blood remaining on the back of her hand, she still felt an emptiness in her heart.

It was as though the closer she drew, the more she would come to know some unknowable thing.

This premonition persisted for two hours, until Pei Xi came knocking at her door and said that Ye Tingyan was already unharmed. After waking, he had originally wanted to come and find her, but a sudden imperial summons had come from the palace and he had been forced to leave — it might be several days before he could return.

Pei Xi said: “The young master says he remembers your last words.”

His last words to her — “I won’t go.”

Luowei gave a soft “mm.” Pei Xi watched her expression, then steeled himself and asked once more: “Your High— would you… like to go into the young master’s study and have a look?”

Luowei was a little distracted. Just when Pei Xi thought she wouldn’t answer, she suddenly replied: “All right.”