Many white veils had been hung in Ye Tingyan’s room to block the light, so that even during the day it was not very bright. After Luowei shut the door, she first caught the scent of a thick fragrance of ink.

She felt her way into the room.

Ye Tingyan was a man of elegance and refinement. Mixed within that ink was the fragrance of the incense he wore on his person — and in a sudden moment, it gave her a strangely familiar feeling.

Yet this feeling was just as elusive as the sight of the blood on the back of her hand a moment ago.

Many paintings and pieces of calligraphy hung around the room. The five-paneled plain screen before the window and the surrounding white veils used to block out the light were all covered in writing. Luowei first noticed a painting that had been spread open on the table — it was a painting she had made in the palace before, depicting a woman pining in absence. Ye Tingyan had added several lines of verse beside her poem.

The room was truly dim, and she could barely make out the characters, so she had to take the scroll and move toward the window where a faint glimmer of light seeped through.

Luowei pushed open that round moon lattice window and discovered that directly across from it was a crabapple tree.

She did not know who had been the master of this residence before Ye Tingyan moved in. The tree appeared to have some years to it, Luowei thought, and on that thought she settled down on the long couch nearby.

The long couch even had a thin quilted cover and a hand warmer for keeping out the cold — did Ye Tingyan often rest here?

She hugged that soft, fluffy hand warmer and looked out the window. Through the branches of the crabapple tree, now nearly bare of leaves, she could faintly make out the small pavilion she currently occupied.

She couldn’t say why, but Luowei suddenly felt a great serenity settle over her heart. The afternoon sunlight made one deliciously drowsy, and the long couch swayed a little — she even began to imagine how this place would look in spring — the flower trees she had planted herself in the Su family mansion were probably this tall by now.

Every tree in full bloom, petals drifting in cascades — it must be an intoxicating, beautiful sight.

She lowered her head to look at the painting in her hands. That unfinished verse from “Gaoyang Terrace” — he had completed the lyric. By the end the meter had gone awry; she didn’t know if it reflected his state of mind at the time.

“After parting, the scenery knows no bounds. The imperial carriage grows cold — old joys, new sorrows, how can they be dispersed?”

“Pavilion Mountain is far away, Banquet Mountain is far away — far apart, a thousand treacherous peaks of Penglai divide us. A lonely soul dares not long for those of old — in the bronze mirror’s surface, Your Highness grows ever more drawn.”

Luowei read it through twice but could not decipher the meaning of this lyric.

She rolled the scroll back up, turned around, and grew more and more puzzled — Pei Xi had been so insistent on having her come in. What was there here for her to see?

By the light from the window, she looked through the writing on the white veils hanging around the room, one panel after another.

Turbulent running script, seemingly written in moments of emotional agitation — now twisted, now erratic. Yet Luowei didn’t know why she found it so easy to read.

These sentences all felt very familiar, as though she had heard them somewhere not long ago.

“Ah, that soldier of sorrow — morning and evening he finds no respite… Not seeing him since I last did — now it has been three years. Tying her sash herself, ninety rites of ceremony. Fresh as the new day — how does the old compare?”

“The eye strains a thousand li, the heart aches with spring — O soul, come home! Mourn the Southland.”

“Watch the white crane in silence, the azure clouds at rest, the hidden journey beyond all things… A thousand cups of fine wine, one song of ‘Courtyard Full of Fragrance!'”

“The man of old already rode the yellow crane away — this place is left with nothing but the Yellow Crane Tower.”

“The withered orchid sees off guests on the Xianyang road — if Heaven had feelings, even Heaven would grow old.”

Luowei lifted one white veil after another, like finding a path through flowers.

On the plain screen before the window was written her “Song of the False Dragon” that had been circulated among the common people. Ye Tingyan appeared very puzzled by the meaning of this ballad and had written it out many times.

Especially the line “The lotus flower has left its homeland for a thousand years” — it was repeated again and again at the end of the screen.

Lotus flower… left its homeland.

Luowei was suddenly struck by a preposterous conjecture. The conjecture frightened even herself in an instant, so that cold sweat began to pour down.

When she had first guessed from Ye Tingyan’s inexplicably grief-stricken demeanor that he might be one of Song Ling’s old companions, she had never felt herself quite this mad.

If this present notion turned out to be true, would it not be a thousand and a hundred times more insane than that?

She reached up and wiped the cold sweat from her brow, and made her way past the plain screen toward his worktable.

On that table sat an unfinished game of chess. Behind the chessboard hung the largest scroll in the room, falling from the ceiling to the table, nearly as tall as an entire wall.

Luowei could not make out the characters on the scroll. She could only see that it was written in red ink. Viewed from a distance it was sweeping and fluid, like words written in blood.

This was still not the most astonishing thing.

“Drip” — a drop of cold sweat fell onto the back of her hand.

Luowei jolted as if waking from a dream. Stumbling forward, she swept aside the veil curtain, intending to go out and find a lamp. But before she could find the door, she accidentally kicked over a potted plant near the entrance.

It was called a flower, but it was really only a dry, withered, ugly branch.

She crouched down and righted that pot of diseased plum, her fingers tracing the notch in the branch — she could not stop trembling.

She had a diseased plum exactly like this one.

It was as though it were still long ago. She had been napping in Song Ling’s study, and when she woke, she saw right before her a potted diseased plum. The plum’s branch was gaunt and sparse, without a trace of life — yet when she leaned close to look, she could see beneath the pruned-away scars a faint hint of new green.

Luowei had propped her chin in her hand and gazed at that plum with curiosity: “Second Elder Brother, why do you keep a plum like this here?”

Song Ling had been handling government affairs at his desk. At her words he looked over at her and answered with a smile: “Don’t you think it looks very much like a twisted…”

He thought for a long moment before finishing: “A twisted enemy.”

A strange analogy, but Luowei understood his meaning with odd clarity: “So you want to straighten it out?”

“Yes — that day I noticed it in the flower room and brought it back with me on impulse. But to restore a diseased plum, one doesn’t forcibly straighten the main trunk. Instead, one patiently prunes away its wayward branches and lets the new growth lead it back onto the right path.”

“It’s sprouted — there is new growth in it!”

“Indeed — let’s wait together for winter to pass, and then see what it looks like.”

Luowei rose and pushed open the door. She saw Zhou Chuyin standing in silence outside, a candlestick in his hands.

If that suspicion had been only a small measure before, seeing him here, Luowei felt as if she could barely stay on her feet. She seized the candlestick from him and ran back into the room. By the light of the flame, she finally made out the writing on that scroll.

— The “Lament for Jintian,” written in red ink.

The script was no different from what was on the plain screen and the white veils. This piece had a seal at the top and a signature seal at the bottom. The one at the top was a small red lotus. And the one at the bottom…

She had drawn close before but dared not trust her eyes. Now, holding up the candlestick and letting the light fall fully, she saw two characters clearly.

This was the name seal she had carved for Song Ling — crescent moon in shape, bearing the two characters: “Ling Ye.”

What was she supposed to see?

What was she supposed to be told?

The answer was almost self-evident.

The confusion that had plagued her for so long cleared in a single moment — he was Song Ling’s old companion; knowing there was a marriage covenant between them yet still drawing near, was that truly to test her? His feelings did not seem feigned, nor had he taken care to conceal them. Zhou Chuyin and Bai Sensen — did they truly know nothing? If they knew, and still not a word, trusting to this degree?

Those moments of losing composure, those emotions that could not be contained — his eyes falling shut when she drew a bow ready to shoot, when he handed her the knife. The hatred forced out of him by her “treacherous vassal and rebel.”

Once the spark was struck, in an instant the plains were ablaze.

Luowei went pale as death and seized Zhou Chuyin’s sleeve.

Zhou Chuyin held the candlelight close and looked — he found that her expression held no hatred, no complaint, not even confusion. She stared fixedly at him, and in her eyes there was only entreaty — only a need to confirm.

Zhou Chuyin lowered his eyes, and gave a nod so faint it was almost imperceptible.

And so that entreaty became astonished, wild joy.

Luowei let go of his sleeve and stepped back several paces. Her back pressed against that scroll of the “Lament for Jintian.” She turned around and caressed that crescent moon-shaped name seal. For a moment her mind went completely blank — only a single phrase repeated over and over: he was actually alive, he hadn’t died, he was living and breathing!

Zhou Chuyin heard her kneel before the painting and begin to laugh softly, the laughter growing louder and louder — laughing until she doubled forward and cried, laughing and sobbing all at once. She reached up without a care and wiped her own tears away. Her damp fingertips rubbed that name seal into a patch of deep red.

He asked: “Aren’t you afraid I’m deceiving you?”

After a long moment, he heard only a single sentence.

“I should have realized long ago…”

Those melancholy eyes and the scent on his person had reminded her over and over again. But before today she had never allowed such a wild notion to enter her mind — she had truly not dared even to imagine that he could escape from that darkness beneath the ground, from Song Lan’s hands, and come back to life.

Through all the world’s darkness and suffering, through even suspicion and wariness and the hatred that lay between them, he had returned to her side — whole.

*

Ye Tingyan pushed open the heavy wooden doors of Qionghua Hall.

Song Lan had been so overwhelmed with rage over Luowei’s sudden disappearance that he had delayed his return from Guyou Mountain for as long as possible before finally coming back to the capital. After returning, he had made the excuse of illness and refused to receive his ministers. Memorials piled up in the rear hall of the Qianfang Chamber; morning court had been suspended for three days. Song Lan, endlessly irritated, had no choice but to summon Ye Tingyan into the palace to discuss countermeasures together.

Partway through their consultation, Song Lan suddenly bade him come search Qionghua Hall.

Coming to Qionghua Hall once more, his heart was a tangle of five different flavors — he didn’t know where to look. Song Lan sent him to search every inch and corner of the hall, and if he found anything amiss, to report back at once.

The Zhuque guards moved through the Qionghua Hall, which remained as empty as ever. They were deft in their conduct and left almost nothing in the hall disturbed during their search — Song Lan had forbidden anything to be moved, and no one knew what exactly he had in mind.

Ye Tingyan walked through the hall from one end to the other. Along the way he saw all the things she was accustomed to, and from them he could almost conjure an image of her life in this palace over these years.

Not one of her girlhood garments remained. Pink and white had nearly vanished — only dark-colored formal court robes filled the wardrobe, and they were not particularly carefully tended.

There were many hairpins and ornaments, sorted and arranged by category — but one glance was enough to tell which crown was needed for palace-wide banquets, which hairpin conveyed authority when meeting outer-court officials. She had no personal favorites. Rouges and powder had accumulated in great quantity, as though she had no heart for adorning herself.

Pomade water gave off a faint scent of wild rose; the comb was smooth and lustrous — probably the most frequently used items.

Song Lan had previously sent people to collect her perfume boxes. The most common ones had already been taken away; what remained were all sandalwood and jasmine incense, crabapple incense, and incense she had blended herself from lotus flowers. She had amassed an entire cabinet full, yet rarely brought any out to burn.

He walked on step by step, his heart cut as if by a knife.

Before he reached the inner room, Yuan Ming, seeing his face lit by the candlelight, called out with some concern: “Sir…”

Ye Tingyan said quietly: “Do not let anyone in.”

The inner room was narrow. He had come here so many times, yet had never truly examined it carefully — why three shrines to be venerated jointly; why confining herself within this prison cell? The prayer beads had been worn smooth of all luster from constant rubbing. The qin even bore tear stains — in what state of mind had she knelt here, passing one dark and endless night after another?

His chest clenched. He went pale and drew closer — and then noticed that the painting hanging in the room was gilded with a gleaming golden border.

Buddhist images were not adorned with gold leaf. So why this?

Ye Tingyan reached out and lifted the painting down, spreading it on the incense ash-covered table.

He recalled — at Huahua Temple, he had seemed to see paintings like this before. The old monk crouching at the temple gate had lazily told them how people had rescued Buddhist images from a place where Buddhism was forbidden — they had covered them with gold leaf and painted the Three Pure Ones over the Buddhist images, passing off one thing as another to fool the authorities.

His eyes turned red. His hands worked without pause, rubbing the golden border of the painting, even forgetting to call someone to bring him a knife.

After he stripped it away, he saw, as he had expected, his own former portrait.

The vermilion ceremonial robes of his investiture at age twelve, the yuan-you crown; the rough cloth monk’s garment portrait from his return from Xu Province at age fifteen; the battle armor of his campaign in the southern borders at age seventeen — across all these years, she had long since ceased to believe in gods or Buddhas. Kneeling here was only to pay reverence to the sole deity in her heart.

The two secret chambers were already empty — these three portraits, left here, were the provocation she had deliberately left behind for Song Lan.

Ye Tingyan gazed at the unfamiliar self within the painting, tears in his eyes yet laughing — and the more he laughed, the more the tears surged — through these days of false-faced confrontation, how could he have failed to see this heart, just as it had always been and even more burning than before?

He hurriedly rolled up the portraits, but inadvertently knocked a small wooden tablet from the table. He bent to retrieve it and saw it was face down, with a line written by his own hand: “The bright moon shines on the spring night throughout all ages.”

Three days later, at dusk, Ye Tingyan at last emerged from Mingguang Gate.

Song Lan had dispatched several thousand of his men to search Guyou Mountain, the city gates of Biandu, and the river crossings and northern Shao’guan passes leading to the Jiangnan region, inch by inch — but not the slightest trace of Luowei had been found.

Yan Lang had returned to his military camp in Youzhou a few days earlier. Song Yaofeng had already set out on the appointed day to take up her princedom and had not yet arrived at her destination — all the escort soldiers were Song Lan’s men, and the entire procession contained not a single suspicious person. Aside from keeping a close watch, Song Lan had no sufficient grounds to force her back to the capital.

Within two days the emperor had been driven to fits of unpredictable temper. The night before last, a great many late-summer cicadas had appeared from somewhere, crying outside Song Lan’s bedchamber all through the night. The noise gave him a splitting headache; he smashed the porcelain vase at his side and ordered all these cicadas to be caught and killed.

Ye Tingyan encountered Chao Lan behind the rear hall. She had by now returned to Yu Suiyun’s side; Zhang Suwu had been dismissed back to the Archives — his time following Luowei had been short, and he had some private connections among the senior officials in the Archives, so he had not been implicated in Song Lan’s anger.

Chao Lan sighed repeatedly, saying the Empress had given her instructions, and she had worked so hard to catch these cicadas and keep them in Qionghua Hall — she still didn’t know who had released them to disturb His Majesty’s peace.

Late autumn — where would cicadas come from?

Ye Tingyan immediately understood. The fact that he had encountered Zhang Suwu in the forest along with several young eunuchs catching cicadas together was not at all surprising.

After the cicadas were killed, the inner court was gripped with fear and trembling, plunged into a state of terror. Everyone knew the emperor was in a very foul mood of late. This news had not yet reached the outer court — and after being pushed around for several days, Song Lan had finally resolved to resume morning court in two days’ time.

Ye Tingyan at last had some breathing room. He took his leave and departed the palace.

He could not wait to see her; leaving by the east gate, he broke into a run, all decorum entirely lost.

Pei Xi, as customary, came to receive him. Unusually, on the carriage, he said not a word. Ye Tingyan was just puzzling over this when he suddenly heard Pei Xi say: “I let her into the young master’s study.”

The expression on Ye Tingyan’s face stiffened.

Longing so intense, burned this far, what remained was only the trembling of a stranger anxious at nearing home.

Pei Xi steeled himself and went on: “I know — the young master has reiterated it ten thousand times, not permitting anyone in — especially not her. Master Zhou and Master Bai have also told me repeatedly. But I truly cannot bear to watch the two of you torment yourselves like this, Your Highness — she has you in her heart!”

Ye Tingyan clutched the silk blindfold at his side, rubbing it over and over. He neither rebuked Pei Xi nor gave his customary gentle, reassuring smile. Pei Xi pressed his lips together and continued: “Perhaps I was overstepping — after she went in, she may not be able to see through the mysteries in the room…”

“As long as she has been inside, she will certainly know.” Ye Tingyan finally spoke, his voice pressed very low. “It doesn’t matter, Cuozhi — in this matter you did no wrong. As it happens, I’ve been thinking about how to broach it with her, and now it will not be necessary…”

He suddenly called out sharply to stop the carriage.

“You go back first — ask her to come out and meet me… It will be dark soon. Song Lan barely managed to fall asleep before I left the palace. As long as we avoid the official roads, it will be fine.”

He spoke each word very slowly, as though he had turned them over many times in his mind.

Pei Xi then asked: “Where does the young master wish to meet her?”

Ye Tingyan’s eyelashes trembled. He answered: “The Floating Flower Terrace.”

“At the Floating Flower Terrace, beneath the golden statue — go and ask her to come. I… will be waiting for her there.”