When Qinglan returned to the heated alcove, Lingbo still had not finished having her hair done.

Qinglan had been a diligent student in childhood. Her mother had engaged the finest tutors for her, and she had applied herself with full effort. At that age, she hadn’t yet understood that however well a girl studied, she could not sit the examinations — at most she might become a female court official, a role in a noble person’s household that barely outranked a maidservant.

One day she found she could not concentrate on her reading at all, her mood restless and inexplicably irritable. The tutor, having neither children nor the instincts of a parent, assumed she was cross with her own slow progress when she saw her face flush red. Then Qinglan turned — and crumpled to the floor, her forehead burning. She had already been running a fever without knowing it.

The girls of the Ye family were all a little like this — accustomed to pushing themselves, to gritting their teeth and pressing on. They felt they could overcome everything through their own will, that even the heart could be controlled. Even when the body had already begun to protest, they remained completely unaware.

At midday, the heated alcove was bright with sunlight. Outside, joyous announcements were ringing out; the sound of gongs and drums was clamorous and festive. But Lingbo was sitting on the warming brazier in her inner garments, leafing through a character dictionary.

Xiao Liu’er had been crying until her eyes were swollen. When she saw Qinglan come in, she looked like a frightened child who had just spotted her own guardian, and nearly called out “Elder Miss” — but Qinglan only offered a soothing “shh,” gesturing for her not to disturb Lingbo.

“What are you reading?” she asked Lingbo, as casually as if nothing were out of the ordinary.

Lingbo glanced back at her, then buried herself in the dictionary again.

“Sister, what character is read ‘liao’ and also means a bird?” she asked.

Qinglan knew immediately. She crouched down beside the warming brazier and wrote it out for her to see: “It’s the character liǎo — a small bird that hunts grass insects and catches cicadas to eat.”

Lingbo smiled.

“A’Liao, A’Liao…” she murmured the name twice, then laughed. “So he really is a bird after all. And a cicada-catcher at that.”

She seemed to have finally resolved the most important question weighing on her. She stood up with a sudden lightness, draped her robe over her shoulders, and returned to the dressing mirror. Seeing the hairdresser standing there with the pearl powder already blended but still not beginning to apply the makeup, she asked: “What’s the matter?”

The hairdresser didn’t dare speak. Lingbo touched her own face and only then realized that tears had been flowing down her cheeks without her noticing.

“It’s nothing. I just got a bit of dust in my eye for a moment; it’ll pass.” She even moved to reassure the hairdresser: “Go ahead, quickly — or we’ll miss the auspicious hour.”

Qinglan stepped forward and took the comb from the hairdresser’s hands. “It’s fine. Let me do Lingbo’s hair — you go and prepare the hairpieces; it amounts to the same thing.” The hairdresser withdrew, and Luo Niangzi left as well, taking the maids with her. Only the two sisters remained in the heated alcove, the midday sun streaming in through the glazed windows, the air full of floating dust motes — like any ordinary afternoon.

Qinglan hadn’t done Lingbo’s hair since they were children, and Lingbo seemed to find the scene dimly familiar. But just now she had only pulled open the cosmetics case and was playing with the pearls in its drawers, looking as though she no longer cared about anything.

Qinglan gently combed through her hair. Lingbo’s hair was abundant, yet fine and soft — people said that those with light hair carried heavy hearts. She had been Lingbo’s elder sister for so many years, and still she sometimes couldn’t see to the bottom of those thoughts.

But fortunately, it was not too late for any of it.

“Lingbo,” she said, combing steadily and without hurry. “The last time you asked me what it felt like to love someone, I told you. But that was really only the first half of a book. Do you know what it feels like to lose someone you love?”

The body beneath her hands stiffened at once. Lingbo was, after all, the very sharpest of people.

But she was still her younger sister, and would shake her head this honestly.

Qinglan combed her hair, as the best of elder sisters.

“Have you ever fallen off a cliff, Lingbo? The feeling is like that sensation you sometimes get just before you fall asleep — like you’re dropping, dropping downward — only without the final jolt that wakes you…” She spoke of the most terrifying thing in the most placid of tones. “So your heart keeps sinking, sinking, never able to find the ground. It isn’t even panic — it’s just a heart with nowhere to rest…”

“So there is nothing you can do. No — other things still go on as before, because you are still yourself, only with a heart that is always in free fall.” She said it with composure. “The feeling is as though you have become an empty shell, as though a pane of glass has come between you and the world, as though everything is flavorless.”

Lingbo’s tears came at once. She turned to look at Qinglan, weeping: “Sister.”

Qinglan stroked her head and smiled gently.

“This was my choice, so it’s all right. What I told you before was not a lie — I still have no regrets.” She said it earnestly. “But I endured this kind of suffering so that you would not have to endure it too. Let it go, Lingbo — don’t be stubborn about this. It’s not worth it.”

Lingbo only wept — for the pain those words described, for the way Qinglan had seen through her own reasoning. She wrapped her arms around Qinglan and pressed her face into her middle, crying without sound.

Qinglan had seen through to the heart of it all. Yanyan could call their father Father; Qinglan herself called him Father as well — because neither of them bore him any deep resentment. He was, in fact, the father who had given them life. But Lingbo called him Master Ye, because she felt he did not deserve the title of father. She remembered the family they had had when they were small; she had never been able to forgive him.

She had also seen through Lingbo’s guilt: because Qinglan had lived as she had, because Qinglan had paid the most grievous price of all for this family, Lingbo too was determined to pay the most grievous price. She must not marry someone she truly loved; she must not refuse to barter her own happiness for the family’s standing, for wealth they didn’t even need; she must not go and live a free and unburdened life with Pei Zhao — because she felt that would be a betrayal of Qinglan.

A’Cuo called Lingbo her sister and was her devotee; Lingbo called Qinglan her elder sister and was Qinglan’s most faithful believer.

But Qinglan said it wasn’t worth it.

“Your living happily is the best repayment you could give me. Otherwise, what would be the meaning of my choice?” She smiled, lifting Lingbo’s face and wiping away her tears. “Don’t be foolish. If neither of us can marry someone we love, how heartbroken would Mother be, looking down from heaven?”

And then Lingbo finally woke as if from a long dream.

The stupidest mistakes are always made by the cleverest people, because less clever people lack the force to make them. She had made up her mind to atone — and in just a matter of days, she had arrived at this moment. Outside, the hall was full of guests; Dai Yuquan’s betrothal gifts filled every corner of the heated alcove; and she now realized with a start that she had never once thought about spending her life with him.

“It’s too late — there’s no time left…” She looked at Qinglan with panic, as though she had been transported back to age twelve and was still the Lingbo who ran after her elder sister, who would sob and seek her out when the sky was falling: “It’s already done — there’s no undoing it…”

Qinglan smiled.

She was only four years older than Lingbo, but sometimes she was like half a mother to her. Madam Ye had died too soon, and she had learned early to carry all the weight herself. She was always like this — composed and smiling, no matter what — making you feel that even if the sky fell, she was still here. You could curl up warm in her embrace and sleep, and everything would be all right.

“Don’t be foolish — this is nothing, really.” She smiled and patted Lingbo’s head. “Do you know why there is an engagement banquet?”

Lingbo shook her head.

“Because it’s easier to undo,” she said with a smile.

Lingbo’s tears came flooding out at once — for her own impulsiveness, and because in the end it was still her elder sister who had come to set things right.

“Come now — the carriage is at the Small South Gate, and someone is waiting for you there.” Qinglan smiled and reassured her. “Don’t worry — I’ll manage everything. Dai Yuquan is twenty-one, not seventeen; a merchant doesn’t make deals that lose money. Quickly now — or it will be too late. Xiao Liu’er.”

Xiao Liu’er had been waiting for exactly this moment. She sprang forward, helped Lingbo into her outer robe, then wrapped a fox-fur cape and hood around her shoulders. Chun Ming came forward and handed Lingbo her personal bundle. Lingbo hastily pinned up her hair, stepped into her shoes, and was pulled along by Xiao Liu’er toward the door — but at the last moment she couldn’t help turning back. She ran to Qinglan and threw her arms around her tightly.

A girl’s tears fell on Qinglan’s shoulder, burning and fierce. Stripped of the skin of Ye Lingbo, she was nothing more than a girl who had just turned nineteen — driven by fate to make a decision that would shape her entire life.

“Go now,” Qinglan said softly, smoothing her hair. “Go and see the landscape outside for me.”

Fresh tears poured down Lingbo’s face. Xiao Liu’er tugged her forward: “Young Miss, we must hurry — the banquet is about to begin.” Lingbo ran after her out of the heated alcove. On both sides of the covered walkway, golden棣棠 blossoms hung in cascades, their trailing branches like spring willow — she gathered her skirts and ran, the flower-laden branches brushing past her calves like hands reaching out to hold her back, or perhaps cheering her on. She was like an actress standing in a blaze of stage lights, stepping forward one uncertain step at a time. The walkways and galleries were a thousand mountain ranges, the midday sun illuminating the path ahead. She was like the heroine of an opera, casting off all the shackles behind her, rushing headlong toward an unknown fate.

In the heated alcove behind her, Qinglan stood quietly in the room that had suddenly emptied. Having done something so startling and unconventional, she appeared strangely calm — she drifted about the alcove without purpose, ran a hand along the cosmetics case, touched the back of a chair…

“Young Miss,” Chun Ming came forward. “Master Dai has arrived.”

Qinglan smiled.

She turned around.

She had been about to say something along the lines of: I imagine Master Dai is not entirely surprised by this outcome. Lingbo had too little understanding of feelings between people — she was always worried she wasn’t pretty enough, never realizing that anyone willing to marry you had already thought it through long ago. A girl of that age was always like a caged bird, waiting to be chosen.

Men, in the end, never come out the worse.

And so she, as elder sister, could not help but feel some hostility toward him. This dazzlingly successful new figure had nearly settled her younger sister’s marriage in five days, drawing her into a union whose consequences Lingbo had never fully understood.

But she was Qinglan, after all. Shen Biwei was her other face — the face she kept hidden, tucked behind the writings of sages and the rules of propriety, behind her gentle and refined smile.

She turned around and offered the invited Dai Yuquan a smile.

She said: “Master Dai, let us talk about the matter of compensation.”

At that moment, the main hall of the central courtyard was in full festive splendor. The Grand Princess, the Pingjun Princess Consort, the Old Princess Consort of the Liang Princely Household, the Consort of the Ying Prince… and countless ladies of great families from across the capital, the women from the Northern Border Army households, the noble ladies of the imperial clan — all were waiting for the banquet to open. Han Yueqi moved among them like a butterfly threading through blossoms, fulfilling the duties of hostess on Qinglan’s behalf.

She always felt that banquets like this were like embroidering a great screen of a hundred butterflies among flowers — all the guests were the various ornaments on the screen, some flowers and some butterflies, while she was the sole embroiderer, threading the needle, using dozens of precious silk threads to place each of them in exactly the right position, with appropriate density and order, everything well-arranged and managed.

But today she was fated to be disappointed.

An inner attendant came hurrying in — someone she had never seen before. It was said that the palace often used inner attendants to gather intelligence, because they went unnoticed and were exceptionally loyal. This one appeared to be of considerable rank: he walked straight past female officials and maids, came directly before Her Highness the Grand Princess, and said something in a low voice.

It must have been something extraordinary, because Her Highness the Grand Princess rose immediately. Her female officials and Nanny Song also rose simultaneously, in all the postures of a departure — and the display was even more alarming than the day of the spring welcoming banquet, for the Grand Princess herself seemed to have changed color.

Han Yueqi felt a surge of panic in her heart.

She knew it: something of great consequence had happened.

Lingbo and Xiao Liu’er had been running — the gongs and drums outside roared like the pursuit of fate, the firecrackers snapping like soldiers at their heels. After a great deal of effort, they finally reached the South Side Gate, where Liu Ji was indeed waiting. The moment he saw Lingbo, he hurried forward to call “Young Miss.” He helped her up to the carriage, and before she was even properly aboard, the curtain was drawn aside. In the dappled light coming through the glazed window, Pei Zhao sat there in his Lantern Festival white robe, smiling at her with curved eyes.

Lingbo lunged forward and gave him a slap across the face — which he lightly dodged before taking hold of her hand.

“You calculated this from the start, didn’t you?” She immediately cursed him. “You scoundrel!”

Pei Zhao’s response was to grab her and pull her forward. Lingbo tumbled straight into his arms and caught the scent of plum blossoms on him. She felt like she had tumbled back into that day in the peach blossom grove — countless petals whirling through the current of a stream, and she was a fish sunk at the bottom, wrapped and carried into a vortex of peach blossoms.

He lowered the curtain and kissed her without a word.

The afternoon breeze drifted in, carrying the particular warmth of spring — no hint of flowers in it, yet somehow bearing the fullness of an entire spring’s blooms, and like smooth water flowing through your fingers. Lingbo felt a softness overtake her — soft and at ease — the feeling of knowing that the dust of a whole lifetime had settled at last, together with this person called Pei Zhao.

The sound of strings and flutes drifted over, and someone was singing: “I go out to play on a spring day, apricot blossoms falling over my head. On the path, whose young man is this — so overflowing with spirit? I thought I’d give myself to him, for the rest of my life. Even if he cast me aside without feeling, I would feel no shame.”

But she was, after all, Ye Lingbo. She extricated herself from that warmth immediately and fixed Pei Zhao with a fierce stare: “Listen to me well. I am not some soft fruit for the picking. If you ever dare to abandon me, I will make sure you regret it. You know Lu Wanyang? If you truly drive me to the edge, I’ll be even more ruthless than she was. And I’ll walk away clean afterward.”

None of that business of sweet honeymoon years followed by a dead heart as a dutiful wife. None of this taking concubines without a word from her, just so long as she got to be the primary wife. She would not stand for it. Pei Zhao was hers alone. She had always been possessive — the sugar figures she loved, she locked in a wooden box, and not a single piece could be taken away by anyone.

Pei Zhao only watched her with a curving smile, the way you’d watch a hissing, swiping cat. He had clearly also hurried here; the scent of plum blossom wine still clung to him. This person, when fallen on hard times, had always been the most beautiful — because adversity only brought out his true nature, like a vivid painted deity in the middle of crumbling ruins, which somehow made him feel more approachable.

Besides, the way he looked at Lingbo was so focused, as though nothing in the world mattered anymore.

“Understood.” He smiled and teased her, reaching out to touch her face. “Ye Miss did not abandon me after toying with my affections. I am very happy.”

Lingbo immediately seized his hand and pinched it hard, giving vent to the frustration of the past several days. “And don’t you start reaching out and touching things — now tell me, where are we going from here? I am not leaving the capital; don’t you dare drag me off to some broken-down place again…”

She was still occupied with making things difficult for Pei Zhao when she heard Liu Ji’s rather uneasy call of “Young Miss” from outside. She reached up and lifted the curtain to look — and no wonder Liu Ji was frightened. Standing outside was a contingent of Imperial Guards, led by none other than Secretary Qin from Her Highness the Grand Princess’s entourage, with an official-looking figure fussing and attending at her side, every soldier fully equipped, weapons and blades glinting in the light.

But it was hardly the first time Lingbo had faced a situation like this. Back when Master Ye had once threatened to charge them with the crime of defying a parent — backed by both his official post and the authority of a father — she had not backed down then either.

She pushed Pei Zhao back and drew up the curtain herself, addressing Secretary Qin: “My respects to Chief Secretary Qin. It seems Chief Secretary Qin has no grounds to stop us on the street like this. While this concerns a matter from the flower-viewing season, an engagement is still only an engagement — even after betrothal gifts have been exchanged, one may still change one’s mind. This does not appear to fall within the scope of what Her Highness the Grand Princess has prohibited.”

She had already made up her mind to be a Luo Niangzi — to go home and berate her useless husband until he swelled up like a goose, while presenting a perfectly dignified front to the world, and she would allow no one to bully him before others.

Who said only men could keep their beloved hidden away? She, Ye Lingbo, was perfectly capable of keeping her Pei Zhao close.

But this Pei Zhao was being truly disobedient — she pushed him back, and he drew up the curtain anyway. The elegant young man appeared from within the carriage and simply smiled at the assembled crowd, yet every one of the Grand Princess’s people immediately knelt, Secretary Qin among them without exception.

Lingbo stared at him in shock, while Pei Zhao only smiled softly.

He lounged against the carriage’s soft cushions, exactly as he had lazed against every tree on every other occasion, eyes curving in a smile at Lingbo. He was still the same Pei Zhao — yet somehow different, as though something had been added.

“This morning, before Cui Jingyu came to find me, I had already listened to Lingbo’s words and sent in a formal calling card to attend the flower-viewing season,” he said with a smile, telling her calmly. “So they’ve come looking now.” He looked at her steadily and said what he had to say with that same smile, utterly composed: “My name is not Pei Zhao, and I was not born a commoner. Princess Minghua is my mother; Huo An’guo of the Pavilion of Meritorious Subjects is my grandfather; the Duke’s Heir Huo Xuan of the State of England, who died at the White Horse Inn, is my father. My name is Huo Yingzhen.”

“I told you before,” he added — and in saying it, even solved the riddle of that Lantern Festival night: “Cui Jingyu is the mountain; I am the rain. If A’Chan refuses to marry a man of no title or station — then come and be the enfeoffed lady of my State of England Duke’s household instead.”