On the second day of the Spring Hunt, the Crabapple Banquet opened.

Lingbo had been ready to seize her moment — but as it turned out, two things got in the way.

The first was something she had not witnessed herself. Xiao Liu’er had pried it from Chun Ming, though to say “pried” was generous — Chun Ming had been willing enough to tell. As a bystander, she could see clearly enough what lay beneath the surface of it all, and she was anxious on behalf of her own mistress in particular.

Who would not feel it was a waste? With looks and youth like Ye Qinglan’s — squandered day after day on nothing but trivial affairs. When things had been most desperate in the past, the younger ones were still small and naturally needed her. But now the younger ones had grown up, Ye Lingbo was to become the next Duchess of Ying, and what about her? When Yanyan left in the future, and A’Cuo — with those looks of hers — would naturally marry well and leave too, who would be left to keep her company in the vast Wutong Courtyard? Was she simply to go on like this for the rest of her life?

So even Chun Ming, who served at her side, had begun to waver.

It was the morning of the second day. Because only the Grand Princess had brought down an eagle the day before, neither the Zhenbei Army’s generals nor the imperial clansmen had hunted enough to claim their prizes — so they were setting out again at dawn. Cui Jingyu had no interest in hunting whatsoever, but Marshal Wei was now in a period of deliberately keeping a low profile, and the entire Zhenbei Army looked to Cui Jingyu alone. Though the Fire Unit had been loud in riding Pei Zhao’s coattails, they all knew in their hearts that the Duke of Ying, Huo Yingzhen, could never truly be one of their own. The only person they could follow was Cui Jingyu. They rose or fell together.

So that morning, Cui Jingyu assembled the younger officers and prepared to depart. That was when two young servants came forward, carrying a bow with great care and ceremony. Cui Jingyu was at the head of the group, with Wei Yushan at the rear — he caught sight of the bow first and let out a low whistle, and at once all the officers turned to look.

Both servants were dressed in autumn-toned clothes, neatly turned out from head to foot, with the air of capable men — and from one glance, Cui Jingyu knew which household they came from.

When they drew near, they were indeed from the Ye household. They came forward and bowed: “Our respects to Marquis Cui — may the Marquis be well.”

“What is it?”

Cui Jingyu had assumed this was another scheme of Ye Lingbo’s. To his surprise, it was Ye Qinglan.

“Our eldest young miss has come across a fine bow and wishes to present it to the Marquis with her compliments, wishing the Marquis victory in the hunt and a triumphant return after slaying tigers.”

Cui Jingyu did not even dismount. He wheeled his horse around and rode straight for Quiet Heart Garden.

Qinglan was there helping Lingbo prepare the Crabapple Banquet, overseeing the Su family’s servants as they arranged the seats. At the sound of hoofbeats, she turned — and saw a fine horse galloping through the fallen blossoms toward her, just as it had been four years ago.

Even Qinglan experienced a moment of sudden disorientation.

But the horse arrived before her in an instant. This was Cui Jingyu at twenty-four, and the way he looked at her was nothing like four years ago.

If they were strangers it might have been easier — starting fresh, at least being civil to one another. But they were not strangers, and too much lay between them. There was none of the distance with courtesy that strangers had, and none of the warm familiarity that old friends shared. What remained was only a field of rubble — with no way to begin again.

Qinglan stood steady among the falling blossoms and watched Cui Jingyu approach. All around, the wisteria hung in cascades like heaped brocade, fragrant mist rising, the scent intoxicating. Four years ago, this would have been a perfect season for flower-viewing. Back then she had always felt time was too scarce — there were still so many things to say to him, so many places to go and see together…

And now Cui Jingyu halted his horse before her, not even dismounting, as if demanding an account of some wrongdoing: “Why did you have someone send a bow to me?”

There had been a time when she had given him a bow too — but as a young lady confined to her chambers, however sharp and capable she might be, she had known nothing of bows. And she had been too embarrassed to ask, afraid of being laughed at. In the end, the bow she had given him as a birthday gift was a painted decorative bow — meant to hang on a wall, not to draw — yet he had accepted it with a smile, hung it on the wall, and never mentioned its uselessness. It was only afterward that she had learned the difference herself, and gone red-faced to ask for it back. But he had refused to return it, saying: “Anything my Qinglan gives me is naturally fine.”

Now the bow she sent him was the finest in the capital — nearly on par with one given by imperial decree — and yet his expression was stern, as though interrogating a suspect.

Fortunately, she was Ye Qinglan. Whatever the circumstances, her composure never broke.

“The inner treasury recently released a batch of bows and arrows,” she said. “I thought this one was especially fine and asked Official Dai for it — to send to the Marquis as encouragement.” She did not want him to misunderstand, so she clarified at once, even if it did not follow the usual logic of gift-giving: “I have a favor to ask of the Marquis.”

Cui Jingyu’s expression turned completely cold: “What favor?”

He was the kind of person who would have already guessed. But Qinglan still had to say it: “Official Dai is a Jiangnan man — he does not excel at riding and archery, and has no family connections in the capital. I am asking the Marquis to look after him during the hunt. The bow is simply a gift of gratitude and has nothing to do with this matter — the Marquis need not read anything more into it.”

Cui Jingyu let out a cold, furious laugh.

She might as well not have explained. Now that she had, he remembered all the more clearly — the person who had come with her to inspect the hunting grounds a few days ago had been none other than Dai Yuquan.

“You send me a bow, and in exchange you want me to look after Dai Yuquan?” His hands were trembling with anger: “Very good.”

Qinglan wanted to explain. He had already turned his horse and was gone, not looking back.

There was, in truth, nothing to explain. How could she explain? Because of what had happened with Lingbo, she had long felt indebted to Dai Yuquan. And the more she had come to know him, the more she saw that although he worked as an imperial merchant, he was from a scholarly family of good standing with a classical education behind him. A man like that, if he could genuinely become one of the officials charged with overseeing the salt trade, would be a service both to the country and its people. But he had been left rather stranded in the capital: there were many who sought to curry his favor, yet the real circles of power had not truly admitted him, and this state of affairs was partly tied to her own household — if not for the broken engagement with Lingbo, his entry into the capital’s social world might have been smoother, and he might at least have established connections with the civil officials aligned with Advisor Shen’s faction.

The Spring Hunt was an ideal opportunity. So Qinglan had devised a plan: to have him distribute the inner treasury’s bows as gifts, using them as a key to open doors into the capital’s circles. The Emperor’s divisions had actually been quite useful — the Zhenbei Army generals, the capital’s officials and young men of rank, and the imperial clansmen.

In Qinglan’s estimation, the Zhenbei Army in particular needed someone exactly like him — a man seasoned in the ways of the world, who yet urgently needed a circle to receive him. It was a match made by fate. And this was precisely the moment Dai Yuquan needed most — miss this opportunity, and the next opening would not come at so favorable a price.

After the incident involving the ladies at Yanglin City, Madam Wei had once shared tea with her and said, with some embarrassment, that after learning of the ladies’ deliberate exclusion of Qinglan at the banquet, the Marshal had remarked: “You were wrong to be so unkind. Qinglan means no harm — her approach to the game is correct.”

Men who were great generals all knew how to play chess. When the Marshal said her approach was correct, it was because it resembled his. Since arriving in the capital, the Marshal had been openly transparent, with no concealment or defense — to some, it seemed almost naive, even weak. But in truth, it was because the Emperor was sovereign and the Marshal his subject: a subject does not deceive his ruler; when the ruler is clear-sighted and the subject is honest, that is the most righteous path in the world. That he still addressed her as “Qinglan” meant he still regarded her as one of his own, a junior of the family.

The capital’s conventions kept the inner and outer worlds separate — this was the clearest possible gesture a male elder could make toward her.

Even though Qinglan had long since made her peace with the prospect of spending her life at a distance from Cui Jingyu — separated like two shores of a vast sea — there was still a moment’s disorientation, a fleeting ache. That man had nearly become the elder she regarded as both father and mother.

But if she were truly honest with herself, she had always, in her heart, considered the Zhenbei Army her own people. So when she saw the opportunity in Dai Yuquan, the first person she thought to give it to was Cui Jingyu. It was a situation where both sides would gain.

It was only that they had reached this point now — and he would not even hear her explanation.

But it did not matter. In her regard for him, he was a different kind of reliability. Just as at the Peach Blossom Banquet he had refused to exchange even one word with her — yet when the swarm came, he had been willing to trade his life for hers.

He was her Cui Jingyu. He would always be reliable. He might ride away in anger, but he would certainly bring Dai Yuquan into his ranks — because it was her request.

And in his heart, she would always be that Ye Qinglan — as Lingbo had once said: always the one who sacrifices those she loves most.

—

The second thing happened at midday. Lingbo’s Crabapple Banquet had just opened, the seating barely arranged, when a commotion erupted outside.

“What is happening?” Female Official Su, as the host standing in for Lingbo, called out.

A palace servant rushed in with the report — the moment Female Official Su heard it, her expression changed.

“Something has gone wrong with the bear-hunting group.”

Lingbo’s color changed at once. Some of the ladies had relatives in the imperial clan, and some had husbands or sons in the bear-hunting party — they immediately rose to their feet. But these were women of distinguished families, women who had weathered great storms, and so they were alarmed but not in disorder. They left the table together, supported by their maidservants and attendants, and made their way quickly toward the hunting grounds.

Lingbo kept her composure. She knew the hunting grounds were far, and the ladies’ embroidered shoes could only walk on silk carpets — they were not made for muddy terrain. She called out at once: “Bring the sedan chairs.”

Palace servants hurried to bring the chairs. The ladies of the imperial clan whose family members were in the bear-hunting group boarded swiftly, all strangely silent and orderly — only the urgency in their movements betraying what lay within their hearts.

Lingbo and Female Official Su, as the hosts, were left at the very end. By the time they arrived, the situation at the hunting grounds was still unclear. All she could see was a chaotic crowd of people — hunters who had stayed behind at the camp, and some of the Emperor’s attendants, milling about in a loose, scattered ring. Lingbo had not yet gotten close when her legs went weak beneath her.

She had caught the smell of blood.

But she had seen more of the world than even the ladies. She did not stop, not for a single step — she hitched up her skirt and ran, three steps becoming two, pushing through the crowd until she saw that there was, in fact, some order within it. What the crowd surrounded were several armored soldiers bearing blood on their persons. Lingbo recognized at a glance that these were Imperial Guard soldiers who had gone out that morning with Pei Zhao’s bear-hunting group — the young men of the imperial clan were precious, of course, so they had gone out with an escort.

Some of the imperial clan’s young men had already returned, and though they looked utterly shaken, they were being fussed over by their mothers, still staring blankly, unable to say a word.

Lingbo paid them no attention. The armored soldiers were still explaining — “We were at the rear of the column, holding the line — we don’t know what happened…” — and she reached out and grabbed one of the more clear-headed young men of rank and demanded straight out: “What happened?! Where is the Duke of Ying?!”

The young man could not have been more than eighteen or nineteen, his face flushed from the cold, his helmet lost somewhere along the way, stammering: “Our group encountered a bear — an enormous one — it startled the horses, everyone panicked when they saw it and just ran. I don’t know where the Duke of Ying…”

Lingbo’s heart sank, but she believed in Pei Zhao’s abilities. A man who had come through the battlefield — would he be afraid of a bear?

But Shen Biwei arrived just then, riding hard. She leapt from her horse as she reached Lingbo and took hold of her.

“I found out the whole story — it’s two idiots,” she said under her breath, grinding her teeth: “Anyone with ears could understand that the Emperor was joking about hunting bears. This is not the season for it — bears are hibernating now. It was only because the Emperor’s word is law that Pei Zhao took them out every day to go through the motions. But somehow these two imbeciles — one of them the second son of Prince Ying, the other his brother-in-law — found a bear den and went in and disturbed a few of the bears inside. Those bears were starving from hibernation and bit at anyone in sight. They were at the rear of the column, and it happened so suddenly, with no time to form a defensive formation — they must have been scattered by the bears, and many people still haven’t been found…”

It would have been better if she had said nothing. Several of the ladies who were still searching for their family members overheard and immediately went weak in the legs. But Lingbo held firm. She looked around at once and asked: “And Cui Jingyu — where is he?”

“Don’t hold out hope. He took his men after a tiger and went into the dense forest on the other side of the hunting grounds from Pei Zhao — you’d be better off relying on the guards to go search than counting on him…” Shen Biwei stopped mid-sentence, her eyes suddenly sharpening: “They’re coming.”

She turned in a particular direction, and Lingbo, with no more hesitation, ran that way — but many others were running there too. From the tree line at the edge of the hunting grounds came the sound of a group emerging. They were not mounted — all leading their horses on foot, armored soldiers forming the outer ring, young men of rank holding bows within it, disheveled but intact in body, not a single arm or leg missing among them.

The crowd surged toward them, calling out names, crying, shouting — utter chaos. Lingbo pushed against the current, shouldering through one after another, everyone covered in mud and leaves, some with injuries, and one young man whose face was covered in blood lay on a crude stretcher made from tied branches — impossible to tell who he was. A lady spotted his shoes and jade pendant in an instant, threw herself forward, and cried out “Yan’er!” — even when the imperial physician arrived, she could not be pried away. The sound of her weeping was utterly harrowing. Lingbo only clenched her jaw and pressed forward.

“Where is the Duke of Ying?!” Female Official Su cried out as well, but no one answered.

Lingbo was in a panic — and then the very end of the group finally emerged from the forest: a lean few on horseback, and it was Pei Zhao, with Yuan Xiu and a small escort of armored guards.

He had held the rear. But Lingbo had known he would.

The story Madam Wei had told of leading the women up the mountain had said it plainly: the world assumes the front of the line is where the danger is, but in truth those who hold the rear are most at risk — because those at the front have others behind them who can help if they are attacked, while those who hold the rear have no one behind them, utterly alone and unsupported. That was why the women had formed a defensive formation for the rear as well — a small independent unit that guarded one another, took turns at the back, and kept a constant count of heads.

“Pei Zhao!”

He saw her too, and immediately threw himself off his horse and ran toward her. The crowd swirled around them; he was a blade parting water. Lingbo ran to meet him, and he caught her in his arms. He wore his brocade robe beneath which he had no armor at all, and the smell of blood that clung to him was truly alarming. Lingbo’s legs gave out beneath her — she could not stand — and he scooped her up in one motion. She caught sight of the quiver hanging at his side: it had been full when he left that morning. Now only three arrows remained.

Yuan Xiu, still mounted, was broadcasting Pei Zhao’s feats to everyone within earshot: “We have the Duke of Ying to thank — it’s because of him that everyone made it back. Two idiots went and disturbed a bear den — four bears came out, two big and two small. The big ones were like towers, the small ones were the size of oxen; standing on their hind legs they were taller than a man on horseback. The horses all panicked immediately, the whole forest turned into complete chaos. Thank goodness the Duke got us into a formation and protected those who couldn’t fight. The Duke put down one of the big ones with two arrows. Then he led us in pursuit and dragged the second son of Prince Ying right out of a bear’s mouth — the bear had nearly taken off his whole shoulder. And one of the Imperial Guard soldiers lost his helmet and was caught across half the face by one of the bears — half his face was just…”

Lingbo held him tightly and still felt herself trembling beyond her own control. The man who did not even wear armor — whose brocade robe covered a living, warm body, warm as a furnace — Lingbo wanted to beat him, and did the one thing she had always wanted to do: she bit down hard on his shoulder.

“Mercy!” Pei Zhao cried out at once with a laugh, looking down at her. “I come through the bear fight without a scratch, and my own Lingbo is the one who injures me.”

Her answer was a fierce pinch, followed by: “What were you thinking, not even afraid to die — it was their own fault for being stupid, why did you have to go after them.”

“Bears eat people alive when they get their teeth in — it would have been pitiful not to go after them,” Pei Zhao said, watching her closely with a smile. “Fortunately only two were seriously injured. Everyone else has been found.”

Lingbo knew what he was really saying.

He had never stopped thinking about those five thousand men at the Mingsha River. That was why, the moment he heard someone had been taken by the bear, he had been so wild with urgency — it was not that she doubted his skill, but she had been most afraid of exactly this: that he would go in to save someone.

Of all the hundred emotions in the world, guilt is the one that cuts deepest.