However much Shen Biwei trusted Qinglan, she could not have foreseen that Qinglan would be stranded by the blizzard on the road to Qingyun Temple.

Liu Ji had learned to drive a carriage from Uncle Yang, and had surpassed his teacher. Qinglan had anticipated a difficult journey that day, and since Liu Ji was younger and more capable of enduring hardship, she had brought him instead of Uncle Yang. Yet the conditions turned out to be far worse than she had imagined. The moment they passed through the city gate, the wind and snow intensified. The carriage body rocked violently, and Qinglan and Chun Ming inside were thrown from side to side, barely able to stay seated — this much was still manageable. But they had barely traveled three li when there came a loud crack from beneath the carriage, the whole body lurched sideways, the horse let out a long whinny, and they came to a dead stop.

“Miss.” Liu Ji climbed down to examine the situation, preparing to report through the window, but Qinglan had already dispensed with decorum and pushed open the glass window herself. A gust of wind laden with snowflakes immediately surged in, nearly enough to crack one’s face. Peering outside, Qinglan saw nothing but wind and driving snow — heaven and earth one vast expanse of white. Forget the road; it was impossible to tell where the ground ended and the sky began. Visibility extended no further than three zhang in any direction.

Liu Ji was covered in snow from head to foot, frost clinging even to his eyelashes, wrapped in his fur robe as he said to Qinglan: “Miss, I’ve had a look — the axle isn’t broken, just cracked. But we can’t see the road any longer, and if we press on, the wheels will sink again. If we end up rolling into a ditch and the carriage overturns, that would be truly dangerous.”

“Understood.” Qinglan asked: “What hour is it now?”

“When we left the Imperial Household Office just now, they said it was already the second watch.” Liu Ji was being buffeted sideways by the wind: “Miss, shall we press on?”

“No, we’ll stop here and wait a while.” Qinglan said: “Go check on Steward Dai — he came on horseback; he’ll be even colder than we are.”

Dai Yuquan was in a sorry state indeed. He had never been particularly comfortable on horseback, but fearing that the caretakers at Qingyun Temple might not recognize Qinglan’s authorization token — and also worried that Qinglan might not be able to locate the needed medicinal ingredient in the storeroom — he had volunteered to accompany them. Knowing his riding was unreliable, he had no choice but to follow on horseback behind the carriage. But the carriage had gotten stuck first, and he had accumulated a whole body of snow in the meantime. Restricted by official dress regulations from wearing sable, he had only an ordinary overcoat, and his face had turned almost purple from the cold.

“Steward Dai, in an emergency one must set aside convention — please get into the carriage and shelter from the wind and snow.” Qinglan called out to him, then turned to Liu Ji: “And do you all need to…”

“We’re fine. We’ll put down the wind curtain up front and shelter inside that — it’ll do well enough. Yang Fu and I are both wearing bearskin robes…” Liu Ji cut in before she could finish.

That group of young manservants was always chasing the latest fashions. Word that Pei Zhao had shot four bears at the hunting ground had spread throughout the entire capital, and young nobles had immediately followed suit, buying up bearskin. Liu Ji and Yang Fu had each bought themselves one — and they happened to be in exactly the right circumstances to use them now.

“Then take this brazier with you,” Qinglan said. “Don’t try to tough it out and get frostbitten.”

“Don’t worry, Miss. Once the wind lets up a little, we’ll even gather some kindling and build a fire to warm you up,” Liu Ji said brightly.

Qinglan closed the window. Dai Yuquan was not an improper man — it was simply that the cold outside was too extreme to endure. The interior of the carriage was at least sheltered from the wind. He had been nearly frozen stiff; he climbed in and collapsed near the door, and it was only after Chun Ming handed him a hand warmer to clutch to his chest that he began to revive.

Qinglan had already anticipated the need for swift travel and had accordingly brought out the smallest and sturdiest of the carriages, so the interior was quite narrow. With Chun Ming positioned between them, Dai Yuquan could only see the half of Qinglan’s face visible beyond her attendant’s shoulder — eyes downcast, a sliver of her features caught in the lamplight on the carriage wall, her features as exquisitely rendered as those of a temple Guanyin.

“I have truly put Steward Dai to great trouble, dragging you along on such an ordeal.” Qinglan was the first to offer her thanks.

Dai Yuquan had only just begun to thaw, but his composure was unruffled: “You are too kind, Miss. After all the assistance you have rendered me, this small errand of mine is the least of it.”

The manners of the capital were truly regrettable in many respects. Even someone like Shen Yunze, generally regarded as among the finest of the young noble set, still looked down on women and failed to recognize their capabilities. By comparison, Dai Yuquan was notably fair-minded and clear-eyed.

“I would not have burdened Steward Dai like this under ordinary circumstances.” Now that Qinglan considered him half one of her own, she explained honestly: “It is simply that an elder close to me is gravely ill and urgently needs this herb — it is a matter of life and death, and there is no time to lose.”

Dai Yuquan had already guessed at something of the situation: “It looks to me as though this may be an ancient prescription.”

“It is an ancient prescription specifically for women’s illnesses.” Qinglan did not conceal it from him — treating illness and saving lives was a thoroughly worthy endeavor, so she produced the prescription and showed it to him: “It was because my mother once died of this illness that I could not let it rest, and so I have always been searching for a cure. Last year I met a Taoist master who gave me this prescription, saying that in a village settlement below Tongzhou, the women have been treating this illness with this very formula, and it has never failed. I committed it to memory and have been gathering the ingredients ever since. Only two remained, and because of the war in the Northern Frontier they stopped arriving as tribute — I had originally planned to complete the prescription once this year’s new supply came in. I did not expect the situation to become so urgent that there would be no time to wait.”

“Tongzhou?” Dai Yuquan immediately made the connection: “No wonder they had cistanche — that herb comes exclusively from the Northern Frontier, to say nothing of Shihe cistanche.”

“Tribute goods entering the capital all pass through Tongzhou — the porters and transport workers frequently smuggle small quantities out.” Qinglan knew the particulars well: “The Taoist master said they had tested it with ordinary cistanche and it did not work — it has to be the Shihe variety. She gave the prescription careful study and concluded that ordinary cistanche is too potent — though it restores kidney energy, when this illness breaks out it is already in a severe state. How can a patient in such a condition withstand such a forceful remedy? So the Shihe cistanche, being milder, actually produces better results. This illness originates in blood deficiency after childbirth, irregular and excessive bleeding, and eventually develops into an abdominal mass…”

She realized she had spoken too freely and stopped herself, her face coloring. Dai Yuquan noticed and felt a quiet stir in his chest, then smiled and said: “Please do not be troubled, Miss. For a physician, what is male or female? Miss has great compassion — once you have completed this formula, who knows how many mothers in this world you may save. It is a profound act of merit. The Taoist master must have recognized exactly that in you, and that is why she entrusted the prescription to you.”

He had a way with words, and the awkward moment dissipated considerably. Yet his words only deepened Qinglan’s anxiety: Madam Shen was already gravely ill, and from what Han Yueqi’s message had conveyed, it could come down to this very night. If the medicine could not be prepared tonight, what hope was there of saving Madam Shen’s life?

In the midst of her worry, she heard the wind outside seem to ease somewhat. She pushed open the window and called out: “Liu Ji, can we move now?”

This time both Liu Ji and Yang Fu came over together. One look at Liu Ji’s expression and Qinglan knew it was bad.

“Miss, the wind has let up a bit, but the road is still invisible. Yang Fu and I walked ahead to check — in the deeper stretches the snow is already knee-high, and on one side there are fields while the other drops off to a riverbank. It is truly too dangerous.” Liu Ji, knowing this medicine was meant to save Madam Shen’s life, gritted his teeth and said: “Miss, shall I have Yang Fu escort you back while I take Steward Dai’s horse up to Qingyun Temple to find the herb myself?”

“That won’t do — you don’t know the Shihe cistanche. The two varieties are often stored together, and it was only because the Taoist master showed me a couple of remaining pieces that I learned to tell them apart.” Qinglan frowned. “We are not far from the city — perhaps an official vehicle could get through?”

“Even an official carriage is still a carriage — it won’t make it either.” Before Liu Ji could finish, Yang Fu said: “Look.”

He pointed toward the horizon. Thanks to the reflected light of the snow, the night sky still showed its contours, and from it a great mass of dark clouds was rolling toward them. The wind was picking up again — unmistakably the harbinger of another heavy squall.

Qinglan recognized that the time had come to take responsibility for her people’s safety and turn back toward the city.

But how would Shen Biwei survive this?

Qinglan no longer had a mother, and so she understood all the more what it meant to still have one — even if the bond was strained, as long as she was alive that was what mattered. Moreover, Madam Shen had always been as kind to them as a family elder, helping them through so much in the past…

As Qinglan turned the situation over in her mind, a thought suddenly surfaced.

Even she could only manage a rueful smile at herself.

It was always in the most impossible moments. It was always him she thought of.

And yet she had spoken so decisively that last time in the wisteria grove, and now here she was seeking his help again. A person like her — she truly deserved to be cut to pieces ten thousand times over.

Almost as if heaving a sigh, she asked Chun Ming: “Those signal arrows that Biwei gave us — didn’t she put a few in each carriage?”

“Yes.” Chun Ming understood at once: “She did — and we’re only four or five li from the South Gate. Isn’t the Marquis at the garrison guards right now…”

She was sharp enough to notice Qinglan lower her eyes, understanding the guilt behind it, and immediately fell silent. She simply retrieved from the carriage’s hidden compartment the signal arrows — called signal arrows but in fact a kind of firework made using a secret military technique, commonly used along the frontier in battle as a beacon fire, to relay messages and call for aid. Visible from ten li away, they should have no difficulty with five li in weather like this.

The signal arrows of the Duke of Yongguo’s household followed the old design, shooting up in a shade of violet-blue — the current military issue had been updated to violet-red, which was more conspicuous. The old design had long since been retired from service.

So when he saw it, he would know at once that it was from her.

Qinglan kept her eyes lowered, yet she did not hesitate.

“Send it up,” she said.

Chun Ming handed it to Liu Ji, for whom this was also a first — the last time a signal arrow had been fired, it was because Master Ye and Concubine Pan had tried to use a household search as a pretext to force their way into Wutong Courtyard, which was what had alarmed Shen Biwei into coming to the rescue. Liu Ji had been too young at the time to have seen a signal arrow used with his own eyes.

It was Yang Fu who had witnessed it before. He took the arrow, aimed it at the sky, and lit the fuse.

The violet-blue flame shot upward with a shriek, soaring higher and higher into the sky, far beyond anything available in the common market — and it carried a whistle along with it. Shen Biwei had once taken one apart to examine: it contained a rotating whistle inside, producing a penetratingly sharp sound that could travel extraordinary distances.

The signal arrow pierced the sky and then burst open. The explosion was not enormous, but that violet-blue light lingered in the night sky for a long moment, accompanied by its wailing cry. It would have been visible not only at the South Gate but almost certainly within the city itself.

It had been a signal arrow from Shen Biwei that had saved them once before. Now it was her turn to use this signal arrow to save Shen Biwei’s mother. Setting aside all ties of friendship between their two families — even on the simple grounds of returning a kindness in kind — this was the right thing to do today.

Besides, she was Ye Qinglan. She would only ever burden him with things, no one else.

After the signal arrow was sent up, Qinglan’s spirits sank considerably. Dai Yuquan, who missed nothing, could hardly fail to understand — this was almost certainly connected to Cui Jingyu. He had read the signs at that banquet table, and combining what he had observed with other information, he had pieced together a reasonable picture.

But he made no move to press the matter. Instead he shifted the subject: “In truth, nothing in this world is more important than the good health of one’s elders.”

Qinglan understood that he was offering comfort, and so even though her mind was in turmoil, she managed to say: “You are right. Is Steward Dai’s family in good health?”

“My father passed away early, and my mother’s health is also poor — she could not look after me, so I was essentially raised by my grandfather.” Dai Yuquan spoke unhurriedly: “Among all the sons and nephews of the family, Grandfather held me in the highest regard. When I came to the capital this time, he placed enormous hopes on my shoulders — all of which you, Miss, must already be aware of…”

Given that their two families had nearly been joined by marriage, the remark was something of a wry self-deprecating joke.

Qinglan felt a pang of guilt, and so she said all the more earnestly: “Steward Dai, making your way alone in the capital — it has not been easy. You have truly endured much.”

“The hardship itself is a small matter. What I fear most is failing the expectations my elder has placed in me.” Outside, the wind howled. Heaven and earth were bitter with cold, and the small carriage was like a lone boat on a vast sea. They were travelers sharing the same vessel — and even chance acquaintances in such circumstances could not help but feel a kind of shared sympathy in their common plight.

“I was a late-born child. My grandfather is already eighty this year. He is an upright man, not given to laughter or smiles. On the day he sent me off to the capital, he believed in his heart that it was the last time he would see me — and so he accompanied me all the way to three relay stations before finally turning back…” Dai Yuquan cradled the hand warmer, a sliver of light falling across his face. Even now, his composure remained impeccable: “After the New Year, a letter came from home. He would not tell the truth himself, but my elder cousin told me: his left eye has gone completely blind, and he can only see a little with his right. Yet he has been urging the family to locate my old writings and compile them into a bound volume to send to me…”

He smiled at himself.

The one most carefully cultivated and put forward by the five great families of Jiangnan — he must be outstanding in every respect, and certainly not lacking in scholarship. The pity was that the conventional path of a man of letters was closed to him, as could be seen from the trajectory that had brought him from the Prince of Pingjun’s household into the imperial merchant trade and then into the Imperial Household Office.

His grandfather must feel a deep regret on his behalf.

“Among the scholars who come to the capital to sit for the examinations, it is customary to present one’s writings to distinguished figures in hopes of gaining recognition. With Steward Dai’s exceptional abilities, the day will certainly come when you have disciples of your own, and your influence will spread far and wide.” Qinglan would not offer hollow words, and could only follow the thread of what was genuinely true to offer comfort: “The volume that your grandfather has labored so painstakingly to compile will certainly prove its worth one day.”

His own path through scholarship had been blocked — but that did not mean he might not rise higher than any scholar who had followed the proper route. A man of Minister Chen’s learning had still come to lead the civil officials. How much more, then, for someone of Dai Yuquan’s promise.

That reassurance had clearly struck a true chord with Dai Yuquan. He was the hope that the five great Jiangnan families had cultivated and sent forward — within him lived both the scholar and the man of action. In this moment he was like an insect coiled in winter dormancy; the day might yet come when he would burst forth as a tiger.

And so he moved directly to the question: “It is the poem by Youqing, is it not?”

“What?” Qinglan was puzzled.

In the dim lamplight of the carriage, Dai Yuquan asked her plainly: “That day at the banquet, the young Madam Shen said she had a poem suited to Miss Ye — one connected to the image of the lotus. Shen Miss said it was written by a woman. I guessed it at the time. And I imagine Miss Ye went home and looked it up — it is the lyric by Youqing, is it not?”

Qinglan understood what he meant, and her face colored.

“That lyric is beautifully written. Poetry and verse have never depended on technical polish alone — what matters is that it speaks truly to the emotion and the moment, and comes from the heart. Even a novice’s poem has its power to move, when that is the case.” Dai Yuquan offered his assessment.

What he was evaluating was not the lyric itself, but the feelings expressed within it.

He had guessed it all.

No wonder Lingbo thought so highly of him. This man’s intelligence and steadiness were quietly formidable.

That day at the banquet, when Han Yueqi had spoken in riddles, Qinglan had immediately sensed that something was amiss. She was formidable in the classical texts, but no great talent in poetry. When she went home and looked it up, she discovered it was a lyric composed by a Song dynasty woman writer named Youqing — the story was an ordinary one: childhood sweethearts who studied together, who had pledged themselves to each other from a young age. Her parents, choosing wealth over virtue, had refused her intended and married her off to a military general, while her sweetheart later passed his examinations and was appointed to an official post. It so happened that Youqing was traveling with the general through the Shaanxi borderlands when their paths crossed at a relay station — her former sweetheart rode past without pausing, and it was then that she wrote this lyric.

I watch you vanish into the Chu clouds, leaving no trace of what came before. Vainly I keep regret locked in the furrow of my brow. It is simply that the lotus bloomed too late, and so failed the east wind. In this traveler’s lodge I lament my drifting fate, our meeting and parting all too swift. How could I bear to whip the dappled horse onward? I watch until the slanting sun fades and you are gone — my sleeves soaked through with fallen petals, red as tears.

Han Yueqi’s teasing had latched on to the line: It is simply that the lotus bloomed too late, and so failed the east wind. For at that banquet, the flower lot Qinglan had drawn happened to be the lotus, inscribed with the verse: Once she would not consent to wed the east wind — now her crimson petals have shed, and her heart’s fragrance is bitter.

Who else but Marquis Cui, who had returned in triumph and been ennobled and honored at twenty-four, could embody the image of the east wind more fittingly?

And Han Yueqi was Qinglan’s friend after all — the lines she had chosen were far gentler, far more consoling than the verse on the flower lot. It was not the fault of the east wind, and of course it was not the fault of the lotus either. What fault is there in a flower’s blooming and fading? It was simply that the lotus bloomed too late, and so failed the east wind.

Perhaps it was because Qinglan’s embarrassment was too apparent that Dai Yuquan was the first to speak.

“The world has long treasured this lyric because it mourns the feeling within it — not because anyone wishes to reproach Youqing herself.” He began with a note of comfort: “Women in this world have never been their own masters, and I, as a man, can only bear witness to the capriciousness of fate. If there truly are foolish people who would blame a woman for a marriage she had no power over, or who would harbor resentment against her on that account — then such a person is no better than the former sweetheart in the poem, who rode past without pausing. She is better off not having married him.”

But Qinglan was the most honest of people. Even if the whole world offered her reasons to excuse herself, she would not use them to absolve her own conscience.

She only countered: “What if the woman in the poem had made her own choice?”

Dai Yuquan was briefly taken aback.

But he quickly understood.

“As the young Madam Shen said that day — the arising and passing of feeling is an ordinary thing. Why should you hold yourself to blame?”

He seemed about to continue, but stopped himself.

Qinglan looked at him questioningly.

“Steward Dai, please speak freely,” she said, allowing herself a self-deprecating laugh. “By the world’s reckoning, we are something like close friends by now. You need not worry — I am not a rigid person.”

Indeed, their characters were surprisingly alike — both thoroughly versed in propriety and classical learning, yet both possessed of an inner streak that chafed against convention, tucked away behind layer upon layer of rule and ritual. Otherwise, all the people she kept close would not be of the same stamp as Lingbo and Han Yueqi — women who delighted in moving sideways when others expected them to go straight.

And so Dai Yuquan made up his mind.

“At the Crabapple Banquet that day, I was resting in the pavilion and happened to overhear a conversation between Miss Ye and the young Madam Shen. Having drunk a little wine, my reactions were slow, and by the time I thought to make my presence known it was already too late — so I listened to the whole exchange. I must sincerely apologize for the impropriety.”

Qinglan paused for a moment before understanding which conversation he meant.

She had told Han Yueqi that Lingbo was being pressed to the point of breaking. Qinglan’s refusal to marry had left Lingbo unwilling to marry either, unwilling to fall so far behind. Han Yueqi had perceived that this dynamic in turn left Qinglan with no way forward — Qinglan felt compelled to secure some resolution that would set Lingbo’s heart at ease, otherwise she would be prolonging the sacrifice of Lingbo’s youth. The two sisters were like two vines winding around each other — each acting out of genuine love, yet each threatening to pull the other into ruin.

Qinglan had this very matter in mind, and had originally been looking for a quiet moment, the way she had once reasoned with Lingbo about escaping that arranged marriage — to sit down with her and lay it out clearly. Lingbo did not need to wait for Qinglan to arrive at a good ending before she married. Otherwise they were only holding each other back. Fortunately, Pei Zhao’s devotion was true, and then one thing after another had kept unfolding, so she had never found the right moment to raise the subject.

As for marrying or not marrying for herself — she truly no longer minded. What would it matter to spend her whole life unmarried? Dedicating herself entirely to the religious life was also a fine path — there were young ladies in the capital who had never married, and she cared nothing for rumor. No one could live out a whole life without being talked about by others. Besides, Lingbo had already arrived at such a fortunate outcome — even having settled old scores in the process. That was a better ending than sixteen-year-old Ye Qinglan had ever dared to dream of.

She needed only for her family to be safe, for both her younger sisters to be happy. If the wicked could be made to answer for their wickedness, so much the better.

The world could not give you everything.

Cui Jingyu had been a small fork in her road — one that had bloomed with flowers, though it was a path she ultimately could not walk. Lingbo said endlessly that one should not squander one’s youth. But to have had such an interlude when young was itself something worth having. On the strength of a little longing, one could endure many years.

But she had not expected Dai Yuquan to offer her an entirely different possibility.

“Miss Ye has said we are close friends, and I believe we truly are — we are both people who place duty above ourselves.” He smiled and extended his invitation to Qinglan with warmth and equanimity: “Since I have already committed the transgression of eavesdropping, I may as well transgress entirely. This humble official ventures to ask Miss Ye, in addition to considering the life of a religious devotee, to also give some thought to my path.”

Qinglan was genuinely startled.

That day at the banquet, she had assumed Cui Jingyu was deliberately making things difficult for Dai Yuquan — she had not imagined he was sincere.

“Steward Dai, marriage is not a matter to be taken lightly…” she began, hesitant.

“But as the young Madam Shen said — if feeling is not what begins a marriage, is that not perhaps a more stable foundation?” Dai Yuquan was just about to continue when the carriage was given a forceful shake from outside.

Then Cui Jingyu’s voice sounded.

“It seems I have arrived at a rather inconvenient moment.”