The Wei family truly did run a strict household. When the Ye sisters’ carriage entered the inner gate, Lingbo smiled and deliberately asked the receiving housekeeper’s wife: “How is it we don’t see your young marquis?”

The housekeeper’s wife smiled in return: “Young Miss need not worry — the marquis has already been dealt with.”

Marshal Wei’s given name was Wei Hanhai. He came from a declining military meritocracy background, and had a relationship approaching that of half-disciple with Shen Biwei’s maternal grandfather, the old Duke of Yongguo — though his achievements fell somewhat short. The old Duke’s merit lay in expanding the empire’s territory; Wei Hanhai’s lay in repelling the Northern nomad invasions. So a marquisate was the ceiling of what he could attain.

Having entered the capital, the Marshal was no longer addressed by his military title. Lingbo noticed that this housekeeper’s wife was quick-witted and had shifted her mode of address promptly, so she looked her over more carefully. The woman’s dress and adornment were entirely in the current capital fashion, and her complexion was smooth and fine — none of the weathering that came from the frontier. Clearly she was a housekeeper’s wife the Marchioness had engaged after arriving in the capital. Beside her stood a senior maidservant who bore something of a family resemblance — likely a niece or daughter.

In the capital, the finest senior maidservants were naturally those born into the household — known quantities, loyal through shared history, sometimes closer to their mistresses than blood relations. But better still were the daughters of housekeeper’s wives. There is no bond in this world more absolute than that between mother and daughter. A capital housekeeper’s wife was someone who had fought her way through thousands of rivals — half a lifetime’s worth of wisdom, social intelligence, and the capital’s hidden knowledge would all be passed down unstintingly to her own daughter. That was true family learning. The same applied to aunts and nieces.

It was the same even in Lingbo’s household. Though Xiao Liu’er was clever and quick, and Lingbo brought her along most often when going out, the one truly being groomed for household management was Yang Hua — steady and perceptive, the genuine inheritor of Luo Niangzi’s knowledge.

Today was no different. Following Lingbo out of the sedan chair was Xiao Liu’er, who was like a creature that lived inside Lingbo’s own mind. Seeing that Lingbo was satisfied with this housekeeper’s wife, she immediately smiled and said: “I am Xiao Liu’er. I wonder how I might address you, aunt?”

“You flatter me, young miss. My family name is Huang — I’m a native of the capital. Thanks to the Marchioness’s kindness, I’ve been engaged to help manage the household affairs.”

“So it’s Aunt Huang.” Xiao Liu’er sweetly adopted the title at once.

Lingbo smiled but said nothing. She was a young lady of the inner chambers — it was one thing to ask a housekeeper’s wife a question or two out of momentary interest, but to truly go back and forth in conversation with someone else’s housekeeper’s wife would look beneath her dignity. Fortunately Xiao Liu’er was perceptive; a glance was sufficient. Another senior maidservant fell behind to strike up conversation with the girl beside Aunt Huang who looked so like her.

By the time they entered the reception hall, the maidservant had already come to Lingbo’s side and murmured in her ear: “She was an attendant brought into her marriage by the wife of Vice Minister Liu. When Vice Minister Liu was sent down to Hengzhou, many servants were released before they left. She was among those given their freedom. She and her husband had been renting in the northern part of the city — her husband has since passed away. The Marchioness took pity on her and took both her and her daughter into service.”

Lingbo made a quiet sound of acknowledgment.

In truth, she had already read the signs of the Wei family’s hasty arrival in the capital from the moment they entered. To begin with, the location of this residence was unfavorable — the great households of the capital all settled in the south of the city, and even those who couldn’t manage that kept to the east at minimum. But this residence was already close to the northern quarter, and though it was spacious, the surrounding neighbors were all ordinary families. Moreover, it was badly run down. The Marchioness had likely come up to the capital with the Marshal — children and all — and moved straight in upon arrival, with no opportunity to look carefully. She had simply taken whatever she could find.

The large space made it all the harder to put in order. The outer courtyard was in a state of disrepair, and the inner courtyard, though someone had clearly made considerable effort, still looked sparse and worn. The reception hall where they were received appeared to have been hastily organized: the tables and chairs were old pieces; the chair covers and table dressings were new, but they were purchased goods of coarse quality. Proper noble households always kept needlewomen on staff — whatever they produced might not be beautiful, but the quality of the fabric would never be lacking. The tea was fine — likely gifts received in social exchanges — but the tea bowls were inadequate, the refreshments even more so, also purchased goods. There were only four or five servants: the maidservant serving tea, the one heating water out in the corridor, the rough-work matrons in the courtyard — none appeared to be people brought from the frontier, and their coordination was muddled. As one might expect: the army did not take women along on campaign. Even if the Marshal had been permitted to bring family, the womenfolk had likely grown accustomed to looking after themselves, with few servants to rely upon.

In truth, Lingbo also knew that this visit was something of an imposition. She had heard that the Marchioness had not been feeling well when she arrived in the capital — otherwise she would not have missed the very first banquet of the flower-greeting season and sent Wei Leshui alone.

But if not now, then when? Not to genuinely chastise Wei Yushan, but to get a look at the state of things here before the Grand Princess presided over the flower-greeting banquet — to understand what was going on with Cui Jingyu — so that she could plan the next steps accordingly.

They could afford to wait; the Lu sisters were not prepared to wait. The moment the plum blossom banquet ended, Lu Wenyin had arranged a visit to the Wei family — scheduled for this very day. Even had the Ye sisters not come, the Marchioness would have had no rest. The Wei household was now a marquisate; guests and social calls came in waves, with no shortage of people eager to cultivate the connection. In the capital, husband and wife always worked together: men called on Marshal Wei in the outer courtyard, and their wives naturally called on the Marchioness in the inner. Even claiming illness was no excuse.

But the Marchioness was most likely genuinely unwell. Aunt Huang, after the maidservant finished pouring tea, came forward to apologize on her behalf: “The Marchioness says she has been remiss in her hospitality and begs the young ladies’ forgiveness. She asks that the young ladies take their tea with Madam Yin for now.”

Lingbo was still wondering which Madam Yin this might be when the inner curtain was lifted and the visitor stepped through — and at that, Lingbo smiled.

But it was Ye Qinglan who knew her best. The moment she saw her, she rose with delighted surprise and reached for her hands: “Yun Rui — it’s been so long.”

“So long indeed.” The visitor smiled and clasped her hands in return. “Sister Qinglan — how have you been?”

Fu Yunrui’s name was lovely, though her looks were no more than above average — a gentle, composed temperament. Measured against the fame of Ye, Han, and Lu, the top three of their season, she naturally could not compare. In truth she had never been among the most outstanding at the flower-greeting banquets, only in the upper-middle range.

But her friendship with Ye Qinglan had nothing to do with the flower-greeting banquets.

When Marshal Wei was still merely General Wei, he had two exceptional disciples. One was Cui Jingyu, who had risen to surpass the rest and was now a marquis — that much went without saying. The other was the son of a battlefield comrade, a young man the general had brought up from boyhood: Yin Hongxuan — even the name stood in counterpoint to Cui Jingyu’s. The two were of similar age. In martial skill, military strategy, family background, and appearance, Cui Jingyu surpassed him in every respect — the brilliant, widely acclaimed Captain of the Celestial Strategy Corps, who had also made a striking impression in his time at the flower-greeting banquets.

Yin Hongxuan, by contrast, was unremarkable. His family background was ordinary — nothing like Cui Jingyu’s, who came from a military meritocracy line of deep roots. In those days, no one had known the northern frontier would erupt into war again, nor that this war would forge such a remarkable generation of newly risen men. In times of peace, it hardly mattered — even Marshal Wei himself had carried little prestige in the capital back then, let alone someone like Yin Hongxuan.

But Fu Yunrui, at the flower-greeting banquet in those days, had simply taken a liking to Yin Hongxuan, and he to her. They had made an offer, exchanged betrothal gifts, and wed that very same year. She had followed him to the frontier, and four years later they had returned in glory. He had not been awarded a marquisate, but a rank of nobility befitting his wife was not in question. By any measure this looked set to be a story of a clear-eyed young woman who had recognized a hero before he rose to greatness.

Yet Lingbo, looking at her, could not help noticing something a little worn about her. She knew the frontier wind and sand were harsh, but the vitality of four years later was no longer the same as the girl full of hopeful anticipation she had been at that flower-greeting banquet.

A’Cuo could not discern so much. She only thought her a kind-natured young matron — a little tired, but always softly smiling, and clearly on very good terms with Sister Qinglan. The two clasped hands and looked at each other a long moment. Fu Yunrui said: “Sister Qinglan, you’ve grown so much thinner.”

“And Yun Rui as well,” Ye Qinglan replied, reaching out with quiet tenderness to tuck a strand of hair back behind her ear. Fu Yunrui’s eyes reddened for a moment before she produced a smile again.

She wore a wide-sleeved robe of fine silk — it was luxurious, only slightly out of fashion, evidently from her original trousseau. It had likely never been worn on the frontier and was still as good as new. Her complexion had roughened and taken on a faint redness — the sun and wind of the northern frontier produced not so much a deep tan as a rough, dry yellowness, like skin chapped raw in winter — and for this reason her cosmetic powder did not lie smoothly. But her expression carried its own quality of warmth and quiet ease. These four years had not been wasted.

“How forgetful of me.” She seemed to recall something. “Quick — bring Ah Man out, and let Sister Qinglan see her.”

The older matron attending her went off at once. Before long she returned carrying a small child of two or three, with her mother’s eyes and Yin Hongxuan’s face structure — all the more delicately pretty for the combination.

Even Lingbo couldn’t sit still at this. Yanyan had already gone right up to the child, and all the Ye sisters crowded over to play with her, each producing a gift: Ye Qinglan had brought a small gold bracelet, Lingbo a peace lock, and Yanyan gold ingots in an auspicious design. A’Cuo, being a new visitor, received a gift from Fu Yunrui instead.

The hall grew lively at once — even the tea was forgotten. It was Aunt Huang who came forward with a smile to prompt them: “Young Madam Yin, the kitchen is still waiting on you for the luncheon menu.”

Fu Yunrui recalled herself and hurriedly rose. Though she was pleasant in nature, household management was not her strong suit — capital-style banqueting was rather beyond her.

“Is the Marchioness very ill? Why would she leave the menu to you?” Ye Qinglan asked with concern.

“Sister, don’t worry — the Marchioness’s illness is nothing serious. She’s injured her back and cannot sit for long, so she’s resting lying down. I came back to the capital this time specifically to stay here with her, so we can look after each other — just as we did in Yanglin City. We had a big compound there, with ten-some households all living together. When Hongxuan and the others went out on campaign, we women looked after each other and raised the children all together, like real brothers and sisters. Has Sister forgotten? It was the Marchioness who told us about frontier life, and Sister and I even made a pact that we’d live together there when the time came.” Fu Yunrui settled the child in her arms and spoke to Ye Qinglan.

How cutting those words were.

Even A’Cuo felt the weight of time in that moment.

Four years ago at the flower-greeting banquet — a match that had been as good as settled, two young girls who had already pictured what their married lives would look like — and then fate forked, and they parted ways. Now one was still unmarried, and the other had a child already three years old.

No wonder silence fell over everyone for a moment. It was Lingbo who broke it: “As it happens, we have time today — let’s all help Sister Fu look over the menu. And A’Cuo can learn something about running a household while she’s at it.”

She had genuinely intended only to help Fu Yunrui — and yet this was a case of one thing planted taking root while another planted unexpectedly flourished. As they passed through the Wei family’s courtyard on their way to the small kitchen to go over the luncheon menu, they came face-to-face with someone in the covered corridor: Cui Jingyu, accompanied by a deputy, walking toward them.

This was A’Cuo’s first time seeing him at close range. He wore no armor — only an ordinary brocade robe in the deep red of the Northern Garrison’s battle dress, old and washed soft, a little loose on the frame. It should have made him seem approachable. But no matter how yielding the fabric, it still formed a cold, unyielding silhouette on him. He wore a sword at his side, one hand resting on its hilt, broad-shouldered and narrow-waisted, standing turned to one side at the far end of the corridor, and now turning slightly toward them as they approached, regarding them with a calm and level gaze.

“Marquis Cui comes every morning to pay his respects to the Marshal,” Fu Yunrui explained on his behalf. “Though I suppose we should call him Marquis Cui now. But I see the Marquis is still following the old master-and-disciple rules from those days. He’s a little late today — perhaps he stopped to check on the young marquis.”

Then she smiled across at Cui Jingyu: “Marquis Cui, how is the young marquis faring? I heard they broke two canes on him.”

For a moment A’Cuo thought he would not answer. He had the look of a man who would never speak another word to a woman for the rest of his life.

But he answered.

“He’ll live.”

The utter calm with which he said something so severe was actually a little funny.

“That’s a relief then.” Fu Yunrui laughed too. She knew the story of those years, and couldn’t help glancing back at Ye Qinglan. Seeing that Ye Qinglan’s expression was equally composed, she marveled inwardly.

“Oh — the Marchioness mentioned she’s holding a noon banquet for the honored guests. She must have asked the Marquis to stay as well?” Fu Yunrui was evidently quite at ease with him — four years of cohabitation in Yanglin City had its effects — and simply asked him directly.

“She did,” he said.

But he didn’t say whether he had accepted. The inordinately economical Marquis Cui, having said his piece, turned slightly to one side — clearly meaning for them to pass first. It had something of the same quality as being offered more tea as a polite signal to leave. Everyone understood, and moved forward.

Ye Qinglan walked just behind Fu Yunrui.

Though this was the capital, the rules still in effect inside the Wei residence were evidently those of Yanglin City. The covered corridor was narrow. Passing each other required close quarters — sleeve could brush sleeve, breath was near enough to hear.

Cui Jingyu kept his eyes lowered and said nothing. He still had the same habits from those days: a fondness for cleanliness, and a personal fragrance of pine in snow on his robes. It was said that the smell of blood was heavy on warriors; yet he seemed to carry none of it. Sculptors fashioning statues of generals always put the armor over the brocade robe — but in practice, the brocade robe went over the armor, so as not to present an armed appearance to civilians, and because iron was bitterly cold in winter.

After so many years, Ye Qinglan still remembered the feel of a body armored beneath a brocade robe — as she remembered the one time she had touched bare iron armor, its cold nearly enough to freeze her fingertips entirely.

If only this moment could pass quietly by, that would be fine.

But Lingbo, walking behind her, moved too quickly and bumped into her. She swayed, and pitched to one side.

She was steadied at once.

Still the same broad palm she remembered. His hands were actually quite beautiful — long-fingered, only with a thin layer of callus, and usually marked with numerous small, fine cuts.

Those hands had also, of course, once been stained with her rouge and her tears.

A light steadying touch through the sleeve, and both immediately drew back. Cui Jingyu heard her say quietly: “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She kept her eyes lowered, unwilling to raise them and look at him — exactly as she had four years ago. Cui Jingyu saw her neck disappear into the jade-green back collar of her robe, slender as a thin and fading swan.

“Marquis Cui will be joining the noon banquet, won’t he?” Lingbo, behind her, confirmed this with considerable emphasis.

Four years ago, he would certainly have smiled at that.

Yanyan’s artless warmth, Lingbo’s exacting little stratagems — in his eyes they had always been as endearing as younger sisters. He had once served as a surrogate elder brother to the whole Ye family, which was why Yanyan was looking at him now with such expectant eyes.

“We’ll see,” was all he said.

Lingbo pressed her lips tight at once. Yanyan’s face fell too — she had wanted to say something to Cui Jingyu but found herself pulled away by Lingbo. A’Cuo followed along, understanding that Lingbo was trying to preserve Ye Qinglan’s dignity, unwilling to appear too eager.

But before they turned the corner of the corridor, A’Cuo looked back. In the old wooden corridor, Cui Jingyu in his battle robe still stood exactly where they had left him, like an indifferent stone carving.