For some reason, after seeing Wei Yushan even for that brief moment, A’Cuo felt oddly out of sorts — she felt nothing, even having successfully kept the vigil through to midnight. When she was removing her makeup before bed, Yang Hua came to help her take out her hair ornaments and suddenly said: “Wei Yushan is actually quite good, you know.”

The whole capital called him Young Lord of the Marquisate — as though his greatest value lay in being the son of Marshal Wei, the future heir of the marquis’s household. Yet Yang Hua called him Young General Wei. A’Cuo was sharp-witted enough to understand her meaning at once.

Yang Hua was urging her: stop thinking about continuing the red thread of fate. Stop holding onto the idea of using Wei Yushan. After all, even simply as Wei Yushan the young general himself, he was a rare and excellent match at the Flower Season Banquet. To meet someone in youth, to be moved from the very first encounter — how many people could only dream of such a thing? Let go of all calculation. Sincerity for sincerity. What could be wrong with that?

But A’Cuo said nothing for a long while. She only looked at herself in the mirror.

The ugly guardian beast squatted on the dressing table, its stone-carved eyes bulging outward, seeming to reproach her in silence. A’Cuo suddenly steeled herself, pulled open the drawer, and threw it in among a jumble of odds and ends.

“Tell Elder Sister Qinglan that Wei Yushan will come to pay New Year’s respects tomorrow.” She paused, then added: “Remember to mention it while Second Elder Sister is present.”

Yang Hua let out a silent inward sigh.

“Yes.”

—

The next day, Wei Yushan came to pay his respects exactly as promised.

Lingbo had prepared in advance. She intercepted him directly and led him toward the Ye family’s main courtyard. Father Ye, delighted, came to receive the “Young Lord of Pingyuan,” only for Lingbo to say breezily, “The servants didn’t know better and brought him to the wrong place,” and promptly steered Wei Yushan away.

Poor Father Ye — he had intended to show off before his guests, and had deliberately brought along a few colleagues and proteges to welcome Wei Yushan, dressing himself in crisp new ceremonial robes with great reverence. And then Lingbo pulled this maneuver in front of everyone. It was genuinely mortifying.

Father Ye still tried to strike up a conversation with Wei Yushan: “Young Lord, please take tea in the main courtyard — there happen to be colleagues from the Ministry of War present as well…”

Wei Yushan had witnessed the secret betrothal between Ye Qinglan and Cui Jingyu four years ago. What did he not know about the Ye household? If it had been Wei Furen instead, it might have gone differently — Wei Yushan was a person who despised injustice to the core. He spoke his mind directly, without restraint, and would not spare even Marshal Wei’s face. Confronted now with Father Ye — a man who favored his concubine over his wife and had allowed his own children to be mistreated by a concubine — Wei Yushan had not the slightest goodwill for him. He didn’t even bother with a greeting, only let out a cold laugh and said: “No need. I’ve come to pay respects to Elder Sister Ye. I won’t be going to the main courtyard.”

Lingbo, seeing how obligingly he cooperated, felt a flicker of satisfaction, and escorted him back to Wutong Courtyard. Along the way she laughed coldly and said: “I suppose you’re occasionally useful.”

“Not as useful as you. You made a scene at Cui’s family’s house, and now your two families have broken off all relations. Happy now?” Wei Yushan had always been at odds with her — it had been that way from the start. Lingbo had never had a gentle tongue, and she had always resented him for interrupting Cui Jingyu and Qinglan’s time together back then, never missing a chance to needle him.

“As if you weren’t the one hoping for Cui Jingyu and Qinglan to fall out too. What are you performing now?” Lingbo immediately shot back. “This isn’t like when you blocked our carriage in the snow. Or wasn’t your last fall hard enough? Do you want Cui Jingyu to throw you down again?”

“Dream on,” said Wei Yushan. “Cui Jingyu moved on long ago. As long as he finds a young lady he likes at this year’s Flower Season Banquet and gets betrothed, we’ll go our separate ways afterward — you your road, me mine. I couldn’t care less about your affairs anymore.”

The two of them traded barbs all the way back to Wutong Courtyard. Wei Yushan gave as good as he got against Lingbo, but when he actually saw Qinglan, he felt a pang of unease. It was something about Qinglan herself — she had a quality, always serene and dignified, that made it impossible not to put aside one’s prejudices, impossible to be rude to her.

Wei Yushan came to pay New Year’s respects, naturally in Wei Furen’s name. Much as Lingbo wanted to mock him, she had no choice but to follow Qinglan’s lead, exchanging proper courtesies, all formalities observed, sitting down for tea. Qinglan found a pretext to say: “Lingbo, it’s getting on in time. Go pay your respects to the Shen family before Biwei has trouble coming over here.”

Ye Lingbo went off to find Shen Biwei, calling back: “Where’s A’Cuo? I’ll take her and Yanyan with me — to collect New Year’s money from Shen Furen.” Qinglan smiled and said: “A’Cuo stayed up late last night. Don’t bring her along. Shen Furen is always thoughtful — A’Cuo’s red envelope won’t be forgotten.”

“Shen Furen still gives you a New Year’s red envelope every year,” said Ye Lingbo, smiling. “She says as long as you’re unmarried, you ought to receive one. I can’t refuse — I just take it.”

So she left with Yanyan, and on her way out, she didn’t forget to shoot a glare at Wei Yushan where he sat drinking tea, then pulled a red envelope from her sleeve and tossed it in front of him.

“I don’t want it,” Wei Yushan said, haughtily. “You’re only a year older than me. On what grounds do you give me a red envelope?”

“On the grounds that I am the young mistress and head of this household, while you’re still living under your parents’ roof.” said Lingbo dismissively. “Stop pretending. How many red envelopes did you accept four years ago? You little ingrate — you ate so well at Elder Sister’s expense back then, and now that it’s all fallen apart, you just trot around after Cui Jingyu like his little dog, showing your teeth at us at every turn. What a waste of everything I gave you.”

A few lines from her and Wei Yushan was on the verge of leaping up in fury, but she had already drifted off, light as air. She had her own way of distorting the facts — if one were to speak of it honestly, four years ago it had been the Ye family’s fault. Without Ye Qinglan breaking off the engagement, it would have been impossible to just continue as if nothing had happened with the Ye family. And it had happened to fall right when the Northern Suppression Army was setting out on campaign — outcomes uncertain, lives at stake. Even if Qinglan had conducted herself with perfect propriety, it was impossible not to suspect she had cut her betrothed loose out of fear he might not come back.

Yet here was Qinglan, sitting quietly now, eyes lowered, still the poised and dignified elder sister she had been four years ago, like a figure of Guanyin. The courtyard was the same as four years ago. The tea was the same as four years ago. Even Wei Yushan couldn’t help feeling a moment of unreality.

Qinglan noticed Wei Yushan looking at her, and smiled first. With Lingbo gone, the room belonged entirely to Qinglan’s people — her maids carried themselves like their mistress, composed and steady.

“What you did, Yushan, was really not appropriate.” That was all she said, softly.

For her, that was already the equivalent of a reprimand. Wei Yushan felt heat rise to his face at once. He knew he had been in the wrong — A’Cuo was a young lady of a good family, and this was not Yanlin City. His conduct had been an offense.

“Understood.” He was, for once, genuinely compliant. This was a side of himself he never showed Marshal Wei or Wei Furen — eighteen years old, at the age when one is stubborn as a bull. In the past, he had only been willing to listen to Cui Jingyu and Qinglan even a little. Afterward, it had only been Cui Jingyu. But Cui Jingyu was an older brother, and brothers lacked the delicacy that Qinglan had — so he never noticed these things.

If only there had been no broken engagement.

“All right. Ask A’Cuo to come out,” she said to Yang Hua, then instructed Wei Yushan: “You are old family friends, and this is a New Year’s call. There is nothing improper about an exchange of greetings. A public meeting, conducted properly, is far preferable to meeting in private.”

Wei Yushan only nodded.

And sure enough, A’Cuo came out. In the darkness last night he had not been able to see her clearly. Now he saw she was wearing a wide-sleeved robe patterned with twining flower motifs, with a gemstone pendant collar. Now that the new year had turned, she was nominally sixteen, and could begin wearing her hair up. For the New Year her rouge was applied heavily — her face was delicately pointed, like a petal of a peach blossom, her eyes lowered, her lashes lovely.

Wei Yushan gave her a proper, formal bow — and understood then, for the first time, that it was not only in private that being with her was pleasant. Even this — propriety and decorum, conducted correctly — was very good.

“All right. The New Year reception at the Shen family is for close friends and family. There will be time to talk then.” Qinglan smiled and reminded them gently.

And so the two parted again. Niangzi Yang refilled Wei Yushan’s tea — he recalled that Qinglan had once taught him this was the capital’s way among the noble families of signaling it was time for a guest to take his leave. He rose and said his farewells. He saw Qinglan give him the slightest nod, with a smile of approval.

So she still remembered.

Outside, the great snow shone crisp and dazzling. Qinglan personally saw him out to the courtyard, and Niangzi Yang presented a red envelope on a tray — inside it, a peace amulet as well.

On that day, it was her carriage he had blocked — and yet she had not, like Ye Lingbo, flung the envelope at him.

“Yushan is a general now,” said Qinglan, speaking to him almost as an ordinary elder sister might caution a younger brother: “War is a grave matter. Though it is fought to protect home and country, you must also take care of yourself. These are Bodede Temple’s nirvana amulets — the most efficacious. The Duke of Yongguo wears one always. They bless for peace and long life. Take one for yourself, and bring one to the Marquis. You needn’t say it’s from me — just say it came from the Shen family.”

Wei Yushan knew. It must have been she who had asked Shen Biwei to obtain them. Bodede Temple was a royal temple that only Shen Biwei could come and go from freely.

She did not want his family to owe her gratitude.

When Qinglan had been betrothed to Cui Jingyu, Wei Yushan had been only fourteen, had never yet killed anyone, still the young admirer at Cui Jingyu’s side who worshipped him unreservedly — clamoring to follow him onto the battlefield and fight the enemy. But one day he had also asked Cui Jingyu what it felt like to kill someone. Cui Jingyu had described in careful detail the warmth of blood splashing onto the body, how the sword hilt became slippery with blood and so had to be wrapped in ox sinew cord.

For that, Qinglan had scolded Cui Jingyu — blamed him for frightening Wei Yushan. She had brewed a calming tea especially for him, taken him to hear the sutras recited, and spent a long time comforting him.

Later, when Wei Yushan killed his first man on the battlefield, he felt almost nothing. When the Northern Rong armies pressed the border, no one came to comfort a new soldier on his first kill. Cui Jingyu only rewarded him with a new blade.

Wei Yushan was nominally nineteen this year, and had killed many men. Many Northern Rong soldiers were from herding families — tending horses and sheep in peacetime, and raiding the frontier when the season came. He was young, yet sometimes the men who died were even younger than him. As the fighting wore on, the Northern Rong gradually stopped equipping every man with heavy armor; sometimes they wore only thin leather pieces. So in time, Wei Yushan used his sword more. When a sword pierced a body — no matter the angle — blood would surge back up along the blade, flooding the whole hand with warmth. Occasionally he would think of the scent of gardenia from that temple, think of Ye Qinglan under the eaves speaking gentle words of comfort, as though he truly were her younger brother, as though she truly cared for his fear — so much so that she was willing to argue with Cui Jingyu over it.

When he thought of those things, he felt a kind of reckless release. A sharp blade entering a body felt like tearing away a false mask. Of course Ye Qinglan had not truly cared about him. She had only briefly played the role of the gentle elder sister at the Flower Season Banquet, and in passing, comforted him. He alone had been foolish enough to believe she truly intended to become his family — to think she would follow Cui Jingyu to Yanlin City, and face every enemy alongside them.

Even if she hadn’t gone to Yanlin City — even if she had stayed in the capital — he could have found reasons to visit.

But she had broken off the engagement.

If he himself, who had only thought of her as an elder sister, could be so wounded — then what of Cui Jingyu?

On that day at the temple, he had dozed off amid the flat drone of the old nun’s sutra recitation, and woke in the afternoon, cicadas ringing from every hillside. Bleary-eyed, he had made his way around the meditation chambers and come upon a courtyard where a gardenia tree stood in full bloom, its fragrance filling every corner. At the edge of the fragrant, flowering tree, Cui Jingyu sat on a stone bench, and Ye Qinglan leaned against his shoulder, sleeping quietly.

Cui Jingyu saw him approaching and raised a finger to his lips, giving him a smile.

In the four years that followed, Wei Yushan, serving as his deputy commander, had accompanied him to many places — climbed over snow mountains, crossed deserts, fought the Northern Rong on the frozen surface of the Mingsha River until the waters ran dark red. He had once joined five hundred men in a night raid on the grand encampment of ten thousand Northern Rong soldiers — all to buy Marshal Wei the advantage of the first strike. That night, fewer than twenty of those who went out came back. Wei Yushan himself had been thrown from his horse and was pulled back by Cui Jingyu. In that engagement, Wei Yushan’s left hand was nearly shattered, and to this day several fingers of his left hand still could not fully straighten. The Northern Rong sent a light cavalry in pursuit, and Wei Yushan and Cui Jingyu led the remnants of their force in a hundred-li flight across the desert. The Northern Rong clung to them like a shadow, relentless, for the head of their great chancellor hung at Cui Jingyu’s saddlebow.

They were no longer merely brothers — they were comrades who had entrusted each other with their lives. He was Cui Jingyu’s deputy general, privy to the deeper purpose behind every decision, and could read the meaning in every expression.

Yet he had never again seen on Cui Jingyu’s face the look he had worn that day.

Ye Qinglan’s broken engagement seemed to have drawn something vital out of him. He remained that same Cui Jingyu — a general of a kind seen once in a century, towering like a mountain, fierce as a tiger or leopard, yet cunning as a snow fox. His name was a nightmare to the Northern Rong; the soldiers of the Northern Suppression Army revered him as a god of war, and at the mere sight of his banner, would follow him into certain death without a moment’s hesitation.

On the day they crossed the Golden Sand Shallows, an ancient kingdom of the northern frontier had carved enormous grottoes and Buddhas into the cliff walls — and through the shifting of the mountains over the ages, those Buddha figures had crumbled and collapsed. They rode past one enormous Buddha head, three men tall, its surface mapped with cracks.

Cui Jingyu always made Wei Yushan think of that Buddha.

He was still powerful. Still unyielding. Still, to all appearances, an existence beyond mortal destruction.

He had simply — quietly, from within — broken apart.