“Alright, I understand.” Pei Zhao calmly sat up. Even he could not manage a smile at this moment — one could tell from the books he had read that a gentleman pursues a graceful lady, but if he cannot win her heart, pestering her is no conduct befitting a gentleman.

Both of them were clever people; three words said and the meaning was understood. Things had come to this point, so there was naturally nothing more to say.

Outside, snow was falling heavily. Lingbo was about to call out to Liu Ji to stop the carriage and let him off, but he had already lifted the curtain and flipped himself out of the carriage. It was easy enough to imagine — a general forged on the battlefield could tame a galloping horse, let alone a carriage. His movements were so light that Liu Ji had barely noticed, and she hesitantly turned her head: “Miss.”

“It’s none of your concern. Just drive.” Lingbo said calmly.

The carriage fell quiet for a time. Lingbo had only just passed her twentieth birthday, and no matter how mature she was, her heart was now in complete disarray.

This feeling was entirely unfamiliar to her — it resembled disappointment, yet was not quite disappointment. It felt more like a painting stored for years in a warehouse that had faded, everything gone grey, or like recovering from a serious illness with all the strength drained from one’s body.

Lingbo sat in the carriage for a long while, staring fixedly at a spot on the carriage wall across from her, before finally coming back to her senses.

The peregrine falcon happened to struggle at that very moment. True to its reputation as the fastest of birds, even its wing-beats were powerful. Lingbo watched it quietly, and the falcon seemed to sense her gaze, tilting its head in her direction.

That fellow Pei Zhao — it was not birds he loved at all. He merely loved the story of the Qingluan.

Come to think of it, Lingbo had first heard that story because of Shen Biwei. She and Shen Biwei had known each other since childhood and were on excellent terms. By the time they reached twelve or thirteen, each had experienced her own upheaval. For Lingbo, it was turmoil within the household — troublesome enough, but in the end it had only tempered her ability to handle affairs and steeled her resolve.

But Shen Biwei, around the age of thirteen, had developed a streak of strangeness in her temperament — an arrogance that set her apart from others. It was as if nothing in this world could satisfy her, and she seemed to carry a smoldering fire inside that could flare up at any moment.

Lingbo, as her close friend, had a vague sense of why, yet could not put it into words — not until that year when she saw a painting in a calligraphy and painting shop. The painting itself was ordinary, but the inscription was exceptional — every character had the resonant weight of metal striking stone, as if it would ring out if struck.

Those characters told a tale from the Southern Dynasties — the very story Pei Zhao had begun to tell today before Lingbo cut him off.

“Long ago, the King of Jibin captured a Qingluan bird in the mountains of Zunqi. The King treasured it greatly and wished for it to sing, but could not make it do so. He adorned it with a golden cage and offered it the finest delicacies, yet the more he doted on it, the more sorrowful it appeared, and for three years it did not sing. His consort said: ‘I have heard that birds only sing when they see others of their kind. Why not hang a mirror before it?’ The King followed her counsel. The Qingluan gazed upon its own reflection, and sensing a kindred soul, broke into mournful song. Its cries rang through the midnight sky, and with one final burst of flight, it died.”

The story was simple enough — the King of Jibin obtained a Qingluan that refused to sing. His consort suggested that since the Qingluan would only sing when it saw its own kind, perhaps a mirror hung before it might work. The Qingluan saw its own reflection, cried out in endless sorrow, its mournful cries piercing the midnight sky, and in one final burst of flight, it perished.

Lingbo had given that painting to Shen Biwei, who kept it hanging in her bedroom to this day. It had accompanied her through the most furious and most dangerous years of her life, until she had grown into the person she was now — still at odds with the world, yet cold and composed.

Not long after meeting Pei Zhao, Lingbo had sensed a resemblance between him and Shen Biwei.

To be a Qingluan was undoubtedly a wretched thing — there was no one in the entire world one could truly confide in. So if someone could walk into their heart, earn their approval, and win their trust, it was tantamount to receiving the highest honor. Even the divine bird of legend would bow its head for you — the mere thought was enough to stir the heart.

But not everyone could be a Qingluan. Had Qinglan not wanted to be one? Her scholarship was exceptional — even the female officials before the Grand Princess today could not outargue her, and that was knowledge earned night after night of reading, accumulated over years. Yet she had not even chosen to become a Qingluan. Instead, she descended from the clouds to become a sister to Ye Lingbo and Yanyan.

Wei Yushan, that blockhead — on the first day of the new year, standing in the courtyard asking Qinglan why she had broken off the engagement. What reason could she have had, if not for the sake of them, for the sake of this family? Even four years later, there was still a hidden ache in the way she looked at Cui Jingyu, and he looked at her the same way. A match so well-suited — what could possibly have torn it apart?

Four years ago, Lingbo had just turned fifteen and Yanyan was only ten. How could Qinglan possibly have abandoned everything to become Cui Jingyu’s wife?

She never said it. But Lingbo could not pretend not to know.

Shen Biwei and Pei Zhao would never understand this — that while being a Qingluan is wretched, it is also a luxury. People like Qinglan, like Ye Lingbo herself, never even considered such a thing. They would not fall into despair, nor could they afford to. They could only clench their teeth and climb upward with every last ounce of strength, until they had carved out a place in the world for their family.

This year’s Flower Gathering Banquet was not Ye Lingbo’s Flower Gathering Banquet. No matter how outstanding a young man’s appearance or character, no matter how excellent a match, if he could not further her plans, she would not have him.

This was what she owed Qinglan. Qinglan did not ask to be repaid, but she was determined to repay her. Five years ago, Qinglan had sacrificed a match for her sake — so she would restore a match to Qinglan. Four years ago, Qinglan had missed a spring for her sake — so she would restore a spring to Qinglan.

Pei Zhao had wished her a happy birthday, wished that whatever she desired would come to fulfillment.

For Qinglan’s story to have a good ending — that was her wish. That was her fulfillment.

Everything else would have to yield to this.

—

Qinglan had naturally arrived home before Lingbo.

She first comforted her two younger sisters. Hearing that they had run off to the Wei household today to enlist Lady Wei as reinforcements, she found it both amusing and heartwarming. She picked out the parts of the day’s events that were not dangerous and told them about it, setting their minds at ease. She asked Yang Niangzi to settle them to sleep, then had someone check on where Lingbo’s carriage was — why was she still not home?

When all of this was done, she went to see Madam Fu Yunrui, who had already been settled in. But she found the maid standing there with a bowl of medicine and a helpless expression. When she asked, she learned that Fu Yunrui had hurried out.

A vague sense of understanding came over her. She brought Luo Niangzi with her, had her carry a cloak, and followed the footprints out of Wutong Courtyard.

Sure enough, it was at the old spot — the side alley of Wutong Courtyard, beneath the plum blossoms, witness to so many stories. If you threw a stone from that alley, it would land right on the roof of the south room of the warm parlor. Back in those days, Cui Jingyu had often used that very method when he came to find her.

The snow had already stopped. In the moonlight that flooded the ground, Fu Yunrui and Yin Hongyuan stood facing each other. Luo Niangzi was about to call out “Madam Yin,” but Qinglan stopped her.

Lingbo would surely have been astonished — Fu Yunrui, who was usually as gentle as a rabbit, could actually be so fierce. Her face was flushed red as she directed a stream of accusations at Yin Hongyuan, who was ordinarily as tight-lipped as a sealed gourd.

“…I never went to the banquet, and you never took a concubine, so why did you go and file for separation without even coming home? Do you know how long I’ve just been looking for you? Wei Shanhu and the others refused to tell me…” Even Yin Hongyuan, always so cold and reserved, had this many words in him.

“You didn’t want to take a concubine? Then why did your mother keep hinting, every other sentence, that she found A’Man being a girl unsatisfactory — that my health was too poor to bear children, and that now you’ve made general, you absolutely must have a son?” Fu Yunrui’s voice was soft, but her entire body was taut as an arrow drawn to full tension, aimed directly at Yin Hongyuan.

“When did my mother say any of this? Why didn’t you tell me? I said from the beginning that my relationship with my family was never good. Bringing you back to visit was only because they wanted to see A’Man. I have never once found A’Man being a girl unsatisfactory.” Yin Hongyuan protested, aggrieved.

“You clearly have! Why did you say your sword technique had died with its masters? You never hold A’Man — whenever the wet nurse offers her to you, you refuse to take her. If you want a concubine, go and take one. If you want a son, go and have one. A’Man is my daughter, and in my heart she is perfect in every way. I want no other children. I will not let her suffer any grievance!”

“That is because I do not dare hold her. Those of us who have come down from the battlefield carry the heaviest burden of death on our hands. The palace spoke long ago of holding a grand Daoist rite to clear it, but it has been delayed again and again. Luo Yong still refuses to sleep at home — why doesn’t Wei Shanhu blame him for that? The dancing girls they sent me, I turned away too. I did not tell you because I was afraid you would worry over it needlessly…”

Who could have anticipated it — Fu Yunrui, always so soft and yielding in temperament, had this hard core to her. She raised her hand and struck Yin Hongyuan across the face.

“Don’t make excuses!” Her voice was hoarse, thick with tears, as she said to Yin Hongyuan: “I know I have no talent for managing a household. I cannot host banquets, and I am not beautiful. But I am not something to be pushed around. I will not tolerate you taking a concubine, and I will not stand by like my mother did and watch my own child suffer. A’Man and I can live without you. If you no longer wish to continue this marriage, say it now, and I will take A’Man and seek a separation from you. If you break the vow you made back then, I will not let this rest…”

What answered her was Yin Hongyuan’s embrace.

Luo Niangzi, born and raised in the capital, had never seen anything like this — a wife who looked so soft and delicate, yet dared to strike her own husband, and the general who had been struck, rather than retaliating, gathered his wife into his arms. The two of them stood embracing in the snow, just as they had four years ago.

Perhaps the couples of Yanglin City truly were different from those of the capital. At their worst, they could be as bad as the most faithless of men in the old plays. But at their best, they left people overcome with a quiet longing — a feeling that perhaps one also deserved a story like this, that one’s own good youth need not be wasted.

It was fortunate that Luo Niangzi had never attended the Flower Gathering Banquet in those years, and did not know the history between her own eldest Miss and Fu Yunrui.

Qinglan held her umbrella in the snowy street, gazing from a distance toward the silhouette at the mouth of the alley.

He was the same as ever — no matter how heavy the snow, he would not take an umbrella. Back then, Qinglan had often chided him for that. She had once secretly watched, from under her umbrella, the snowflakes settling in his hair and imagined what he would look like when he was old.

Looking back now, the signs had been there all along.

In the end, deep feeling and shallow fate — they could not grow old together.

Would he have regrets? Or had he always blamed her — for the broken engagement, for having severed all future between them? When he watched Yin Hongyuan and Fu Yunrui together as husband and wife, did he feel the same momentary disorientation she did? Did he wonder if this might have been their ending too — that perhaps they could have gone to the frontier together, built a small home in Yanglin City, that she would have kept a lamp burning for him always, so that no matter what hour he came through the door, carrying the cold air of the night, someone would be waiting? Perhaps there would have been a precious child — he would have been a wonderful father. Every single day of these four years would have held something worth remembering.

There would have been quarrels too, of course, and misunderstandings, and many things that could not be spoken aloud. But there would also have been understanding, and tenderness, and love — and this kind of embrace in the deep snow of a winter’s night, smoothing over every grievance and every confusion…

But life is like a game of chess. Once a piece is placed, it cannot be taken back. Four years had passed. This was the ending Ye Qinglan had chosen for herself — in an alley like this, gazing at him through the falling snow from a distance, waiting for a future in which they would be strangers to each other.

He would have his wife, his home, his children. He had already achieved the highest honors — ennobled, acclaimed, riding the crest of fortune. In time, someone would surely be there to grow old beside him.

And she had her family, her Wutong Courtyard, her hardships, and naturally her own strength. She was still the same Ye Qinglan who had made a vow to him beneath the mountain moon — like a great boulder at the heart of a river, hidden beneath the surface, unseen by anyone. But she herself knew where she was.

That, too, was a very good ending.