After the southern expeditionary army crossed the river, it advanced step by step, attacking from both water and land routes, encircling and annihilating the forces of the southern imperial clan one by one. The main rebel forces were pushed back to the north of Yizhou, where they encountered the combined encirclement of armies from front and rear, with no avenue of retreat. Driven to desperation, the rebel forces fell into internal strife. The treacherous Prince of Jin’an, convinced he had never directly engaged the court’s forces, plotted to capture Zi Lu and use him as an offering to curry favor with Xiao Qi, surrendering in exchange for preserving his wealth and position. In the chaos of the internal conflict, the Prince of Jin’an launched a night attack on the traveling palace, catching Zi Lu completely off guard. Zi Lu, protected by a group of loyal fighters, escaped alone on horseback and rode to the army of Prince Chenghui, urgently summoning the main force to counterattack.

The two armies fought fiercely for a full day and night. The Prince of Jin’an was skilled in stratagems, but was no match for Prince Chenghui’s valor in open battle, and was ultimately slain in the front lines. The rebel forces fell into chaos thereafter. To prevent the collapse of morale, the Jiangnan imperial clan, led by Prince Jianzhang, had no choice but to hastily push Zi Lu onto the throne, erecting a high platform at Yizhou, where a hurried ceremony of heavenly sacrifice was performed and Zi Lu was proclaimed Emperor of the south.

When news arrived, the entire court was outraged. Zi Lu’s claim to the throne finally confirmed the crime of usurpation, and Xiao Qi had been waiting precisely for this moment — a pretext to eliminate the Jiangnan imperial clan in one decisive stroke.

The following day, an imperial edict was proclaimed to all under heaven: the various princes of the south who had supported the rebel usurper were guilty of a crime beyond pardon. The southern expeditionary forces were commanded to suppress the rebellion immediately. Ringleaders and associated accomplices alike, regardless of rank or title, were to be executed without mercy.

In the waning days of spring and the early onset of summer, the afternoon had become faintly sweltering. The bamboo curtain of spotted bamboo was half-drawn, screening out the scorching sunlight beyond, while allowing dappled light to filter through, casting streaks across the writing table.

I held a round silk fan and reclined at Xiao Qi’s side, fanning him gently while turning to watch him read through the memorials. Another dispatch announcing a great victory over the southern rebels: the remnant forces of the Prince of Fenyuan had been pursued to Qichuan, with the greater part surrendering and the rest wiped out. Xiao Qi closed the memorial, a faint smile crossing his face, though small beads of sweat glistened at his temples. The southern theater was all but settled; Zi Lu’s military defeat and collapse were only a matter of time.

My thoughts drifted to that solitary, frail young man. Of the three imperial princes, Zi Long had been foolish and rash; Zidan had yielded to every adversity; and he alone — on the day of the palace upheaval — had risked his life to flee the imperial city and march south to raise an army in revolt. Even I had not foreseen it: that the one who, in the end, upheld the pride and courage of the imperial family would be him. Had he not been born into such turbulent times, he might have become a learned and virtuous prince — not the condemned traitor he was now in everyone’s eyes. He and Zidan shared the same blood — when the blade fell and his head was sent to the commander’s tent, would he die with his eyes closed, facing his own blood kin? And Zidan — Zidan, whose hands had never been stained with blood, Zidan pure and unblemished as white jade — would have to tread through seas of blood and mountains of corpses, walk toward the most brutal ending, and take his elder brother’s head with his own hands, in order to bring this war to its close.

Though it was an early summer afternoon, a chill passed through me to the bone.

The more one endures disorder and upheaval, the more one learns to cherish what remains… I sighed silently, drawing back my wandering thoughts, and took out a silk handkerchief to wipe the sweat from Xiao Qi’s temple. He looked up and smiled at me, then returned his attention to the memorials.

“Rest for a while — there are so many memorials, you cannot finish them all at once.” I urged him gently.

“These are urgent matters and cannot be delayed.” He did not even look up. The thick stack of memorials beside him was piled like a small mountain.

I smiled helplessly, set down the fan, and idly picked up a few of the memorials to read through. Victory dispatches had been arriving frequently of late: a hundred thousand troops had taken a roundabout route through the western frontier, following merchant caravan tracks across the vast desert, and launched a surprise attack from behind on the Turkic royal city — like a sharp blade plunged into the heart of the Turks. The Turkic Khan’s prolonged siege had made no headway, and now beset from within and without, his forces’ morale was beginning to crumble. Our troops in the rear were well supplied, and the border garrison soldiers, ordered to defend only and not attack, had long been straining at the bit, filing memorial after memorial requesting permission to engage — of this entire stack of memorials, nearly half were requests to advance. I read through them one by one and could not help but smile deeply.

“What are you smiling at?” Xiao Qi set down his brush and looked up with a smile, drawing me onto his lap. I showed him the several memorials requesting to engage, and he also smiled. “The moment is not yet right — though it is nearly so.”

On that vast map, a great expanse of wild borderland was about to be set alight with the fire of a devastating war. Prince Hulü, Helan Zhen… after this battle, what would we be to one another — friend or foe? I stared at the map in a daze, my feelings shifting, unable to discern whether what stirred within me was joy or sorrow.

“The southern campaign is nearly concluded — Zidan will soon return to the capital.” Xiao Qi said suddenly, with a mild smile. “Now that Madam Su has been expelled, the royal uncle has yet to take a formal consort, and a principal consort should be selected for him without delay.”

Jin’er’s remaining days would be spent under the cold light of an oil lamp before Buddhist images, and this was already the greatest mercy I could give her. Perhaps entering religious life was also a kind of release for her. Yet the question of A’Bao’s future had become my most pressing difficulty — she was a threat if she remained in the palace, yet she could no longer follow her mother, and Zidan had his own affairs to tend and could likely not care for this child. For the time being I could think of no solution that would serve everyone’s interests, and could only leave her temporarily in the palace for treatment of her eye ailment.

Xiao Qi gave little thought to the matter of Jin’er, feeling only that the child was entirely innocent, and bade me pay close attention to her welfare.

But as for Zidan’s selection of a consort — raised by Xiao Qi himself — I understood his meaning… He was, in the end, still uneasy. Perhaps only when Zidan had taken a wife could he be rid of his misgivings. Zidan had been confined to the imperial mausoleum for many years, causing him to miss the proper time for marriage, and a principal consort had never been designated for him. Now that Jin’er was gone too, he did indeed need a woman to look after him. Yet the “suitable person” Xiao Qi had in mind would inevitably be a daughter from the military nobility or one of his other confidants’ families.

“Now that Zidan returns to court with the army, if a good match can also be arranged, that would be double cause for joy — only selecting a woman of fitting family at such short notice is no easy matter.” I spoke lightly and with deliberate carelessness, and laughed. “In any case, there is no need to rush these past two days — with so many young women of good family, choosing among them is enough to dazzle the eye. It must be done slowly.” I spoke these words with a smile, yet a nameless ache rose within me.

A warmth brushed my ear — Xiao Qi’s fingers tracing past my temple. “Are you hot? You’re quite damp…”

Without waiting for my reply, he reached into my collar, exposing skin lightly damp with perspiration. I turned my head and averted my gaze, doing my utmost to drive away the vision of that lonely figure in blue robes that drifted to mind. Xiao Qi asked no further questions, as if the topic just raised had never been mentioned, and at some point had begun to loosen my outer robe, drawing it off and setting it aside.

“You mustn’t!” I exclaimed in alarm, dodging away from his impertinent hands.

“All this perspiration…” he laughed in the most shameless manner imaginable, and without further discussion scooped me up in his arms. “Let me attend upon the Princess Consort’s bath.”

Steam rose in the bathing pool, white and fragrant with the floating petals of white atractylodes and water lily, suffusing the air with a delicate scent. Lying submerged in this water, one had not the slightest inclination to stir.

I drowsed languidly against the smooth, warm stone wall, my head tilted back and mouth slightly open, waiting for him to peel a grape and feed them to me one by one.

A drop of water clung to the tip of his dark, arching eyebrow. His half-damp hair was loosely gathered up, and through the drifting steam he possessed an air of unconstrained, effortless elegance… He watched me with a half-smile, peeled a grape, and held it out with indolent ease, only to draw it back at the precise moment I opened my mouth. I pressed a toe against the pool’s edge, using the rippling water’s force, and slipped out like a fish, coiling around him so that we both tumbled into a great splash of water. His bedraggled state made me burst into helpless laughter, forgetting to dodge away — and before my laughter had ceased, he reached out and caught me… The room was filled with warmth and play, spring color without limit. In that languorous late-spring afternoon, time slipped silently away in our tender interlude.

With the southern campaign all but won, to encourage the soldiers’ fighting spirit, the court issued an edict conferring rewards: Zidan was elevated to the title of Prince Xian; Song Huai’an was named Grand General; Hu Guanglie was made Marquis Wuwei; and the remaining soldiers and officers were all advanced in rank and given lavish gifts of gold and silver.

Zidan had held nothing but the empty title of royal uncle all this time; only now did he receive a princely title. As he had previously resided in the palace in the capacity of an imperial prince, now that he held a princely title, protocol required him to establish a separate household outside the palace.

The Bureau of Works submitted several long-abandoned palace complexes on the outskirts of the capital for consideration, intending to select one to refurbish as the residence of Prince Xian. Yet, to everyone’s surprise, Xiao Qi ordered that the most exquisitely luxurious of the imperial retreats beyond the palace walls — Zhi Garden — be bestowed upon Zidan for his residence, to be renovated with extensive construction undertaken, furnished with the utmost grandeur and splendor, the extravagance of which left the capital’s princes and great noble houses speechless.

At first everyone had assumed that Xiao Qi, by sending Zidan to the front lines, was surely using someone else’s knife to kill him — allowing him to perish in battle and eliminating a threat. But they had all underestimated the breadth of Xiao Qi’s mind and the sophistication of his methods.

Having crushed the Jiangnan rebel forces with an iron hand, Xiao Qi had thoroughly eliminated the last vestiges of the imperial clan’s power, yet he could not on that account simply break with the entire imperial family. Whether in the capital or in Jiangnan, the royal nobles and aristocrats formed networks of influence that could neither be killed off entirely nor rooted out completely. Once the administration stabilized and governance of the realm required steady hands, their cooperation would still be needed. At this juncture, Xiao Qi’s lavish favor shown to Zidan was no different from giving every aristocratic noble family a pill of reassurance.

Since word had circulated in the palace that a virtuous woman from the aristocratic families was to be sought as consort for Prince Xian, discussion and speculation had broken out everywhere, with every major noble house watching and speculating.

I stood for a long while before the gates of Zhi Garden, which had long been sealed and shuttered.

This imperial retreat was the work of a master craftsman of his age — it backed against Purple Aurora Mountain, lay beside the waters of Emerald Ripple Lake, and faced the palace city from afar, commanding the finest prospects in all directions.

Many years before, this place had not borne its present name. It was not until Emperor Chengzong bestowed it upon Zidan’s mother — Noble Consort Xie, the most favored woman in the inner palace — that its name changed. Because her given name contained the character for “angelica herb,” the garden was renamed Zhi Garden. Noble Consort Xie was gentle and retiring by nature, frail and often ill, and had never been comfortable living in the main palace. That year, with Emperor Chengzong’s tacit permission, she moved here to recuperate and did not return to pay her respects at the main palace for many days, thereby offending my aunt and setting off a great uproar. Afterward, she returned in despondency to the palace, and within half a year she was dead. From that time on, the garden with its slanting wind and fine rain — those days of blossoming youth and billowing green robes — gradually receded further and further into the past.

A faint ache in my heart, stirring the dim events of the past, felt suddenly as though they belonged to another life.

“Princess Consort.” A’Yue’s soft voice drew me back from my reverie. Standing on the newly refurbished jade steps, I raised my head to gaze at the freshly gilded characters “Residence of Prince Xian” blazing magnificently on the great coiled-dragon signboard. I turned back to the noblewomen assembled behind me and smiled faintly. “So much effort has been spent, and the Residence of Prince Xian is at last completed. Today I have especially invited everyone to come and admire the garden together, to see whether today’s master craftsmen can match or surpass the work of former times.” The company offered praise and agreement in abundance, and as they proceeded the garden revealed one beautiful scene after another, each displaying a superlative ingenuity that drew exclamations of admiration from all.

The scenery that had once been so familiar to me unfolded scene by scene before my eyes, and at each passing moment it was as though time wound back a little further. This had been the place where Noble Consort Xie had lived. Now that it returned to him like a former home revisited, it was at least some measure of comfort — the only one I could offer him.

I lowered my head in silent thought, my heart dim with a sudden melancholy. But then behind me I caught the faint sound of bright laughter, and turning to look, I saw among the accompanying women a company of several vivacious young girls in a cluster of red sleeves and green coiffures, laughing among themselves. The Marchioness of Ying’an, following my gaze, hurried to say with a smile, “Girls will be so playful — please forgive any impropriety, Princess Consort.” I turned away with a smile and said nothing further. These girls were all candidates being considered as consort for Prince Xian — today they had been brought along expressly to view the garden. We walked on for a while, and I gradually began to feel tired. A’Yue noticed and quickly said, “The water pavilion ahead is cool — would the Princess Consort and the ladies not like to rest there for a while, enjoy the breeze, and admire the lotuses? That too would be a pleasure.” I nodded with a smile and led the company into the water pavilion.

In the deep shade of early summer, a cool breeze moved through the water pavilion, which rang with the bright voices of the gathered women, their swirling skirts stirring the air with traces of hidden fragrance. Beautiful women from great families, daughters of marquises and lords — each more graceful and lovely than the last. Look where one would, it was an overwhelming abundance of beauty.

There had been a time when I too was so free of care.

A gust of wind lifted a strand of hair at my ear. I reached up to brush it aside, and in doing so happened to see a woman in pale violet, standing alone at the railing, her slender figure appearing quite solitary among all that brilliant company.

The woman in violet stood delicately at the balustrade, gazing at the white duckweed blooming here and there across the pool, her expression distant, lost in her own thoughts. I fixed my gaze on that graceful figure — I could not say why, but since the first time I had glimpsed her at the Lantern Festival banquet, I had faintly sensed something familiar about her. Though I had clearly never met her before, it was as though she were someone I already knew. Something moved within me. I stepped to stand behind her and said lightly, with a smile, “Do you like the white duckweed?”

Gu Caiwei turned in surprise and quickly curtsied. I smiled gently. “In the south, this flower grows everywhere along the waterways. At this time of year it must be blooming in abundance — how pure and elegant it is.”

“Yes — the south has such beautiful scenery; it quite makes one long to go there.” Gu Caiwei lowered her head as she spoke, her voice soft and light, yet with a smile that deepened at the corners of her cheeks. I studied her unobtrusively, then turned my gaze back to the pool of white duckweed and said in an unhurried murmur, “Stepping onto white duckweed, gazing into the distance — awaiting the one I love, at dusk I spread my mat.” Gu Caiwei’s cheeks flushed crimson at once. She caught her lower lip between her teeth and said nothing.

How could I fail to read the heart of this young woman — she was seeing objects and thinking of their owner, her mind with my brother, far away in the south.

Alas — of all the destined matches in this world, how few come to fruition. This longing of hers was likely to come to nothing. Setting aside the question of rank: with my brother’s station and standing, he was inevitably bound to take a wife from a family equal to his in prominence, not a woman from a diminished household. Even setting aside rank entirely, my brother likely had no heart left for remarriage. The old grievances and sorrows from his time with his late wife had never left him even after all the years that had passed. How lamentable that fate should be so capricious — letting everyone miss the one they had first loved.

Gu Caiwei still stood with her head bowed, suffused with shyness. I could not bear to look at her any longer, and sighed softly. “The duckweed blossom is beautiful, yet it drifts wherever the current takes it. Rather than cherishing an empty longing, it is better to treasure what one has.” She looked up, staring at me blankly, and in an instant those lively, beautiful eyes grew shadowed, as though clouds had hidden the stars. She was a woman of keen intelligence — I felt an inward pang, and gently patted her arm, my tenderness toward her deepening by another measure.

Apart from Gu Caiwei, not one of the other girls from good families caught my eye — and she herself had given her heart to another.

I set down the list of names in my hand and stared fixedly at the flame of a bright candle, lost in thought. Perhaps it was that Zidan in my heart was too perfect — luminous as the moon in heaven, with no one else in all the mortal world to be his equal. Or perhaps I was simply too selfish, stubbornly guarding those feelings that no longer belonged to me, unwilling to share them with anyone else. If I searched my conscience honestly, I was not without resentment over what Jin’er had done.

Thinking of Jin’er made me think of A’Bao’s eye ailment, which showed no sign of improvement — and I felt all the more troubled and restless. I rose and paced to the doorway. Seeing that the sky had already darkened, A’Yue urged me again: “The Princess Consort really should have dinner first. The Prince is still in conference, so he will not be back for some time — who knows how long you would have to wait.” I had no appetite at all; for no clear reason I felt irritable. I simply dismissed all my attendants, reclined alone on the brocade daybed, and listlessly turned the pages of a book. Without noticing it, drowsiness stole over me; I seemed to float on clouds, a vast mist surrounding me on all sides, and I could not tell where I was. Glancing about, I suddenly caught sight of my mother — robed in feathered splendor, luminously dignified. She smiled at me, her expression serene and refined, with a hint of lingering reluctance. I tried to call out to her but could not make a sound. In a moment, my mother’s robes stirred, she rose into the air, and began slowly to ascend. “Mother!” I cried out in anguish, and woke abruptly. Before my eyes hung the gauze bed-curtains, and I did not know when I had come to be lying in bed.

The bed-curtain was lifted, and Xiao Qi came quickly to my side. “What happened? You were sleeping so peacefully just now.”

“I dreamed of my mother…” I felt only a vague emptiness, unable to say what my heart held, the dream still vivid before me.

“If you miss your mother, go and see her at Ci’an Temple tomorrow.” Xiao Qi picked up the outer robe from the bedside and draped it over me, then bent down to put on my shoes. “I saw you sleeping soundly just now and didn’t want to wake you — but you must be hungry by now.” As he carried me out of bed, he called for the evening meal to be brought. I drowsed lazily in his arms and looked at him from the side; it seemed long since I had seen him look so openly pleased. “What are you so happy about?”

He smiled lightly and said with casual ease, “We captured Hulan alive today.”

Hulan, the Turkic Khan’s most cherished son — called the greatest warrior of the Turks — was also Helan Zhen’s most formidable rival.

Capturing Hulan alive was like severing one of the Turkic Khan’s arms. The blow to the Turks’ morale and fighting spirit was, naturally, easy enough to imagine. But more importantly, Hulan taken alive gave us the most powerful leverage to hold over Helan Zhen. As long as Hulan lived, Helan Zhen — even once he ascended the Turkic throne — could not rest easy for a single day. Should Helan Zhen go back on his word and break his promise, we could simply turn to ally with Hulan, placing him in the position of being attacked from front and rear.

I recalled how years before at Ningshuo, Xiao Qi and Hulan had joined forces to drive Helan Zhen to the brink of destruction, only to release him and let him return to the Turks — making him the most powerful force to threaten Hulan. At this point, I could not help but marvel at Xiao Qi’s far-reaching calculations, and at how truly there are no permanent allies in this world, nor any permanent enemies.

Such a victory dispatch was enormously heartening. I could not even stop to eat the evening meal, and insisted on Xiao Qi recounting the whole story of how Hulan had been taken alive, every detail.

General Xu Jinghui led three thousand troops into battle, offering their own flesh and blood as bait, fighting at the cost of their lives, luring the eight thousand iron cavalry under Hulan’s command to pursue them relentlessly. Fighting and retreating all the way, they drew the entire enemy force into Liaozi Gorge. Three thousand crossbowmen waiting there launched a sudden ambush, while two thousand heavily armored infantry at the gorge mouth cut off the enemy’s line of retreat, trapping the Turks in the valley. Xu Jinghui led his force back, and the vanguard cavalry swept down like thunder, driving straight into the enemy’s center. The heavily armored soldiers at the rear discarded their armor and fought with bare blades, each man wielding knife or axe as they plunged into the enemy formation, meeting them head-on with crushing force. The battle of Liaozi Gorge lasted from midday to dusk. Xu Jinghui sustained eight serious wounds; his forces suffered casualties exceeding two thousand; nearly half of the eight thousand Turkic cavalry were slaughtered; and the commanding general, Prince Hulan, was struck by Xu Jinghui in battle, losing an arm, and fell from his horse, whereupon he was immediately captured.

The remaining Turkic soldiers saw that the situation was lost and surrendered their weapons, throwing down their arms one after another. Fewer than a thousand managed to fight their way out and flee to report the news to their main force.

Even recounted by Xiao Qi in a calm voice, that scene of swirling chaos and slaughter was enough to make one’s heart pound, sending a chill through anyone who heard it. Imagining the scene as it must have been, I held my breath and lost myself in it, conscious only of cold sweat covering my palms. After a long exhaled breath I said, “This Xu Jinghui is truly extraordinary — sustaining eight wounds and still cutting down a formidable enemy and unseating him!”

Xiao Qi burst into laughter. “Such fierce generals — in my forces there is more than one Xu Jinghui!”

The clear, cool moonlight outside the window fell on the proud, vigorous expression on his face. His resolute profile seemed dusted with frost, and the golden dragon on his great coiled-dragon robe looked as though it might leap into the clouds at any moment, formidable and awe-inspiring. In a daze, I felt as though I had gone back to the vast, bleak borderlands. Used as I was to the solemn dignity of the court and the hundredfold tenderness of the gauze-curtained chamber, I had nearly forgotten the power that had once overawed me, nearly forgotten that the man before me was one who had truly walked out of a mountain of blades and a sea of blood, who had endured the depths of a living hell, who had cut a path across the realm with his sword and climbed step by step to the height of these nine-tiered palace towers — a god of war.

That night I slept dreamlessly, yet woke several times from a half-drowsing state, my thoughts strangely unsettled.

I tossed and turned until the sky was almost light before finally drifting off in a muddled state — and had barely closed my eyes when the fifth watch drum sounded.

Abruptly from outside came the rapid sound of hurrying footsteps. The night-duty attendant threw himself to his knees outside, his voice trembling as he reported, “Respectfully reporting to the Prince and the Princess Consort — a messenger has come from Ci’an Temple—”

My heart seized with an inexplicable suffocation. Before I could speak, Xiao Qi had already drawn back the curtain and sat up. “What has happened at Ci’an Temple?”

“At the third watch last night, the Grand Princess Jinmin passed away.”

My mother departed very peacefully. Even Aunt Xu, sleeping in the outer room, had heard not the slightest sound.

She had simply slipped away quietly, in plain white robes and plain cotton socks, without a trace of worldly dust upon her, lying on her sandalwood meditation bed, her brow and eyes serene, as though she were only taking her midday rest, and any careless movement might rouse her.

“The Princess had never stayed up so late — well into the evening she stood in the courtyard for a good while, gazing south with a distant expression. Returning to her room, she chanted sutras for half the night. When I urged her to rest, she said she had to chant the sutra nine full times to pray for the young Princess, and not one time less.” Aunt Xu clutched my mother’s prayer beads with a stunned expression, tears streaming down her face. “The Princess — she knew she was going, didn’t she.”

I sat in silence at my mother’s side, reaching out to smooth a faint crease in the corner of her garment, afraid that my hands might be too heavy and disturb her quiet sleep.

The trials of years had faded the beauty that had once graced a generation, leaving in its place a settled luminosity, transparent as jade, illuminating everyone around her.

My mother was of true golden lineage, born only to live in embroidered halls and jade pavilions, never to be touched by the dust of the common world, unable to carry even half a measure of heaviness or darkness. Perhaps she truly had been an immortal banished to this mortal realm to endure a span of trials, and now at last shed the earthly register and rose in transcendence; perhaps only in a place of pure stillness, free of grudges and desires, free of partings and sorrows, could she find her final refuge.

I gazed quietly at my mother’s serene and holy sleeping face, unable to bring myself to look away, unable to bear leaving her side. Childhood memories drifted to me in abundance — every expression of hers, every gentle call, every gentle admonishment, vivid as though before my eyes. When she was alive, I always found her fussing tiresome and felt too consumed by affairs of all kinds to have the leisure or the heart to accompany her. My mother never complained — even when she looked forward to our visits with longing, she would only wait and watch from a quiet distance, always understanding of our difficulties. I knew she had wanted me to go with her again to Tangquan Palace; I knew she had wanted to go to the imperial mausoleum to pay her respects at the ancestral tombs; I knew she had wanted to see my brother’s children often… All this I knew, yet in the unending press of affairs I had always let it pass, always thinking these things were not urgent, that my mother would be waiting, that she would always be there behind me, waiting for me at any moment… I had never imagined that one day she would suddenly let go and depart, without giving me even the chance to feel remorse.

Dressing her in fresh clothes myself, arranging her garments, combing her hair into its coiffure… When I was small, my mother had done all of this for me, and now I was doing it for her for the last time. Holding the jade comb, my hands shook too badly to lift it; a jade hairpin that had to be placed would not go into her hair. Aunt Xu had long since dissolved into tears. All around came sounds of weeping, yet I alone had no tears to shed — only a vast emptiness remained in my heart.

The bell of Ci’an Temple rang out its long, sustained tones. The summer sun shone, bright and clear, the sky burning white at the horizon.

The tree longs for stillness, yet the wind will not cease. The child would cherish the parent, but the parent is no longer there.

I stood beneath the bodhi tree, looking up to see the leaves stirring in the passing breeze, swaying ceaselessly.

In an instant, an all-encompassing sorrow and loneliness swept over me like a flood.

A’Yue quietly reported that Xiao Qi had arrived in the main hall, and that the noblewomen who had come upon hearing the news were approaching the temple gate. I turned back in grief, saw her red and swollen eyes, and she silently offered me a silk handkerchief to clean my face and tidy my appearance. The restrained sorrow she concealed was nothing like the open weeping of the others around her — which made it all the more genuine and touching. My heart was moved, and I pressed her slender hand warmly, asking her to go and stay with Aunt Xu, who was overcome with grief.

My gaze passed over her shoulder to the end of the long covered walkway, where Xiao Qi strode toward me in dark robes and plain cap, his tall, powerful figure seeming to hold even the burning light behind him at bay.

Suddenly, all the strength went out of me. My legs gave way beneath me and could no longer hold me up. Without a word, he drew me into his arms and held me close with force, his brow and eyes full of deep, aching tenderness.

My father had vanished without a trace; my mother had departed from this world; Zidan had become someone who could only be a stranger to me… Now, apart from my brother, only Xiao Qi remained as the person closest to my heart. Only he was beside me, to lean upon and to lean upon me in return, walking the long and difficult road of this life to its end.

Tears finally burst forth in a torrent. I held onto him with every ounce of strength I had, as one clings to the only piece of driftwood when drowning.