The ritual officials chanted their proclamations in high voices from within the procession’s column. The seemingly endless caravan of carriages and horses at last began to move slowly forward.

Xiao Nanhui nimbly swung herself onto her horse and urged Jixiang to keep close to the Emperor’s carriage, sneaking glances inside.

The entire Imperial carriage had but one driver: blue-robed, long sword at his side, expression impassive — none other than Ding Weixiang.

Ding Weixiang kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, not looking to either side. Yet his peripheral vision seemed to have hooks in it.

“Xiao Canjun, you are too close.”

Snitch.

Xiao Nanhui pressed her lips together and moved a bit farther away.

Just then, some movement came from behind the carriage’s heavy brocade curtain, and it was pushed open half a crack from within.

Su Wei leaned slightly toward Ding Weixiang and said something in a low voice.

Xiao Nanhui was just about to lean in eagerly — when she caught sight of the person sitting inside the carriage beside him, and the smile on her face nearly collapsed in an instant.

She should have realized — who would ride alone in such a large carriage?

Cloud-coiled hair, fragrant shadow, dark brows, and crimson lips: the one sitting beside Su Wei was none other than Cui Xingyao, the Gentle Consort newly elevated for her act of saving the Emperor.

Before she’d even finished being upset over that, the escort on the left — who had been nowhere to be seen until now — also rode up on horseback. At that, Xiao Nanhui’s expression grew even more unpleasant.

She had calculated a thousand possibilities but had failed to calculate that the Emperor would reassign Xu Shu from the position of Guard Commander to serve as the left escort. She didn’t believe the Emperor was unaware of the grievances and entanglements between herself and Xu Shu — she could only conclude that the other party had done this deliberately, and in her heart she cursed this Zhongli old scoundrel a full hundred and eighty rounds.

Then she thought of how just the other day she had still been holding the other man’s hand and saying some embarrassing thing like “see you later” — and how she had just now been gazing rather admiringly at that face with a flutter of the heart. Xiao Nanhui felt she could have cheerfully chopped off her own disobedient, wildly misdirected head.

She always forgot that the other person was the Emperor. She supposed that he liked her and she liked him, and that things would therefore develop in a pleasant direction.

Yet reality had given her a hard slap across the face.

On the other side, Xu Shu’s expression was also not good.

He knew who was sitting beside the Emperor inside that carriage.

Ever since Cui Xingyao had been selected to enter the palace, he had been praying every day that the Emperor would forget this person’s existence.

In truth, by the usual pattern, the Emperor would at most keep a person in the palace for ten days or half a month before sending them out again. Cui Xingyao leaving the palace was only a matter of time. But who could have known that things would develop so far beyond what he’d anticipated — and since the Jiaosong Ceremony, Cui Xingyao appeared to have been exceptionally favored, having already moved into the Chengzhao Palace nearest to the Yuanhe Hall, and now following the Imperial carriage to the spring hunt, with every appearance of a phoenix rising to nest in the wutong tree.

Xiao Nanhui naturally noticed Xu Shu’s expression, and glancing at the silhouette behind the carriage curtain, she suddenly recalled this business as well.

Here she was on this side, wistfully thinking of the man inside the carriage. Xu Shu was on the other side, wistfully thinking of the woman inside the carriage.

Well then. Misery loves company.

With that thought, Xiao Nanhui’s heart suddenly felt more balanced. She tightened her legs, and Jixiang quickened its pace and moved forward, putting a few body lengths between them and Xu Shu. It didn’t like the white horse under Xu Shu’s backside either — it found that all-one-color coat hideous.

They had traveled a few li out of the city when the sky to the distance grew overcast.

Late spring was the season of much rain.

But the clouds gathering at the horizon now — they looked as large as half the sky.

A thick, damp, muggy smell began to rise in the air, laced with the scent of damp earth, making it difficult to breathe.

The horizon in the distance had turned a dull, hazy grey. A lone figure on horseback appeared there, riding from far away, heading straight for the caravan on the road.

Ding Weixiang was alert at once. He narrowed his eyes for a look, then relaxed, sending a silent signal to the Black Feather soldiers lurking in concealment. The sound of bowstrings being drawn taut vanished abruptly.

After perhaps the time to drink half a cup of tea, the figure drew near. Xiao Nanhui was startled to recognize the face — it was A’Qiu, the household servant she had encountered on her visit to the Mei family’s residence.

A’Qiu was clearly making straight for her. Observing propriety, she waited at a distance of several dozen steps away.

Xiao Nanhui understood and urged her horse forward. Before she could even offer a polite inquiry, the other party had already spoken, concise and direct:

“Miss Xiao, my young master wishes me to pass on a message. He is waiting for you at Liwang Pavilion, three li ahead.”

Xiao Nanhui was momentarily confused before realizing that the “young master” referred to was Su Pingchuan. This was somewhat unexpected.

Liwang Pavilion stood not far from the official road the caravan was traveling. Going and returning wouldn’t take much time. Even so, the caravan would not possibly stop and wait for her on account of one person falling behind.

“May I ask what matter is so urgent, sir? I am on duty, and time is short — at most I can spare a little more than the time to drink one cup of tea.”

“That will be enough.” A’Qiu gave a deep bow from horseback. “Many thanks, Miss. I shall go and report back at once.”

With those words, A’Qiu neatly wheeled his horse and left.

Xiao Nanhui hesitated for a moment, then reluctantly dragged herself over to the carriage.

Ding Weixiang shot her a sidelong glance and let out a heavy, pointed cough.

Xiao Nanhui pretended not to hear, and with no shame whatsoever addressed the person inside the carriage directly:

“Your Majesty, the Left General says he has an urgent matter to discuss with this subject—”

“Go.”

She hadn’t even finished speaking when the person inside gave his reply.

He spoke without any particular emotion at the best of times — and this was only two words, so she had no way whatsoever of telling whether his tone held displeasure or anything else.

He agreed so readily — which only made her overthink it.

Xiao Nanhui cursed inwardly and said, half-begrudgingly:

“Then this subject will go and return quickly.”

She wheeled her horse and gave a light call. Jixiang left the caravan and headed toward the hazy slope of earth not far away.

Ding Weixiang, who had been staring straight ahead, caught a glimpse of that retreating figure from the corner of his eye, and his brow creased slightly.

“Your Majesty, it is against protocol to stray from the caravan during a march.”

The voice from inside the carriage came back, unhurried as ever:

“It doesn’t matter. Let her go.”

Ding Weixiang clearly disagreed.

“Why did Your Majesty not ask what she is going for? What business is it that must be discussed at this very moment? And how long will this discussion take?”

It was a while before any sound came again from inside the carriage:

“The Xuanyuan Prince’s Mansion has had many complications of late. The Left General will no doubt have little free time going forward. Since another meeting is uncertain, why begrudge the light that remains in this moment?”

Ding Weixiang finally fell silent.

In the distance, that figure had grown smaller and smaller, blurred and indistinct — as though about to disappear into that murky yellow line of the horizon.

Liwang Ancient Pavilion had once been a watchtower from which lookout fires were signaled. Years of wind and rain had left its four stone pillars mottled and worn. The walls on both sides had crumbled, leaving only a solitary stone pavilion standing on a slope of earth — visible the moment one crossed into the outskirts, with just a lift of one’s eyes.

Xiao Nanhui rode along the small path at full gallop, her horse’s hooves kicking up dust that rose in a thin trail of smoke behind her.

The dark mass of clouds ahead had drawn nearer. The last breath of wind in the air disappeared. The surroundings had fallen into the stillness before a downpour.

She rode at full speed to the foot of the pavilion, swung down from the saddle, and found Su Pingchuan standing with his back to her inside, as though he had been standing there a long while already.

He had not worn armor today — only the simplest, plainest light cloth robe.

She was used to seeing him in his heavy Guangyao armor. Seeing him standing there now, she realized he still had the build of a youth — the wind lifted the fabric of his robe and traced the silhouette beneath, which was very lean.

She cleared her throat to announce her presence and walked slowly forward.

“What did younger brother Pingchuan want to see me about? The Emperor’s carriage will soon be too far ahead. Let’s make it brief.”

Su Pingchuan did not turn around. He stood as he was, back straight, head still bowed.

“That day you told me we would drink together after the war. You still haven’t made good on that promise. Will you keep your word?”

Xiao Nanhui drifted for a moment before vaguely recalling that she seemed to have said something like that to him before the ambush in Bijiang when she first learned of Bai Yun’s existence.

At that time she had just discovered Bai Yun’s existence, and things had piled in on her one after another — she’d had no peace of mind to drink with him.

Those events had passed only a few months ago, yet somehow it felt like years.

She pressed her lips, then nodded: “I’ll keep it.”

He finally raised his head and turned around. He gestured toward the stone chairs beside the stone table in the pavilion, indicating they should sit.

Only then did Xiao Nanhui notice — it had been just a few days since the family banquet, and he seemed to have lost much more weight. His complexion was off as well.

Su Pingchuan picked up the only wine vessel on the stone table and poured two cups, and for a moment said nothing.

The oppressive air had stilled. The atmosphere around them was damp and heavy, like a soaked blanket draped over one’s body — even breathing felt labored.

She let out a sigh, already half-guessing what he was finding difficult to bring up.

“If you’re here because of Madam Bo’s affair, there is truly no need to blame yourself. Knowing you as I do, I know of course that matter had nothing to do with you. And besides — I came to no harm. You should set your mind at ease.”

She knew his difficulty. She had wanted to say a few more words of comfort, but as the words reached her lips she thought of what the Emperor had said that day, and felt she had no standing to pity someone who had been born a prince in a prince’s household. She could only give a self-deprecating smile.

Su Pingchuan, however, was uncharacteristically somber.

She had never seen him like this. His bloodshot eyes were fixed on her without blinking, pain and resentment moving through his brow. The chin he usually carried high had sprouted a faint layer of pale stubble, which cast a shadow of haggard sorrow over that young face.

“You know this, don’t you? She was brought into the household by my father before my mother passed.”

She? Madam Bo?

“For her to gain entry, she must have had her methods. My mother was open-natured by temperament — she saw through that woman’s schemes and kept largely clear of her. But I was still young at the time and didn’t understand many things. I even grew close to her for a while. Mother knew, but never once reproached me for it. She nursed her own quiet grief and never showed it to anyone outside. That was her pride — and the very thing that gave others the hold to exploit and humiliate her.”

Xiao Nanhui was silent.

Even though the one who departed first was Mei Ruogu, Madam Bo had lost far more in the end.

She did not find Mei Ruogu’s life a sad one. She even envied her, a little.

Everything she knew of Mei Ruogu had come through others. But she was willing to believe that the truest shape of the woman who lived in those others’ memories was real.

She had been gone a very long time. Yet people still held her in their thoughts. Like the Reflected Water Winter Plum — even long after it had fallen from the branch, its fragrance still lingered in the air, undispersed.

“I once swore that I would never allow the woman I married to suffer the same grief and sorrow my mother did. I always thought that as long as I swore hard enough, I would certainly be able to keep it. But only after growing up did I understand — all of that was just consolation I told myself.”

Su Pingchuan’s tone was so grave, and the depth of feeling in his eyes so intense, that she could not bring herself to meet it.

She was not oblivious. She could hear what lay behind those words. And by now she had no desire to play oblivious.

“I don’t actually blame you.” She licked her lips. Xiao Nanhui gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Why don’t you consider us even? That time in the western passes, I yanked your robes apart — we’re square.”

At the mention of the past, a brief warmth flickered across Su Pingchuan’s face.

That was deep autumn in Bijiang. He had been captured in battle and held in that crudely thatched makeshift prison, two dirty steamed buns stuffed in his mouth, eyes red with fury as the woman pried open his collar.

She had told him to live well. She had said that being alive mattered more than anything.

He had thought about those words for a long time afterward. They had carried him all the way out of Bijiang. Perhaps in the future they would carry him even farther.

So — perhaps human memory really does warp and change over time?

How else could what was clearly a cold and hungry night feel, when he thought back on it now, warm and deeply satisfying?

Su Pingchuan’s gaze settled on the iron band half-visible at the woman’s wrist. The smile that had barely touched the corner of his mouth finally faded slowly away.

The memories between himself and her were — perhaps — only these.

From now on, to his last breath, he would have only these memories to live by.

When his father had sent men to hold him in the courtyard adjacent to the Painting Residence that day — until she had left the mansion before releasing him — he had understood: there was no possibility of any future between himself and her.

Even this final meeting today, he had arranged only by appealing to his maternal grandfather for help, and only then had he been allowed out of the mansion.

He didn’t know why he had let it slip away. But he had long since come to realize what it was he had let slip away.

Thunder rolled faintly from far across the horizon, blending with the heavy thudding of his heart into a single dull ache.

Once I heard the meaning of farewell, I thought I might become a wanderer at the ends of the earth.

Now I know the bitterness of parting, and I cannot find the one I seek even in my dreams.

Su Pingchuan held her gaze for one last long moment, then spoke word by deliberate word:

“My mother once said: in a person’s life, there must be certain words that are truly meant — words that, once spoken, cannot be easily taken back.”

Xiao Nanhui was stunned. After a moment she opened her mouth.

“What is it you want to say to me?”

I want to tell you that I like you.

I want to tell you that I would take good care of you. Will you be my wife?

But in the end he could not say any of those things aloud. Because in the end he could not make them true.

Su Pingchuan slowly lifted the wine vessel from the table and poured two cups.

The clear Yun leaf wine spilled a few drops — perhaps because the hand holding the cup trembled slightly, or perhaps only because the cup had been filled too full.

“From this day forward, Su Pingchuan and Xiao Nanhui will never meet in private again. If you are still Right General, you and I will fight side by side. If you enter those palace walls, you and I will observe the proper rites of sovereign and minister.”

This was said for her — and for himself.

When he finished, he took up one of the cups and drained it in one swallow. The instant he set the cup down he was already on his feet. His gaze left her face, and he never found the courage to raise his eyes and look at her once more.

“From now on, do not call me Pingchuan anymore. As at the very beginning — call me Left General.”

The moment those words fell, the first drop of rain also fell upon this muddy earth.

Then the second, the third — drops became threads, threads merged into curtains. In an instant the rain thickened, connecting heaven and earth in a seamless bridge, declaring that the waters of a hundred rivers all descend from the sky.

Su Pingchuan’s words were swallowed up in the clatter of the rain. When he had finished that one sentence, he turned and plunged headlong into the curtain of rain.

The sound of hooves grew distant. Another roll of thunder came rumbling across.

Xiao Nanhui sat at the center of the pavilion, staring in a daze at the direction where that figure had gone, before slowly standing at last, her thoughts yet unformed.

Jixiang shifted its hooves restlessly in the rain. She walked up and took hold of it — and only then did she suddenly notice: hanging from the saddle was a branch of plum, already deep green with leaves.

There would be no plum blossoms in this season. There was only green growth indistinguishable from any other plant.

Su Pingchuan had once said he would personally pick the Reflected Water Winter Plum for Xiao Nanhui.

He always kept his promises.

But by the time he could make good on this promise, the plum blossoms had already fallen. And by the time next year’s plum blossoms bloomed again, she would no longer be by his side.

The heart remains as it was; surrendered to the flow of a hundred rivers.