“Going to prepare different clothes now would waste too much time,” Du Lai patiently persuaded her. “Miaoxue, you can do this — it’s actually very simple. All you need to do is try your best to memorize everything you see in there, and then come back out and describe it all to us. That’s it.”

“No! I’m not going in alone!” Fu Miaoxue held her ground. “How much time could getting changed really waste? Can’t you go steal a few black outfits from somewhere nearby? All the villagers have run off to attend the funeral anyway — there’s definitely no one home!”

That was… actually a fairly reasonable point.

Bai Youwei thought it over, unfastened her camel-colored shawl, and said: “Let me go in with her. You two go look around nearby — if you can manage to change into proper mourning clothes and join us for the condolence call, all the better.”

“Then it’s settled.” Shen Mo took her shawl, and together with Du Lai turned and headed off.

Without the shawl, Bai Youwei immediately felt the autumn chill. But then she glanced at the two men walking away with their exposed arms and legs, and decided that her own constitution still left something to be desired.

Fu Miaoxue steeled herself and went in with Bai Youwei.

Inside, the weeping was louder.

The village head’s home was less refined than the old scholar’s residence — just a simple enclosed courtyard. Past the gate was a square yard, and straight ahead, to the left, and to the right stood three large blue-brick, tiled-roof rooms. The sons and their wives lived on either side; the village head and his wife lived in the main room.

The coffin was placed in the central hall straight ahead.

Inside, some people wept, some chanted, some burned paper offerings, some lit incense — it was a lively, bustling scene.

The woman known as Ma-shi looked to be in her fifties or sixties. She wore mourning cloth on her head and sat vacantly beside the coffin, looking dazed and senseless. The whole room was full of people crying and wailing, but this old woman alone shed no tears — she seemed to have been so shocked by the sudden change that her mind had gone blank.

Bai Youwei and Fu Miaoxue heard mourning guests conversing in hushed tones:

“The way Ma-shi looks, I’m afraid she won’t last long either.”

“That’s right. It was the same with Li-shi — first her husband was beheaded, and not long after, she followed him.”

Li-shi?

The first line of the clue the investigator had provided was: *A woman named Li-shi…*

Something stirred in Bai Youwei’s heart. She immediately leaned over and asked: “Was Li-shi also beheaded?”

The guest who had spoken replied: “How could that be? The one who was beheaded was Li the Scabhead. Li-shi fell into a stupor — after her husband died, she stopped eating and drinking, so of course she didn’t last long. Look, just like Ma-shi right now.”

As he spoke, they watched Ma-shi’s daughter-in-law bring her a bowl of water and touch it to her lips, but Ma-shi didn’t even know to open her mouth — she just stared blankly at the coffin in a daze.

The villagers who had come to pay their respects all sighed and shook their heads at the sight.

“Ma-shi won’t pull through…” was what many of them said.

At that moment, the village head’s son asked: “Has Father’s rice offering been prepared?”

The woman who had been trying to give Ma-shi water set down the bowl and replied: “It’s been prepared.”

— In ancient times, after a person passed away, something was customarily placed in their mouth. This was called the *rice offering*, and in some places it was known as *tongue pressing*. Wealthy families used gold beads or jade; the poor used cooked rice, the idea being that the deceased would not go hungry or suffer cold on the road to the underworld.

The daughter-in-law scooped half a spoonful of white rice — about a mouthful — pressed it tightly into the spoon, and handed it to the son. The son bowed toward the coffin and said: “Father, your son is giving you your rice offering.”

With that, he reached out to pinch the village head’s jaw and bring the white rice to his lips.

But the old man’s mouth was clenched shut. No matter how he pressed, it would not open.

The son wept: “Father! Please open your mouth — so you won’t go hungry and cold on the road to the underworld!”

He increased the force in his hands, pressing the spoon hard against the old man’s lips to pry them open — but he used too much strength, and the old man’s head rolled loose, knocked flying by the force, flying right out of the coffin!

It landed squarely in front of Ma-shi!

—