Shen Qingwu pushed into the crowd.

The others followed behind her.

She wanted to shake them off, but on the night of the Lantern Festival, the crowds were a sea of people, and even with her own skills she couldn’t slip away easily — let alone the others managing to keep up.

Such a loud, crowded setting hardly seemed suited to conversation, either.

From the corner of her eye, Shen Qingwu saw Zhang Xingjian following at an unhurried pace behind her.

She quickened her steps —

“Thief!”

Chang Lin suddenly cried out, and Yang Su, walking near him, spotted the thief at the same moment. Chang Lin immediately pushed through the crowd to give chase, and Yang Su, ever the righteous sort, saw the thief weaving nimbly through the crowd and went after him too.

Shen Qingwu glanced back and found her eyes meeting Zhang Xingjian’s.

He said mildly, “Chang Lin is highly skilled, and there are men from the palace guard quietly watching over this area besides. The thief won’t get far. General Shen needn’t worry.”

Shen Qingwu thought: did I ask you? What does it matter to me whether they catch the thief or not?

She turned and kept walking.

After the conversation with Shen Zhuo and Shen Qingye that night, Shen Qingwu’s mood on seeing Zhang Xingjian now was hardly a pleasant one. She walked briskly, wanting only to leave him behind.

But the crowds were simply too thick; jostled shoulder to shoulder, Shen Qingwu had no choice but to accept the fate of walking alongside Zhang Xingjian — she could hardly go shoving through the crowd like some fugitive, the way Yang Su had chasing the thief.

Why should she flee, anyway?

She had her own business to attend to.

The lantern-light fell in layer upon layer.

Shadow lanterns, exquisitely made, rose and fell without end. Some were shaped into scenes from folk legends — Chang’e flying to the moon, the magpie bridge reunion; others formed mountains, seas, pavilions, and pools out of different lanterns, with cascades falling a thousand feet. Some were shaped like flowers or leaves, others like stars or the moon, all finely wrought and dazzling, drifting as though in flight.

There was also the sound of singing and music, acrobatic performances, lantern riddles.

The crowds passing by included fine ladies and gentlemen of the capital, as well as singing girls and dancers.

Zhang Xingjian and Shen Qingwu had no particular wish to walk together, but the crowd pressed them along, their robes brushing against each other, until, without quite meaning to, the two of them found themselves walking side by side, carried along slowly by the flow of people.

Amid the thick mingled scent of rouge and sweat, Shen Qingwu caught the faint scent drifting from the young lord behind her.

Clean, cold.

Like moonlight through shadow, like pine trees in winter.

It was a scent she’d caught once before, that night in the cluttered storeroom.

Without quite meaning to, she glanced back, and found Zhang Xingjian already watching her.

He gave her a small smile, mild and detached, no different from the smile he gave anyone else.

Zhang Xingjian’s voice was clear and even, carrying that particular elegance bred over years into sons of great families. “General Shen, there’s a matter I’d like to discuss with you. At the Princess’s banquet, I happened to… become acquainted with a certain woman.”

He paused. “Afterward, a misunderstanding arose between us. When General Shen was investigating the Zhang family, and teasing me about it, I noticed the jade pendant you wear — it closely resembles one I once saw before.

“I wonder if General Shen might allow me a closer look at that pendant?”

Shen Qingwu’s face gave nothing away, her heartbeat steady.

But inwardly, suspicion stirred: the jade pendant?

Zhang Xingjian went on, “General Shen presumably knows nothing of what happened at the Princess’s banquet, and presumably has no wish to be entangled in any of it. I hope the General will do me the courtesy of letting me examine that pendant once more, so this misunderstanding can be cleared up.”

If Shen Qingwu truly knew nothing of what had happened at the Princess’s banquet, she would have had no idea what he was talking about.

As it happened, she understood perfectly well.

But she had never once intended to admit it — he had no proof, after all.

Shen Qingwu touched the jade pendant hidden at her chest: could he possibly recognize her by the pendant alone? And even if he did — so what? Would he simply warn her again, as he had three years ago, to keep her distance from him, and give her cause to stab him again?

None of it interested her in the least.

So she said nothing.

Zhang Xingjian said, “I’m prepared to make General Shen an exchange. Whatever condition you name, I’ll do my best to meet it.”

But Shen Qingwu had no condition she wanted from him.

After that night, she’d lost some of her interest in reaching for that moon at all — having kissed him, wanting more of him now felt like something she oughtn’t allow herself.

Shen Qingwu kept her silence, and heard Zhang Xingjian let out a soft sigh behind her. She found herself curious about his mood — after saying all that, he hadn’t gone on chattering the way Chang Lin had. He’d simply gone quiet, made no further sound, only stayed close beside her, hemmed in by the crowd.

She glanced back at him.

She caught, in his eyes, a look of gentle, helpless amusement, his eyes clear as starlight.

Something skipped in Shen Qingwu’s chest, for no particular reason, and her guarded mood eased along with it, the tension in her eyes loosening.

She thought: what did it matter — there was nothing Zhang Xingjian could really do to her.

…This strange, forced way of walking alongside him left Shen Qingwu’s mood, bit by bit, growing lighter, almost pleased.

Amid the churning crowd, a distant melody drifted toward her, fading in and out. Shen Qingwu strained to catch the words, but her limited education left her only able to make out fragments — something about “mirror flowers, water moon,” something about “scorching my youth.”

The lantern-light played over the surface of the Bian River, and the tune was lovely.

Zhang Xingjian and Shen Qingwu walked on in silence, side by side, neither too close nor too far, neither warm nor cold. To onlookers, the woman’s face stayed perpetually cold, the young lord’s manner perpetually distant — and yet some strange air between them made it seem, somehow, as though the two of them belonged together after all.

The lantern-light fell over them, lonely and cool, quiet and, strangely, in harmony.

Saying nothing, somehow, felt more meaningful than speaking would have.

When Zhang Xingjian came back to himself, he found they had stopped outside a blacksmith’s shop.

On the night of the Lantern Festival, with everyone out watching the lanterns, few customers came by the blacksmith’s. Zhang Xingjian had only ended up here because Shen Qingwu had stopped in front of it, carried along by the crowd.

He watched Shen Qingwu stand before the smith, speaking with him. She glanced back at him, pointed at him, and said a few words; the smith nodded eagerly.

Zhang Xingjian caught phrases like “that kind of bearing,” “very good-looking,” “quite imposing.”

He stood silent for a moment, then walked over. As he approached, the smith glanced at him with open admiration, then disappeared into the shop to fetch something.

Zhang Xingjian asked Shen Qingwu, “Are you buying a weapon?”

He asked quietly, “For whom?”

His words didn’t seem to interest Shen Qingwu enough to answer. She kept her head bowed, studying the finished weapons in the shop with serious focus, her eyes never once turning to him.

Zhang Xingjian said, exasperated, “Do you truly not intend to say a single word to me?”

The smith emerged from the shop, holding up a sword. Three feet of blue-tinged steel, colder than moonlight.

The smith declared proudly, “This is the very sword the young lady commissioned me to make — sharpened exactly to her specifications. It’s the finest, most expensive sword I have. It’ll suit this young lord perfectly.”

He said to Zhang Xingjian, “You’re a lucky man, young master. This young lady’s been coming by for five days now to have this sword made, offering all sorts of exacting advice — clearly someone who knows her craft. With your bearing and looks, young master, I’d wager there’s nowhere in the eastern capital outside the palace itself that could produce a sword this fine.”

Zhang Xingjian froze, glancing at Shen Qingwu.

His heart skipped, slowing for a moment: she’d had a weapon forged for him? Meant to give him a sword?

Why?

…Was it simply meant as a gift — or was it mockery, a jab at his lack of martial skill, at how easily she could best him in a fight?

But then again, talent like hers for the martial arts was rare in this world — perhaps rare in any world.

Zhang Xingjian watched as Shen Qingwu took the sword and, with a simple, effortless flourish, spun it once in her hand — nothing like the showy flourishes ordinary people liked to perform. The blade turned lightly at her wrist, sharp and brilliant as a rainbow.

She flicked the flat of the blade, satisfied with the ring of it.

She lifted the sword, turned, and held it out to Zhang Xingjian.

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

His heart pounded hard, and he stared straight at her, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Seeing him not take it, Shen Qingwu gave him a casual glance and pushed the sword an inch closer.

Zhang Xingjian looked at her. “Do you know what it means to give a man a gift on the Lantern Festival?”

Shen Qingwu had no idea what he meant.

Since he wouldn’t take it, she didn’t press the matter. He was only ever meant as a reference point, after all. Sword in hand, she walked a slow circle around him, measuring the blade against his frame.

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes, his jaw set tight.

As she circled him, his whole body went rigid, the hand hidden in his sleeve trembling faintly. A thousand thoughts raced through his mind, his eyes fixed only on her, and he had no idea what to do —

How could he possibly accept a gift from her?

How could he possibly let her believe he’d allow her feelings to go anywhere?

He should be doing everything in his power to hint that she rein in her heart, to draw a clear line between the two of them, to give Shen Qingwu no room for any misunderstanding at all.

This was territory Zhang Xingjian ought to have navigated with ease — and yet, in this moment, the words simply wouldn’t come. He made excuses to himself for his hesitation: tonight he needed something from her, needed to ask about the jade pendant. If he turned her away coldly now and spoiled her mood, she’d be gone by tomorrow, and he’d lose his only chance to learn the truth.

The next chance to see her again might not come until this time next year.

Zhang Xingjian hesitated, torn between one thought and the next. His lashes fluttered, a restless light swimming in his eyes, sweat gathering in his palms.

Slowly, he reached out to take the sword she offered, already searching for some words of praise for her gift… He told himself Shen Qingwu was simply naive, that she likely had no idea what it meant to give a man a gift on this particular festival.

His fair, pale fingers were nearly at the hilt.

Shen Qingwu drew the sword back.

She said, “A fine sword.”

She turned to the smith, satisfied. “Bring the scabbard. Wrap it up well for me.”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

The smith said happily, “Right away.”

As Shen Qingwu handed the sword back to the smith, she glanced at Zhang Xingjian in mild surprise, not understanding what he’d meant by reaching out like that.

Zhang Xingjian slowly withdrew his hand, watching her in silence, his eyes deep as the sea, faintly reproachful.

Shen Qingwu: …She had no idea what that look meant.

She watched the smith wrap the sword and instructed him to deliver it to the post-house the next day. She had no intention of carrying it off herself; she said, with unusual care, “I’m afraid I might damage it.”

The smith hastened to reassure her. “A sword from my shop will never break, I promise you that!”

Shen Qingwu didn’t believe him for a moment, but couldn’t be bothered to argue.

Having finished the one thing she’d truly come out to do tonight, she felt a great deal lighter. Walking back into the crowd, her face, lit by the lantern-light, seemed brighter, more vivid than before.

Zhang Xingjian suddenly spoke. “You went to the trouble of commissioning a sword specifically as a gift for someone. But that someone isn’t me.”

His manner remained as composed as ever, and Shen Qingwu couldn’t catch the faint unsteadiness in his voice. “Allow me to guess — this person you mean to gift it to must be similar to me in build, in bearing. You measured the sword against me to see if the gift would suit him. You must care for him a great deal.”

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes and smiled. “Truly… my congratulations to General Shen, on finding a fine match, a partner for life.”

What was this, “finding a fine match”…

Tonight, it seemed everyone had suddenly taken an interest in her private feelings. She’d already said more than enough on the matter to Shen Zhuo and Shen Qingye — she had no intention of saying anything further to Zhang Xingjian.

She simply wondered, with a touch of spite, whether he was fishing for an invitation to her wedding feast.

As if.

Even if she truly did marry someday, she would never, under any circumstances, invite him.