After the lantern tower collapsed, fire broke out, burning many shops; hawkers were terrified, women and children wept in fear.

Officials who had been mingling with the crowd in plain clothes to help evacuate people now revealed their identities, emerging from cover to fight the flames and account for the injured. Thanks to Zhang Xingjian and the others’ advance preparations, no civilians died in the lantern tower’s collapse—a stroke of great fortune.

Thoroughly frightened, the people, once calmed and counted by officials, had lost much of their enthusiasm for viewing the lanterns, and curiously asked who had saved them all—

“It was Vice Minister Zhang… the Zhang family’s third son, Zhang Xingjian!”

“I think there was also a female general, the only one—not sure if her surname was Shen or Wu…”

“I saw other generals too! That female general probably just helped out. It was really Vice Minister Zhang and the other gentlemen looking out for us…”

As was only natural, people assumed a female general would necessarily receive some special consideration. Since women and men differed in physical strength, even if the female general had helped, she’d probably only run errands or passed along messages. The real credit, surely, belonged to Zhang Xingjian, who’d devised the strategy, and to Yang Su and the other military officers, still running back and forth through the crowd, tallying the injured alongside the officials.

Shen Qingwu listened to all this in silence.

She’d always been a woman of few words, long accustomed to the world’s indifference and dismissal of her, and besides, the pain in her shoulder and arm left her no energy to spare worrying about anything else. While Yang Su and the other officials calmed the crowd, Shen Qingwu simply found an empty, narrow alley, closed her eyes, and worked to steady her breathing.

Her face, covered in cold sweat, was buried between her knees; she waited quietly for the pain to ease, or for the crowd to thin enough that she’d have the strength to leave and head back to the post station.

The sound of light, unhurried footsteps made her look up warily.

Something shifted in Shen Qingwu’s eyes—silent, startled—as she watched Zhang Xingjian approach, a jar of medicinal ointment in hand.

She recalled how, after they’d both been pulled out from under the umbrella wreckage, Zhang Xingjian had immediately been surrounded and pulled away by Chang Lin to have his wounds treated. Shen Qingwu remembered that, to keep her from being struck by the falling umbrellas again, Zhang Xingjian had taken the brunt of the impact himself.

She’d estimated the force of an entire umbrella shop’s worth of umbrellas crashing down—she herself would likely suffer some internal injury from it.

Someone as delicately built as Zhang Xingjian was probably hurt badly.

And yet this badly injured man still wore his usual calm, distant smile as he walked slowly toward her.

Shen Qingwu turned her head away: was he truly that good at pretending, or had he simply lost all sensation? She’d seen him react to external stimuli several times now, and his response was always the same—perfectly composed, showing no pain, no distress.

Even… that night in the storeroom during the princess’s banquet, his response could hardly be called passionate.

…Perhaps he really was a cold moon by nature.

That naturally cold moon, carrying his own distinct presence, crouched down beside Shen Qingwu, smiling faintly: “What’s wrong? Said one sentence and now you’re done acknowledging me?”

Shen Qingwu kept her eyes lowered.

Zhang Xingjian smiled helplessly: “Never mind, I won’t push you. Give me your hand—let me treat it. Thank you, General Shen, for saving the lives of Dongjing’s people tonight.”

He said, “Tomorrow I’ll issue an official gazette. The officials will all know it was you who saved them. Once the officials know, the common people will know too.”

Shen Qingwu’s head shot up, staring at him in shock.

Zhang Xingjian’s lowered lashes were thick and long, the light in his eyes calm and gentle; he showed her a patience he rarely showed anyone: “No need to look so surprised. This is what you’ve earned—it’s not some special favor from me. Why would I deprive you of something that’s rightfully yours?”

In his heart, he thought: Shen Qingwu had likely been overlooked for so many years that she now reacted with shock to something that should have been perfectly ordinary.

Shen Qingwu, meanwhile, was thinking: did the moon look upon everyone fairly? Not only the powerful and prominent—did he also see the street beggars, the people who might have been crushed beneath the lantern tower, the ones hiding away, forgotten… Shen Qingwu?

Zhang Xingjian spoke again: “Your hand.”

Shen Qingwu looked at him coldly.

They stared at each other for a long moment before Shen Qingwu hesitantly held out her hand. Zhang Xingjian saw the dense web of blood marks across her palm, the torn, scraped skin.

She said nothing. His lashes trembled faintly.

His expression remained calm as he took out the ointment, one hand politely wiping the dirt from her hand with a cloth, rinsing it with water, the other slowly working the ointment into her palm, massaging it in gently.

His long fingers and the cold ointment touched her palm; Shen Qingwu’s hand curled slightly, as though about to pull back and retreat.

Her eyes were very cold.

Zhang Xingjian: “Hm? Am I pressing too hard?”

He said softly, “I’ll try to be gentler… General Shen surely isn’t looking at me like she wants to kill me, is she?”

Shen Qingwu thought, no.

It was an itch in her chest.

It was that no one had ever done this for her before.

It was… maybe she really did want to kill him a little.

If she killed him, perhaps all the tangled resentment, the unwillingness, the displeasure she couldn’t quite untangle in her heart would simply vanish.

Outside the alley, the voices of officials and civilians rose and fell; across the Bian River, the slow, lingering strains of music still drifted in the air. In the alley, only the two of them remained—the woman sitting against the wall, the young man crouched before her, head bowed as he tended to her wound.

They could hear each other breathing.

Close enough.

Just like that one time… when they’d been pressed together, exchanging breath, tangled in intimacy.

Shen Qingwu’s jaw tightened slightly as she watched him: he surely didn’t know that the person that night had been her.

As Zhang Xingjian finished treating her hand, hesitating for a moment, he heard Shen Qingwu speak her second sentence of the night: “My arm’s hurt too.”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyelids trembled faintly as he looked up at her.

Shen Qingwu rolled up her sleeve; he genuinely couldn’t tell where the injury was. Her arm bore many scars, but they were all old wounds. She said, “I braced that wooden pole with my arm.”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes narrowed slightly.

He said, “You’ve worked hard. All of Dongjing will be grateful to you.”

But Shen Qingwu didn’t care about any of that.

His fingers, coated in cool ointment, massaged her arm. The two remained silent, only their movements bringing them impossibly close, breath rising and falling.

Zhang Xingjian sensed Shen Qingwu watching him the entire time.

He didn’t look up.

He’d decided that once he finished treating her arm, he would leave; since she was so resolutely unmoved, he supposed he’d have to investigate on his own—there was no clue to be gained from her.

The night wind was cold, yet perhaps because she remained silent throughout, he began to notice something strange in the atmosphere.

His mind couldn’t help drifting back to the last time the two of them had been this close… when she’d pinned him down, kissed him.

Zhang Xingjian’s throat moved.

A drop of water fell onto his hand.

He looked up sharply and saw a bead of sweat on Shen Qingwu’s lashes. She was enduring the pain, her dark eyes bright, carrying a faint, bewitching color. The sweat on her lashes hung there like tears.

She stared at him intently—indulge in pleasure, sing loud songs, let it consume my youth. Life was short; she’d never been afraid of anything. She truly wanted to let herself go, just this once, become the villain and simply take what she wanted by force.

Zhang Xingjian abruptly withdrew his hands, stopping the treatment.

Shen Qingwu immediately reached out and caught his wrist.

Shen Qingwu: “My shoulder’s worse. How will you treat that?”

Zhang Xingjian: “…You should find a maid to treat that, not me. General Shen may be a heroine among women, but I am merely a humble, insignificant man—I must still observe propriety.”

Propriety?

What was that supposed to mean?

Was that one of the things that had bound her since childhood, that had gotten her beaten and punished and locked away over and over?

The corner of Shen Qingwu’s mouth curved.

Zhang Xingjian sensed the atmosphere between them had shifted, sensed too the aggression, the pressure radiating from her. Earlier she’d seemed to be recovering, appearing calm and harmless—but now—he found himself distracted, wondering: had he stirred her fighting spirit, woken something dormant in her?

He heard Shen Qingwu laugh softly.

Shen Qingwu said, offhandedly: “Zhang Xingjian, let’s make a trade.”

Zhang Xingjian’s movement to rise stopped short; he didn’t pull his wrist free from her grip either. He heard her say: “A fair trade. You ask me the question you want to ask, I’ll ask you the one I want to ask. Honesty for honesty.”

Zhang Xingjian said gently, “I’m afraid what I’d like is to see the General’s jade pendant again.”

Shen Qingwu: “I have no conditions to add. There’s nothing more I want.”

Zhang Xingjian looked up at her, smiling faintly: “Then consider it a debt I owe you. When the General has thought of what she wants, she can let me know—how does that sound?”

Shen Qingwu, surprised: “You won’t ask what I might make you do? What if you’re unwilling?”

Zhang Xingjian answered: “Nothing in this world is ever certain; a promise made too lightly is rarely kept. I never make promises to others lightly, nor do I ask others for promises. Whether I ask or not, General Shen won’t make things easy for me either way—so why bother asking?”

Shen Qingwu raised an eyebrow, saying nothing.

She reached into her collar and pulled out the jade pendant, tossing it to him. Even knowing this had been his goal, he was still startled by how decisively she’d acted. He glanced at her: she truly didn’t care in the slightest what he intended to do.

Zhang Xingjian lowered his head, studying the pendant now in his hands.

Under the moonlight, he examined it more carefully, more intently than before. He even brushed his fingers lightly along the cord it hung from. The cord was slightly damp—with her sweat.

She’d sweated so much? Was it… from the pain?

Shen Qingwu, indifferent: “Finished looking?”

Zhang Xingjian came back to himself, his fingers tracing over the character “Wu” carved into the jade. This character was, without doubt, the calligraphy Zhang Wenbi had once had him copy while teaching him to read. He’d confirmed it countless times now, and at this moment, with a heavy heart, he finally knew for certain:

Zhang Rong was still alive.

A dead man could not have written the character “Wu” years ago and deliberately given it to Shen Qingwu.

Shen Qingwu watched Zhang Xingjian, memorizing every line of his face: “This jade pendant—does it have something to do with the woman you spoke of at the princess’s banquet? Is it the same pendant?”

Zhang Xingjian smiled, handing the pendant back, denying it in a slip of the tongue: “I was mistaken. The General’s pendant belongs to the General; it’s different from the one I’m looking for. My apologies for the intrusion.”

Shen Qingwu’s eyelids lowered as she looked at the pendant he’d returned.

She gripped her end of the pendant and pulled it back; Zhang Xingjian didn’t let go. Shen Qingwu, eyes lowered, looked at his fingers holding the other end.

She seemed to see, once more, the heavy rain three years ago, Zhang Xingjian telling her he didn’t believe in spoken promises, telling her to stab him, watching him collapse in a pool of blood, the last thing she’d seen of him.

She seemed to smell, too, the sweet, cloying scent in the air, the sound of swallowing, ragged and heavy breathing, and see Zhang Xingjian’s long, pale neck, veins straining, flushed crimson.

She saw, too, the layered shadows of umbrellas, the drifting lantern light, Zhang Xingjian kneeling before her, holding her…

Those images, those emotions, tangled together like vines, surging without end, taking root and sprouting in her heart, determined to break through the surface.

In reality, in the cold wind, Shen Qingwu’s body alternated between hot and cold as she heard Zhang Xingjian ask: “What I’d like to know is—where did the General’s pendant come from? Who gave it to you, and what is your relationship to them?”

Shen Qingwu answered with a question of her own: “Answer mine first—what do you think of me?”

His answer mattered to how she saw him.

Zhang Xingjian froze, looking up at her in confusion.

Shen Qingwu repeated herself: “The moon, high above, adored by all—how does it view the ordinary, insignificant people below, the ones no one ever sees?”

[How do you see me?

Beneath the moonlight, those ordinary wanderers, those travelers who’d left their homes far behind, those misfits who never quite belonged, those who, as women, fought alongside men on the battlefield, striving to carve out something of their own… weren’t they all just part of the endless mass of ordinary humanity?

The unnoticed, the forgotten, the unexpected—are they beneath the notice of those in power?

While the ants scrape by just to survive, people are born into hierarchies of status—is the distance between us absurd, without dignity? How far can someone who is never truly seen ever go?]

She examined, again and again, just what kind of person Zhang Xingjian truly was, how he differed from everyone else. Shen Qingwu couldn’t articulate the genuine confusion in her heart, couldn’t put her true bewilderment into words; she only hoped Zhang Xingjian would understand what she was really asking—after all, he’d understood before.

Zhang Xingjian gazed at her for a long while.

He looked into the dim fire in her eyes, and from that fire saw her stubbornness, her steadiness.

An extraordinary woman always carried burdens of confusion that ordinary women might never face in a lifetime. A woman unwilling to settle for a life of domestic drudgery, unwilling to confine herself within courtyard walls, was born with a soul that shone brightly. She was never ordinary—she only believed herself to be.

The blood in Zhang Xingjian’s chest ran hot, then cold, then hot again. His fingers, still holding his end of the pendant, trembled slightly, beyond his control.

He turned his face aside, escaping, for just an instant, the unwavering, fearless directness of her gaze.

When he turned back, his expression had returned to its usual composed, courteous mask.

He smiled faintly: “General Shen is unrivaled under heaven.”

Shen Qingwu froze for a moment, a flicker of confusion in her eyes.

She listened as Zhang Xingjian showered her with compliments as though they cost him nothing: “Second Young Lady Shen is unrivaled under heaven.

“That Second Young Lady Shen, born a woman, has come this far, speaks to your extraordinary excellence. You’ve reached heights that neither women nor men in this world could ever hope to attain… how could someone as insignificant as myself presume to say otherwise?”

Shen Qingwu watched him without a word.

Zhang Xingjian continued, warm and gentle, offering more pleasing words. Nothing but praise for her excellence, admiration for her courage, insisting no one could compare to her… he was gifted with words, and the same praise, dressed in his phrasing, always sounded graceful and refined.

Where others might have found two or three flaws in her, in his telling, Shen Qingwu had not a single shortcoming. Not only that—every single thing about her was exceptional.

Had Shen Qingwu not known he was speaking of her, she might have thought he was praising some celestial maiden descended from heaven.

Having finished delivering his lofty assessment, Zhang Xingjian waited, smiling, for her to answer his question.

Shen Qingwu answered: “The person who gave me this pendant is alive.”

Zhang Xingjian nodded—this matched exactly what he’d already concluded.

Shen Qingwu continued: “The person who gave me this pendant is the same sex as you.”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

Shen Qingwu: “The person who gave me this pendant, and the person I intend to give a sword to, are one and the same.”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyelid twitched faintly: “…”

The strange, halting way she’d delivered these three statements gave him an uneasy feeling. But knowing Shen Qingwu’s particular temperament, he patiently waited to hear more. Yet after these three sentences, she stopped.

Zhang Xingjian sat stunned.

He looked at her, bewildered.

He saw Shen Qingwu, jaw clenched, watching him with a cold smile.

Shen Qingwu said: “Do I look that easy to fool?”

Zhang Xingjian responded quickly: “What do you mean?”

Sitting against the wall, Shen Qingwu straightened her back, leaning slowly toward him.

His brow twitched faintly, the faint smile on his face stiffening for a moment, but Zhang Sanlang never let his emotions show on his face—he maintained his usual elegant composure, his clear dark eyes carrying a practiced, gentle warmth.

Shen Qingwu’s breath brushed against his face.

He didn’t move.

Shen Qingwu said, unhurried: “I’m a talent beyond compare, one the world will never see the equal of, better than anyone else alive. If I’m truly this good, why did you refuse me back then?”

Zhang Xingjian said softly: “General Shen, one thing has nothing to do with the other. It was I who wasn’t worthy of you…”

Shen Qingwu: “Do I look that easy to fool? You think I’m a fool?

“You speak so sweetly now, praising me with every word, obeying my every whim tonight—and when I ignore you completely, you don’t seem to mind at all… but I remember the Zhang Xingjian I usually know, the one who avoids me like the plague, terrified of any entanglement with me, any misunderstanding that might arise.”

Zhang Xingjian’s pupils constricted slightly.

He smiled: “The General worries too much.”

Shen Qingwu leaned close to his ear: “Whether I worry too much or not, you know perfectly well in your own heart.”

Her warm breath brushed against the tip of his ear; he endured the itch, forcing himself to remain as still as a wooden statue.

Shen Qingwu laughed softly: “I don’t believe a single word of your praise. I said honesty for honesty—since you won’t be honest, I have no reason to give you everything either. You want to know where the pendant came from, what it has to do with me? Figure it out yourself.

“Zhang Xingjian, I’ll take my leave.”

Zhang Xingjian’s head snapped up.

Shen Qingwu rose, her cool martial robe sleeve brushing past the hem of his garment. Her footsteps faded into the distance; he watched her silently. At the mouth of the alley, she turned back, raising an eyebrow at him, loose strands of hair scattered across her cheek, her lips.

There was mischievous playfulness in reclaiming the upper hand, and gleeful satisfaction in watching him squirm.

She glanced back as she walked, her curved lips a vivid red, her eyes bright as stars, brimming with teasing mockery, and thoroughly delighted, thoroughly pleased with herself. Her smile in that moment was strikingly radiant, utterly unlike her usual listless demeanor.

Shen Qingwu, too, was a beauty in her own right.

She simply had no love for adornment, simply lived roughly, simply was nothing at all like her graceful, delicate cousin Shen Qingye.

Zhang Xingjian lowered his eyes, not sparing her another glance. His expression turned cold and distant, the tender, cherishing warmth that had flickered in his eyes vanishing in an instant.

Perhaps the drug really had been that potent, or perhaps teasing Zhang Xingjian genuinely lifted her spirits—Shen Qingwu found the pain in her body seemed to have eased somewhat.

She had the strength now to go find Yang Su and the others, to help them see the people safely home.

The Lantern Festival in Dongjing—when the night watch was lifted and the curfew bells fell silent—continued year after year, the same bustling splendor whether or not Shen Qingwu was present.

Night deepened. Shen Qingwu and the officials finished seeing the crowds off; the streets were nearly empty now. Only then did Yang Su think to ask if she’d been hurt; Shen Qingwu shook her head, saying it was nothing.

As people dispersed, Yang Su went to walk a lost elderly man home. Just as Shen Qingwu prepared to leave and head back to the post station, she crossed paths with Zhang Xingjian once more.

Having finished his duties, with the surrounding officials thinning out, Zhang Xingjian crouched by the Bian River, talking with a beggar.

Shen Qingwu, rounding the corner from the alley, head held high, caught sight of his back, and Chang Lin standing behind him, and found herself inexplicably retreating back into the alley.

Because she’d realized: the beggar Zhang Xingjian was speaking with was the very same old beggar she’d seen him drinking with in the street earlier that evening, before he’d gone to fetch Shen Qingye.

Moonlight like water, tree shadows swaying.

Shen Qingwu leaned against the wall, eavesdropping—

Chang Lin, sensing a presence, coughed softly to alert his master. Zhang Xingjian seemed not to notice, continuing his conversation with the old beggar.

Zhang Xingjian smiled: “Come to see the lanterns too?”

The old beggar grumbled good-naturedly: “Of course! If I hadn’t come, I’d never have known that the little rascal I’ve been drinking with for years is the Zhang family’s third son, the famous Zhang Yuelu.”

The old beggar looked utterly baffled: “How is Zhang Yuelu someone like you?”

Zhang Xingjian: “Oh? How am I not like Zhang Yuelu?”

The old beggar gestured broadly: “The Zhang family’s moon ought to be up there, untouchable, shouldn’t he? Everyone says he’s unreachable, that no one measures up to him… I heard the imperial family wanted to marry into the Zhang family, but the Zhang family refused, choosing a daughter of the Shen family instead. A perfect match, talent and beauty both, a match made in heaven.”

The old beggar looked him up and down: “I’d already noticed you carried yourself differently, like someone raised in a great clan. But in private, in private…”

Zhang Xingjian finished for him: “Utterly disreputable.”

The old beggar roared with laughter.

As they talked, he settled back into the comfortable familiarity between them. However noble and untouchable Zhang Xingjian appeared to the outside world, to him, he was simply an easygoing drinking companion.

They sat and drank together every year.

Sometimes on New Year’s Eve, sometimes on some random festival. The old beggar had no idea what the “moon” of Dongjing was supposed to be like—he much preferred the warm, familiar young friend of noble birth who spent every new year with him.

The old beggar gestured animatedly: “The lantern tower tonight was really something… And I saw you earlier, carrying medicine, going to tend to some young lady’s wounds.”

Zhang Xingjian rubbed his nose, smiling but saying nothing.

The old beggar waggled his eyebrows at him: “That your fiancée? That girl from the Shen family? Pretty thing, isn’t she…”

Zhang Xingjian answered: “No.”

But his honest answer, delivered in such an ordinary tone, only made the old beggar disbelieve him further. The old beggar assumed it was simply the kind of propriety observed by great clans—that even when an unmarried man and woman appeared together in public, certain proprieties had to be maintained, and Zhang Xingjian, for the sake of his fiancée’s reputation, didn’t want anyone recognizing her.

The old beggar asked: “You’re a lucky one, aren’t you, boy. But if I recall right, you two have been engaged a long while now—why haven’t you married her yet? Not worried about wasting her youth? Little friend, do you think poorly of her?”

Zhang Xingjian’s lashes trembled.

He seemed to consider this, taking a long moment before answering: “She’s very good.”

He spoke slowly, as though searching for the right words the whole time:

“Since ancient times, the phoenix tree has carried the meaning of two birds flying wing to wing—but also a meaning of solitude. People have long used it to signify loneliness, a way of expressing solitude. Look up at a phoenix tree, and its blossoms remain there for a thousand, ten thousand years—pitiable, and yet lovely too.

“But in this world, there’s nothing wrong with solitude. Sometimes solitude is simply another word for freedom. The phoenix tree is free to choose its own life, free to walk its own path.

“Since ancient times, women have managed the household, men have managed the outside world. But for a gentle, delicate young man, is fighting out in the world truly a blessing? For a woman of unrestrained spirit, is a lifetime confined within the inner chambers truly good fortune? If she never sees the wide world, never discovers her own gifts, never tests her own potential… what a terrible waste that would be.

“The moon hangs in the sky year after year, but it only ever borrows the sun’s light. The sun, too, must bear the weight of others’ expectations through ten thousand years of shining. Everyone is born different, and yet everyone is the same. We appear unlike one another, and yet we are alike after all. Who says the moon is noble, and who says that those the moonlight never reaches must wither away in darkness?

“Perhaps the moon envies the phoenix tree too—perhaps it wishes it could endure boundless solitude like the phoenix tree does, indifferent to anyone’s gaze or gossip, and simply walk its own path.

“Depending on no one, owing nothing to anyone. Breaking free of the reins of fame, shattering the shackles of gain, leaping free of the cage—answerable to heaven and earth, at peace looking up or down at the world.

“The moon wants to see the phoenix tree—the one that stands unshaken for a thousand years, ten thousand years.”

Leaning against the wall, hidden in the alley, Shen Qingwu gazed up at the vast, brilliant moon overhead, listening to Zhang Xingjian’s words. She could hear the sincerity in his voice.

Unlike the words he’d used to flatter and placate her before.

This was his true, honest view of the phoenix tree.

The winter night stretched long and quiet; in the alley, Shen Qingwu felt her mind drifting, each of his words settling into her heart, remembered word for word. Stirred deeply, she leaned forward slightly, staring at him—

She could never quite untangle her true feelings toward Zhang Xingjian.

Resentful that he hadn’t chosen her back then, yet also aware that not choosing her didn’t necessarily mean he’d been wrong—and yet she still felt a lingering grievance because he hadn’t chosen her.

Sometime after arriving in Dongjing, Shen Qingwu had once believed she’d finally smoothed over the resentment in her heart. She’d kissed him, ignored him—she thought if she could just forget him entirely, the unwilling, unresolved feelings of her youth would finally be over.

But tonight, in this moment, the pounding of her heart made Shen Qingwu understand: Zhang Xingjian had once again lit the flame of her fighting spirit.

Once again, she found herself wanting to have him—and this want now eclipsed the shallow “why not me” of her younger years.

The moon hung in the sky, never quite the same twice.

Now that he’d been seen by her, since she couldn’t reach up and take him, he ought to fall, little by little, down to her.

She wanted to watch him fall. She wanted to see him land in her hands—wanted him, for once, to know what it felt like to be denied.

Shen Qingwu closed her eyes, recalling the empty praise he’d offered her earlier—”General Shen is unrivaled under heaven.”

“Second Young Lady Shen is unrivaled under heaven.”

She thought, nonsense.

But she couldn’t help smiling—hmph, she’d show him just how unrivaled she could be.

Long afterward, reflecting seriously on it, Shen Qingwu would realize that her simmering resentment toward Zhang Xingjian, her near-mad desire to possess him, to destroy him, to burn everything down together with him, had first taken root when her engagement was refused at sixteen, but had truly grown into something real the year she turned nineteen and crossed paths with him again.

Long afterward, reflecting seriously on it, Shen Qingwu would wonder why Zhang Xingjian had chosen to discuss her with an old beggar, why, under the pretense of speaking of Shen Qingye, every single word he’d said had actually been about her.

Long afterward, Shen Qingwu would finally understand the truth of that night—

The moment Chang Lin had coughed that single warning cough, Zhang Xingjian had already known Shen Qingwu was listening in.

Every word he’d spoken to the beggar had been meant, from the very start, for her ears alone.

He’d wanted her to hear every word of admiration, every piece of guidance, every blessing he had for her. But he hadn’t wanted to belong to her.