The wind howled like a shooting star streaking past.

The campfire blew out, and the world went dark for a moment.

The heat that had surged through Shen Qingwu cooled instantly in the wind. She came back to her senses.

Play?

Since when couldn’t she “play”?

Wasn’t she always doing exactly that?

What did apologizing or not apologizing have to do with whether she “played” with him?

That was what she thought, and that was what she calmly told him—she scorned the idea of him “letting” her play, since he couldn’t resist her anyway.

Hearing this, a flicker of something unspoken passed through his starlit eyes.

After a moment, he said, “I meant that I’d cooperate. Whatever you do, if I go along with it, isn’t that better than you struggling on your own?”

Even as he said it, he sensed it was the wrong thing to say.

Sure enough, she said, “I like struggling on my own.”

He fell silent.

“I enjoy forcing things my way. Who said anything about negotiating terms with you? You’re nothing but my prisoner.”

She added, contemptuous, “Zhang Yuelu, I hope you know your place.”

He said nothing.

His expression froze for a moment—part helpless disappointment, part barely suppressed amusement.

He watched her lean against the tree stump alone, reaching for her bow out of habit before pausing, startled to find it wasn’t there. Her expression went blank for a moment as she remembered losing it when she’d jumped off the cliff. Well—no use dwelling on it; new would replace old eventually.

She closed her eyes.

He stood quietly beside her, watching her drift off to sleep just like that, her breathing even, her face calm.

In the past he’d never dared look at her too long. Now that he’d accepted his own feelings, a longer look only confirmed how striking she was—fierce and handsome all at once.

Her skin was fair, her dark hair falling across her face, and she sat so straight, like a sword returned to its sheath, poised and ready. Only the scar running down her cheek into her neck marred that stillness…

Eyes still closed, she said, “Keep staring and I’ll gouge your eyes out.”

He blinked, smiling as he looked away.

He knew that those trained in martial arts were always acutely sensitive to being watched, so he was careful not to disturb her.

Still, he found himself wondering: was her refusal to apologize perhaps because he himself had never apologized to her either?

True, the tangled mess between them had begun with her holding him captive. But afterward, he too had certainly… well—

The next day, the two of them continued their journey back to Mianzhou.

Zhang Xingjian politely asked Shen Qingwu whether she wanted to interrogate the bandits in the jail, to see if they could learn the whereabouts of Bo Lao San’s killer.

She thought it over and agreed.

But the interrogation didn’t go entirely smoothly.

Fighting through the pain in her throat, Shen Qingwu tried to describe the bandit’s appearance: “His right eye is a little bigger than his left, about this much—”

She held up her fingers, showing a sliver no wider than a fingernail.

She continued, “His mouth isn’t thin or thick, but the lines around his lips are a bit deep, and when he opens his mouth—”

Zhang Xingjian coughed beside her.

She ignored him, not catching his meaning at all, and kept going.

“His waist is about this thick—”

His coughing grew more violent.

The bandits locked in the cell, having been beaten into cooperation, tried their best to identify the man she was describing, eager to earn their way out of prison. But her method of description left something to be desired.

One of them said, “How thick his waist is—did you hug him or something?”

Zhang Xingjian’s eyes flickered.

She said coldly, “I could tell at a glance.”

Another said, “I don’t remember anyone with one eye bigger than the other…”

She grew irritated. “Then you’re all blind!”

Even the portrait artist Zhang Xingjian had specially hired, after Shen Qingwu shook her head at his attempts seven or eight times, was nearly at his wit’s end. “Miss Shen, you keep saying this man has no distinguishing features, yet you keep pointing out details no ordinary person would ever notice. I really can’t draw this.

“Perhaps you could think it over again?”

She fell silent.

She knew she was being difficult.

Saying nothing more, she turned and walked straight out of that wailing, miserable place. Footsteps followed lightly behind her—Zhang Xingjian, catching up from the jail.

He gave her sleeve a gentle tug. “Upset?”

“No. I’ll draw it myself.”

“All right.”

He told her, “Go on and sketch it yourself, then. I’ll use my own methods to search for traces of this man.”

His tone stayed even, a faint smile always present in his voice—nothing like the suppressed displeasure other people showed.

Back in the jail, she’d clearly heard that if not for her military rank and reputation for violence, the portrait artist would likely have already lost his temper. The bandits, too, had been muttering among themselves, probably about how inaccurate her descriptions were.

She spun around abruptly, indignant. “My description was extremely accurate!”

His eyes curved. “Of course it was. Wutong, your eyesight is far sharper than an ordinary person’s—you can judge someone’s build just by looking, whether their waist is thick, whether one eye is bigger than the other…

“You’ve never actually held him, have you?”

She hesitated.

“In a fight, I measured him with my arm.”

That, in turn, left him momentarily stunned.

He forced a smile and said nothing further.

She’d spent years fighting people, and close contact with men in combat was nothing unusual to her. She wasn’t good with words and easily caused misunderstandings, but he understood well enough what she meant.

He said gently, “Go on and draw, then.” He paused. “Did Bo Rong ever teach you to paint?”

A flicker crossed her eyes. She gave a noncommittal “Mm,” unwilling to expose her own shortcomings—unwilling to tell him that Bo Rong had only taught her painting for a single month before falling silent and never teaching her again.

She understood perfectly well why he’d stopped—

They were staying temporarily in a residence the governor had arranged.

Shen Qingwu shut herself in her room, chewing on her brush, struggling to sketch the portrait.

Golden sunlight streamed through the window, swirling over her tousled, hay-like hair.

She worked at the drawing in a daze, growing more baffled the longer she went. She clearly remembered the man’s face—every feature, every expression, all of it. If she saw him again, she’d recognize him instantly.

So why couldn’t she draw him?

She was more than capable of controlling force with her hands, of judging weight and pressure precisely. So why, when she tried to paint, did the ink trail into twisted, crooked lines, like some ugly worm—anything but a human face?

She gritted her teeth, her head pounding.

She wasn’t one to give up easily. The worse the drawing went, the harder she pushed herself, working alone in her room. When the maid outside reminded her it was time for dinner, she ignored that too.

By evening, Shen Qingwu lay slumped over the table, brush dangling from her ink-stained hand, the floor littered with discarded paper.

There was a knock at the door.

As always, she ignored it.

The knocking persisted; so did her silence.

Drifting toward sleep, she heard the maid outside say timidly, “General Shen, Third Young Master Zhang…”

Still slumped over the table, she said, “Not done yet. Not eating. Don’t come in.”

The maid said, “Yes, General… The young master had this servant prepare some food and medicine, left outside your door. He instructed us not to disturb you, but said you have injuries and need to take your medicine on schedule… He also wrote you a letter. He said it might lift your spirits.”

“My spirits are fine.”

To the maid outside, though, the general’s voice sounded hoarse and drained—clearly anything but fine.

The maid set the things down and withdrew.

Shen Qingwu thought: I don’t care what Zhang Xingjian sends me.

Food? She wouldn’t eat charity.

Medicine? She’d heal quickly enough without it.

A letter? She wouldn’t even look at it.

…Wait.

Why would he write her a letter out of nowhere? Didn’t he see her every day anyway—why write? What could it possibly say… criticism of her recklessness, like Bo Rong used to give her? Or something else?

She climbed off the table and went back to fighting with her drawing, though she couldn’t draw to begin with, and now she was more distracted than ever.

That letter of his nagged at her, filling her head with restless thoughts.

She tried to steady herself, but still couldn’t manage the drawing. Sure enough, she grew irritable, threw down her brush in frustration. Finally, she gave up on the ink and brush and shuffled over to open the door for the letter.

The moment she opened it, she thought: if the letter said anything ordinary, she’d settle the score with him later.

Without even glancing at the food and the bitter, steaming bowl of medicine piled by the door, she snatched up the folded letter and shut the door again.

A moment later, she opened it once more, staring down at the tray of food on the floor—two small, delicate plates of pastries she’d never seen before.

Some were jade-green, some cloud-white, some powder-pink, some gold like sunset clouds.

A few she recognized—snow cakes, soft fragrant cakes, lard cakes—all translucent, made of glutinous rice flour, sitting neatly on the plate, waiting to be enjoyed.

So this was the meal.

She stared blankly for a moment, then bent down and picked up the pastries. Since the medicine sat on the same tray, she couldn’t be bothered to toss it out separately, so she brought the whole thing inside.

Curled up in the armchair, she nibbled on the pastries while comfortably unfolding the letter Zhang Xingjian had written her.

His handwriting was lovely, though that was beside the point.

What mattered was the content—simple, easy to understand, and she could follow every word he’d written… In the past, when Bo Rong taught her to read, he always wrote with so many literary allusions that she was constantly lost, racking her brain to guess his meaning.

But Zhang Xingjian didn’t make her guess.

In the letter, he simply… was he apologizing to her?

Crumbs of the cloud-cake stuck to her lips, forgotten, as she read through the letter with unexpected ease.

In it, he told her about every lie he’d told since traveling with her, every test he’d set for her. His memory was remarkable, his mind working through far more than she’d ever noticed. He laid out, in detail, all the things she’d missed—letting her know exactly what he’d done in his attempts to escape her.

He carefully broke down each lie, explaining what he’d been thinking, what he’d been calculating, each time.

He told her why he’d done it.

He wrote: “For all that has passed, I know it is only right that Qingwu has come to doubt me so deeply, and I cannot fault you for it—yet allow me still to explain myself. Now, repentant, I offer my apology, and hope my lady can find it in her heart to forgive me.”

She set the letter down on the table.

She was struck with surprise and curiosity that he’d write such a letter—was this what all these refined young nobles from great families were like? Actually interesting, in their own way?

Writing her a letter of apology, of all things!

Hmph. He must be hoping she’d apologize to him in return.

Curled in the armchair, she found herself thinking a great deal, more than she was used to, until it left her strangely tired. But perhaps the pastries had restored some of her strength, or the warmth of the medicine had some effect, or perhaps the letter itself had left her unexpectedly excited…

She picked up her brush again, bent back over the table, and threw herself once more into the fight with her portrait—

A single lamp glowed like a star.

Zhang Xingjian sat by the window in his robe, at the small writing desk, handing a finished document to Chang Lin, who stood beside him.

“Send this letter by fast horse to Governor Gao of Cangzhou. The matter of the Zhang Family selling offices originated in Cangzhou—restoring my reputation should also begin there, with him taking the lead.

“This letter goes to the Eastern Capital.

“This one goes to Second Sister.

“This one…”

Chang Lin acknowledged each in turn.

After a full day spent handling court affairs without letting his absence from the capital interfere with his duties, everyone breathed a little easier.

Chang Lin asked, “Young Master, roughly how long before the court lifts the warrant against you, before the Zhang Family’s reputation is restored, before Second Young Lady Zhang and the others can return to the capital?”

“If all goes smoothly, Second Sister can bring the family back to the capital before the new year.”

Seeing that he had it all planned out, Chang Lin felt even more reassured.

Having finished with all this, Zhang Xingjian’s throat felt a little dry. He took a sip of tea from the desk, then moved on to other matters. “The night of the fifth day of the twelfth month—find out who was lodging in and around Mianzhou that night.”

Chang Lin paused. “Everywhere… all of it?”

Zhang Xingjian nodded.

“You’re looking for whoever killed Bo Lao San, aren’t you? But that’s far too broad a search, and not even reliable…”

“Just go.”

Chang Lin, troubled, gathered up the stack of letters and turned to go organize the men. But just as he turned, the door to his young master’s room burst open, and Shen Qingwu came storming in.

Cold wind rushed in with her.

Chang Lin shivered—coming to find their young master in the middle of the night…

Out of the corner of his eye, he glanced at his young master, who sat perfectly composed at his desk, one hand propped against his forehead, entirely unbothered by this rude intrusion. The wind stirred his sleeves, his already loose robes billowing like drifting snow—striking, even now.

Shen Qingwu waved the paper in her hand, righteously indignant. “Why did you call me ‘wife’ again?!”

Only after venting her anger at him did she notice Chang Lin standing there, staring at her, dumbstruck.

Her clothes disheveled, hair a mess, an aura of pure menace.

She paused for a moment.

She realized Chang Lin had probably been receiving some secret orders from his young master, and she’d just barged in on it. And her appearance right now wasn’t exactly flattering either… but she only paused a moment before turning her cold gaze back on Chang Lin, showing not the slightest sign of retreat.

She felt no embarrassment. The embarrassment was entirely Chang Lin’s to bear.

Chang Lin’s eyes flickered as he greeted her. “General Shen, so late… still not asleep, coming to find our young master…”

He nearly bit through his own tongue, forcing an awkward laugh.

Chang Lin, Chang Lin—could you not say something so suggestive? Of course Shen Qingwu coming to find their young master meant she’d come to sleep with him. Given how easygoing their young master was, he’d surely already fallen for her completely—

“I finished my drawing. I’m here to show it to Zhang Yuelu.”

Zhang Xingjian, mid-sip of tea, raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Chang Lin’s eyes lit up. “You finished it?”

If she could sketch the culprit’s likeness, they wouldn’t need to go through everyone one by one.

He hurried over, ignoring his young master’s coughing, eager to see what she’d drawn. He took the paper from her hand, and his excitement froze instantly—

He stared at the crooked stick figure on the page, dumbstruck.

“…This is what you drew?”

She said, perfectly composed, “I made sure to draw all the distinguishing features clearly. With this portrait, we’re bound to find him.”

“…Young Master, I’ll go arrange for the search parties right away.”

Lost for words, he handed the paper back to her and hurried out, clumsily pulling the door shut behind him—

Only Shen Qingwu, still standing, and Zhang Xingjian, still seated, remained in the room.

She said flatly, “Was Chang Lin laughing at me?”

“How would he dare? If he laughed, you’d simply hit him.”

She found this entirely reasonable.

She then asked him, “Why did you call me ‘wife’ in that letter? Didn’t I tell you, if you keep talking nonsense, I won’t let it slide?”

He said, calm as ever, “What I wrote was ‘Second Young Lady Shen.'”

She was certain. “You wrote ‘wife.'”

“Did I? Must have been a slip of the brush, missing a couple of characters… Did Wutong come all this way just to settle that score with me?”

“Don’t call me ‘Wutong.’ That’s not my name. I’m Shen Qingwu.”

She added, “If you behave well enough to satisfy me, I’ll allow you to call me ‘A’Wu.'”

Naturally, he refused.

Naturally, he had no intention of calling her the same thing everyone else did.

He said gently, changing the subject, “So you came to settle accounts with me?”

“Of course not. I really did finish the portrait.”

Remembering Chang Lin’s reaction, she hesitated.

He smiled. “Oh? Already? Let me see it.”

“…It’s just that other people might not understand it.”

“Perhaps I’ll be the exception.”

As it turned out, he was not the exception.

Sitting at his desk, he’d been fairly confident as he examined her drawing—how hard could it really be to make out?

Surely he wasn’t inferior to Bo Rong in this.

And yet Zhang Xingjian sat there like a carved wooden statue, the paper gripped in a hand gone nearly rigid, the smile frozen on his lips. His eyes were distant, his mouth pressed thin.

Kneeling beside him, she studied his face. “Can you make sense of it?”

He tried valiantly. “Mm… is this meant to be a hand? This hand… does it mean large? Is it saying his right thumb is longer than the others?”

She said airily, “You really are impressive. You can actually tell. Keep going.”

Encouraged, he pressed on. “This… this is a leg, isn’t it? Is one leg twice as thick as the other… no, that can’t be right—unless he had something hidden on him, making it bulge out like that?”

“Keep going, keep going,” she urged.

There was laughter in her voice, hoarse and warm, drifting over his shoulder from behind. She’d knelt down behind him to look at the drawing together, leaning in until she was nearly pressed against his shoulder…

He felt a flush of embarrassment.

He lost focus for a moment, then went back to deciphering her drawing.

He let out a long breath, thinking that although it was difficult, it wasn’t impossible—he could still make out her portrait somehow…

Then he heard her burst out laughing.

She rarely laughed so freely.

Or rather, she almost never laughed at all.

He had no idea what had amused her so, but she leaned her whole body against his back, tilting against his shoulder, her warm breath brushing his ear as she said:

“Ha, you’re really putting on a show, aren’t you? That’s not even what I meant to draw at all… I’ll be honest, Zhang Yuelu, I don’t even understand what I drew myself. Long fingers, thick legs—how would I even know how thick someone’s legs are? Was I supposed to hug him and measure?”

His ears flushed faintly red.

He felt a flicker of bashful embarrassment, half-numbed by the laughter tickling his ear, not daring to move.

He lowered his eyes, murmuring, “I thought your eyesight was so sharp you could tell at a glance.”

“I can tell at a glance how many layers of clothing you’re wearing, count every one of your eyelashes, tell which of your fingers you use most and which you barely use at all.”

“…I wasn’t gifted with martial talent the way the general was. Naturally I have no idea what ordinary people look like through your eyes.”

“Through my eyes, people all look pretty ordinary too—two eyes, one nose. I don’t go around studying people all day. I only look at the good-looking ones.”

His lashes trembled; he stayed quiet.

She ordered him, “Ask me something.”

He turned his face toward her. “Bo Shuai, for instance?”

She fell silent.

For once, she found herself at a loss for words.

She’d eaten the pastries he’d sent, felt unexpectedly good, too restless to focus on her drawing, and had come up with a decent excuse to see him. He’d been sitting there so quietly, and ever since Chang Lin had still been in the room, she’d felt an odd itch of anticipation…

Leaning against his shoulder now, why did he have to bring up Bo Rong?

Even someone as slow to notice such things as her could tell something was off.

His crystal-clear eyes watched her, and realizing his own feelings had put her slightly out of sorts, he gently steered the conversation elsewhere. “So, about this drawing…”

She was still silently wondering why he kept mentioning Bo Rong, and answered him absently: “I really can’t draw his likeness. But it occurred to me—why should I struggle so hard? Between the two of us, you’re the one who’s supposedly brilliant at everything, scholarly and martial alike… If I describe the culprit to you, you might well be able to draw him yourself.”

She said earnestly, “I’m sure you could do it.”

He said, helpless, “Even the portrait artist the authorities specially hired couldn’t manage it—what makes you think I could? Wutong… everyone has their specialty. I’m not nearly so capable as you think.”

Before he could finish, she reached out without ceremony and pinched his shoulder, turning him to face her.

By the window desk sat a small couch. Since he was recovering, he spent his days there, wrapped in his robe, handling official business. The space wasn’t large, but it wasn’t small either.

She leaned in, pressing into his arms, her hand slipping through the loose front of his pale blue scholar’s robe—loose enough to fall open with the slightest tug—and wrapped around his waist.

He went still.

He sat frozen, holding his composed posture, unmoving. But after two held breaths, he realized he’d long since fallen for her, had already decided he wanted to be with her—he no longer needed to fight her closeness the way he once had.

His fingers, resting on his knee, twitched.

Slowly he raised his hand to embrace her back, but she’d already pulled away, leaving his arms empty.

She looked him in the eye. “His waist is three inches thicker than yours.”

“…”

She continued, “His chest is a palm’s width broader—my palm, like this.”

She held her hand up in front of his face to demonstrate.

She leaned in close, blowing a breath of air across his pale, clean face.

She asked, puzzled, “Are you even listening to me?”

He came back to himself, saying slowly, “So you’re using me as a measuring stick.”

She nodded. “Clever, right? This way you’ll be able to draw him. Who doesn’t know their own build and appearance?”

He looked evasive.

“I’m afraid I don’t actually know much about my own… various measurements.”

She leaned in against him again, running her hand along his waist to measure it. His waist was slim and firm, usually hidden beneath his robes, never meant to be looked at, let alone touched. Now, under her hand, he flinched slightly.

She heard him draw a sharp breath, and glancing up, caught sight of a few loose strands of his dark hair, his turned face flushed deep red.

Like plum blossoms against snow, moonlight scattering dust.

Something tightened sharply in her mind.

Her hand, careless of its own strength, pressed down hard without warning. Zhang Xingjian gasped in pain as she shoved him backward, pinning him down onto the couch.

Out of habit, she leaned over him, staring down blankly at the young master beneath her.

He opened his eyes, looking up at her with a distant, wordless gaze.

“…I didn’t mean anything by it.”

He said nothing, only gazing up at her with clear, still eyes.

By candlelight, her hair fell across his shoulder. She said, with unusual gravity for once, “I really did come to talk business today. It’s not like what Chang Lin thinks. If it weren’t for you… I wouldn’t have…”

She thought privately: he was the one who’d lured her in.

He turned his face aside.

He didn’t look at her, gazing instead at the flickering candlelight beside them.

He murmured, “Who knows.”

She said nothing.