The eastern capital wasn’t a place Shen Qingwu feared.

It simply held no appeal for her—it only meant an endless procession of her past catching up to her, and troubles without end.

But if Zhang Xingjian said he would wait there forever for her to come knocking, leaving the door open for her every night… did the eastern capital mean something different now?

Shen Qingwu hadn’t sorted this out in her mind. She told Zhang Xingjian she needed to think it over, but privately, she read Yang Su’s letter over and over again.

She still didn’t understand why Yang Su kept asking, again and again, to marry her. But the pull of desire toward her was, she suspected, no less than what she felt toward Zhang Xingjian. Otherwise, why would she be curious? Why would she hesitate?

She hadn’t replied to Yang Su right away—partly held back, admittedly, by Zhang Xingjian’s warning about “not toying with someone’s feelings.”

And yet, privately, Shen Qingwu couldn’t help but think, resentfully, that she hadn’t toyed with Yang Su’s feelings at all—he was the one who’d asked to marry her.

She just felt that… now that Zhang Xingjian had admitted to his desire for her, everything else had lost some of its edge.

A frequent unease and panic stirred in her heart, repeatedly warning her that something was happening beyond her understanding, moving swiftly in a direction she didn’t want. Somewhere within her usually well-managed emotions lay an untouched place that, in her time with Zhang Xingjian, would suddenly spring open and startle her.

Shen Qingwu had always trusted her instincts.

She thought she should leave—

That night, Chang Lin came as usual to report the latest news to Zhang Xingjian, and as usual found Shen Qingwu sprawled at the table, scribbling away.

With no need to hide anything from Shen Qingwu, Chang Lin spoke of the current state of affairs in the eastern capital.

How the year-end sacrificial rites and the moon-worship ceremony would be conducted; how the listless young emperor, having called off the consort selection, was now insisting on a grand ceremony instead, wanting lanterns strung across the whole city; how many ministers had been thrown in prison over impeachment charges; how even Kong Ye seemed to have aged many years…

As Chang Lin reported, he kept glancing over at the quiet Shen Qingwu.

He didn’t know whether she was listening to any of it, but his lord had told him to mention the “eastern capital” often, so he made a point of bringing it up in front of her whenever he could.

Chang Lin’s occasional glances—Shen Qingwu could feel them even without looking up.

She simply chose to say nothing.

Once master and servant had finished what they needed to discuss, Shen Qingwu looked up from her book and asked Zhang Xingjian, with apparent indifference, “You’re going back to the eastern capital soon, aren’t you?”

She’d caught the subtle urging buried in Chang Lin’s reports, nudging Zhang Xingjian back. One or two mentions, she might not have noticed; but hearing it every single day, however slow she might be, she’d caught on that the backlog of state affairs in the capital kept growing.

A flicker crossed Zhang Xingjian’s eyes.

He asked with a smile, “If I go back to the eastern capital, won’t you come with me, Wutong? You and I share the Bond of Hearts gu—have you forgotten? I can’t stray too far from you.”

Shen Qingwu didn’t take the bait.

Instead she asked Chang Lin, “Have you still found no leads on who killed Third Young Master Bo?”

Chang Lin said, “Almost there, almost there. We’ve already picked up some traces. Give us a little more time—my lord has checkpoints set up in every direction now, he won’t get far.”

Shen Qingwu propped her chin on her hand: “Then shouldn’t you be sparing some people to go find that little lady from the Miao borderlands, to help your lord break the gu?”

The moment she said this, the whole room fell silent.

The candle flame gave a small crackle.

Chang Lin instinctively looked to Zhang Xingjian.

Zhang Xingjian, draped in his snow-white robe, sitting still as a crane among clouds, said nothing for a long moment. Then he lowered his eyes, his smile unchanged: “What does Wutong mean by that?”

Shen Qingwu didn’t look at him.

She was afraid that if she looked at him even once more, she wouldn’t be able to hold back the feelings she was working so hard to suppress.

Shen Qingwu lowered her head, returning to her book: “I mean—break the gu, and give you back your freedom.”

Zhang Xingjian was quiet for a moment, then said, “You think I’ve been binding you, is that it? Actually, my tolerance for pain is quite good—even if you kept your distance from me, I could endure the pain well enough; it wouldn’t kill me in any short span of time.

“Wutong, you’re free to go wherever you like. I’ve never stopped you.”

Chang Lin felt, at that moment, thoroughly superfluous.

He even felt a flutter of anxiety, not wanting to hear any more.

He dreaded hearing his lord be rejected; he didn’t want to see his lord humble himself like this only to fail anyway. But at that moment, neither of the two people in the room had any attention to spare for Chang Lin’s awkward position, to release him and let him leave.

Shen Qingwu kept her head lowered: “That thing you asked me to think over last time—I’ve thought it over. I won’t go to the eastern capital. I don’t much like it there… I don’t like the environment I grew up in.”

Zhang Xingjian said nothing.

Slowly, he said, “It’s fine. There’s no rush on this, there’s still room to work things out. I’m not in a hurry to go back either…”

Shen Qingwu said, “But Bo Rong wrote to me, and I feel like something’s not right. I need to go back to Yizhou to find him.”

She looked up, meeting Zhang Xingjian’s eyes.

She thought to herself that she absolutely could not keep going on like this—if she kept spending every day with Zhang Xingjian, she felt she might do something—something Bo Rong could never forgive her for.

She knew, deep down, it was only her own resentment talking.

Now that he’d admitted to his desire for her, that resentment ought to be over.

Shen Qingwu spoke calmly: “It really was wrong of me to have kept you locked up so many times. If you want revenge, I’ll accept whatever you choose to do. But you’ve deceived me plenty of times too, and I won’t hold that against you. Besides, these past while, I think we’ve gotten along rather well—well enough to part on good terms.

“Zhang Yuelu, I’m giving you back your freedom.”

There was a sharp crack.

Shen Qingwu looked down and saw the porcelain cup in Zhang Xingjian’s hand had cracked under his grip.

Blood seeped out from between his fingers, but Zhang Xingjian kept his head lowered, as if he hadn’t even felt it.

Chang Lin cried, “My lord!”

Shen Qingwu said, “Your hand is bleeding.”

Only then did Zhang Xingjian look down. He slowly set down the cracked cup, and with perfect composure drew a handkerchief from his sleeve to wipe the blood from his hand. His long, elegant fingers, red blood against white skin, left Shen Qingwu momentarily dizzy at the sight.

She stared, unable to look away.

Zhang Xingjian smiled faintly: “I was just distracted for a moment. It’s nothing, no need to worry.”

He asked Shen Qingwu, “So when do you plan to leave?”

Before she could answer, he went ahead and decided for her: “Why not wait until after the Lantern Festival? It’s only a few more days—it shouldn’t delay anything important. I’m alone out here with no one to keep me company; I’d like to have one good, lively New Year at least.”

He smiled, his eyes curving: “Surely Wutong can spare even that many days?”

He added, half-joking: “Bo Rong matters to you, naturally—but do I really mean nothing to you at all?”

Inside his sleeve, his fingers curled into a fist, his whole body tense.

He’d already decided—if she truly insisted on leaving, he wouldn’t hesitate to keep her by force, to take extreme measures if necessary.

But things hadn’t come to that yet, and he knew what kind of self Shen Qingwu liked to see in him… he forced himself to maintain the composed, easy manner she liked, smiling at her, gently tempting her.

He’d never cared much about his own looks, but this time he couldn’t help turning his best side toward her.

Long, thick lashes, eyes like mist over rain, red lips, fair skin—so refined, so elegant.

Shen Qingwu couldn’t help pressing a hand to her chest, feeling her own heartbeat.

She knew her blood was starting to race again, that strange symptom flaring up once more. And it was precisely because this symptom kept recurring so often that she felt she truly needed to leave.

But Zhang Xingjian was just so good-looking.

Hearing herself sound thoroughly dazed by his beauty, Shen Qingwu said, “Fine, I’ll leave after the Lantern Festival.”

Zhang Xingjian smiled and agreed.

Having said this, Shen Qingwu didn’t know how to face him anymore. She made an excuse about going to sleep, grabbed the book from the table, and walked out.

The moment she left, Chang Lin looked over and saw that the smile had indeed vanished from Zhang Xingjian’s face—

Under the candlelight, Zhang Xingjian lowered his head, absently bandaging the wound on his hand.

Chang Lin said awkwardly, “So all this time, you never actually managed to get her to stay the night, my lord.”

Zhang Xingjian said flatly, “I did keep her—but she insisted on being considerate of me, and hasn’t stayed over these past few days.”

Chang Lin rubbed his nose.

He laughed awkwardly: “Well, well, at least that shows Shen Qingwu can be considerate—she must care about you at least a little…”

Zhang Xingjian thought of the way Shen Qingwu looked at him, of how she let him call her “Wutong” without protest… His heart gradually settled; he thought, perhaps she did still have some place for him in her heart.

Then a quiet irritation began to stir in him.

He guessed it was his invitation to the eastern capital that had been too hasty, and had frightened Shen Qingwu off. He’d known perfectly well she disliked the eastern capital, and yet, goaded by Yang Su, he still couldn’t help trying to coax her onto his own territory…

If only Shen Qingwu stayed by his side day and night, who could possibly take her from him?!

Zhang Xingjian murmured, “There are still a few days left before the Lantern Festival… I still have a chance.”

Chang Lin could only laugh awkwardly.

He thought to himself that his lord hadn’t even been confident about coaxing Shen Qingwu to the eastern capital before spring—and now, with barely ten or twenty days left before the Lantern Festival, he suddenly seemed confident about keeping her?

Chang Lin asked, “So should I still go looking for that young lady from the Miao borderlands?”

Zhang Xingjian gave him a long, meaningful look.

Chang Lin looked up at the sky: “I guess I won’t go, then. It’s a long way off, and I’d rather not travel.”

—

Zhang Xingjian thought that he and Bo Rong must simply be fated to clash.

Zhang Xingjian had been shaped by this man’s influence since childhood, and now, after finally enduring long enough that the world had nearly forgotten Bo Rong, he’d finally lost his heart to a woman—only to find that very woman was even more deeply influenced by Bo Rong than he was.

It was thoroughly frustrating.

No. He couldn’t accept it.

If Shen Qingwu wouldn’t come find him, then he would go find her.

That night, Shen Qingwu didn’t light a candle in her room. Alone, she lay on her bed holding Yang Su’s letter, tossing and turning as she waited for sleep to come. Three soft knocks sounded at the door. She heard them, but didn’t move.

Her temperament was odd like that—she never much cared to deal with people. And most people, faced with how unlikeable she could be, simply left.

But the person outside kept knocking.

A gentle voice said, “Wutong?”

Zhang Xingjian!

Shen Qingwu shot up from the bed at once.

Zhang Xingjian heard something heavy crash to the floor inside, followed by the sound of frantic searching for shoes. The person inside, flustered and hurried, scrambled around for a while before rushing to open the door, staring blankly at him standing there.

Amusement lingered in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes, the lantern light from the corridor catching in them, gilding them with a shimmering golden glow like spring ripples on water.

Shen Qingwu looked at him like a bedraggled little dog pulled from the water, listless.

Seeing her like this, something in Zhang Xingjian’s heart softened at once.

He even found himself, somewhat, forgiving her for wanting to keep her distance.

He sighed: “I had something I wanted to talk to you about… What have you been doing all alone, not even bothering to comb your hair?”

Shen Qingwu said, “I’m about to sleep. Why would I bother combing my hair?”

Zhang Xingjian said, “Sleep? Didn’t you ask me to be your teacher, to teach you reading and writing? I’ve barely taught you a few days and you’re already off to sleep? You claim to be so diligent—why do I find you so lazy?”

Shen Qingwu’s eyes brightened.

She asked, “Oh, you’re still going to teach me? Right, I forgot.”

She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.

Zhang Xingjian froze.

He stepped back, his robes stirring slightly, his throat working. Caught between “I’m not asking for that” and “what are you doing,” he settled on a different question entirely:

“Did you rinse your mouth?”

Shen Qingwu raised an eyebrow, saying indignantly, “I’m not that lazy, all right?”

Zhang Xingjian turned his face slightly aside, a faint smile showing.

Seeing him like this, something stirred in Shen Qingwu’s heart. She leaned in to take the lantern from his hand, brushing his exposed fingers as if by accident, then grasped his hand firmly.

As Zhang Xingjian looked over at her, Shen Qingwu pulled him inside by the hand and shut the door: “It’s cold out there, why didn’t you wear more?”

Zhang Xingjian watched her quietly: this was Shen Qingwu, through and through.

Saying ruthless things one moment, all the while secretly uncertain of herself. Testing him, pleasing him, pushing him away, refusing him—and yet still wanting him to come to her on his own.

Taming someone like her had given him no end of trouble—

Zhang Xingjian fetched water and set about combing Shen Qingwu’s hair.

Her earlier low mood had vanished; relaxed now, she felt certain there was nothing wrong between them at all. She even thought that Zhang Xingjian, usually so full of twists and schemes, was remarkably simple in moments like this.

True enough—in this last stretch of time together, they ought to make allowances for each other.

Shen Qingwu felt she’d made a bit more progress in managing her emotions.

She let herself relax completely into his care, allowing him to comb out her long hair, tangled from lying down.

She rested her chin on his shoulder, poking his cheek lightly.

Zhang Xingjian turned his face to look at her, his eyes clear and calm.

Shen Qingwu asked, “You’re not upset, are you?”

Zhang Xingjian countered, “What would I have to be upset about?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Earlier, you crushed that porcelain cup in your hand. Your temper is usually so good—if you weren’t angry, you wouldn’t have done that. I don’t understand what you were upset about, but you must have been, for sure.”

Zhang Xingjian paused slightly.

The hand holding the comb was caught by hers; she leaned down and pressed a light kiss to his bandaged finger. So gentle a touch, so warm a breath…

Zhang Xingjian flinched sharply, pulling his hand back, and the comb clattered to the floor.

He turned his face away, avoiding her gaze.

He was trying to escape the heat rising in his ears and chest, afraid he’d lose control and pull her into an embrace, kiss her, demand to know why she didn’t love him. But then… his gaze caught on the crumpled letter tossed on the bed.

He reached for it: “What’s this?”

He picked up Yang Su’s letter, glancing over it briefly, seeing the page filled with words asking for her hand in marriage.

So she’d sat alone in the dark, without even lighting a candle, reading this letter for quite a while.

Shen Qingwu watched him closely: “Zhang Yuelu, you’re smirking coldly.”

Zhang Xingjian looked up, the picture of frail innocence: “Am I?”

Shen Qingwu turned her face away, not bothering to argue with him—let him do as he pleased. She picked up the comb from the floor and handed it back to him, focused only on her own concerns: “You still haven’t finished my hair.”

She even started making requests: “I liked the style you did for me the other day. I want that one again.”

Zhang Xingjian: “…”

He said, “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping? Why do you need your hair done?”

Even as he grumbled this, Shen Qingwu’s dependence on him still won out, and he sat back down with her, setting the letter aside for the moment.

But Zhang Xingjian hadn’t forgotten his purpose.

As he held her and smoothed her hair, he asked gently, “Wutong, have you spent the whole night thinking about Young Master Yang’s letter?”

Shen Qingwu said, “Mm… I’ve decided to give it a try after all.”

Something flickered in Zhang Xingjian’s eyes, but he said nothing.

He only said, “In that case, would you mind giving me the letter Bo Rong wrote you, so I can take a look?”

Shen Qingwu turned to look at him, puzzled.

Zhang Xingjian explained, “You said yourself, he doesn’t usually write you letters without any real content. I suspect Commander Bo might have left some kind of clue in it—if you care for him, you ought to pay attention. And I, of course, care a great, great deal about my brother.”

It was an odd thing to say.

But Shen Qingwu had grown used to Zhang Xingjian’s strange tone whenever Bo Rong came up.

She’d always taken it for jealousy. Bo Rong’s excellence was worth envying, after all.

Still, since he was always like this, even someone as hard-hearted as Shen Qingwu felt a little sympathy for him.

So, after fetching Bo Rong’s letter and handing it to him, watching him bow his head to read it, Shen Qingwu couldn’t help leaning in to embrace him.

She patted him on the shoulder twice, in some gesture of comfort she’d picked up from who knows where.

Zhang Xingjian’s long brows lifted.

He heard her say, with solemn sincerity: “You should try harder.”

Zhang Xingjian thought to himself: try harder at what? Competing with Bo Rong for a woman?

He smiled faintly: “I will.”

Shen Qingwu nodded, then turned to instruct him to keep combing her hair. But Zhang Xingjian no longer felt like combing—just as she turned, he wrapped his arms around her waist from behind and pulled her back into his lap.

He held her close: “Wutong, can we talk?”

Shen Qingwu said, reluctant: “Why do we need to talk again?”

Zhang Xingjian said, “I don’t mean anything by it, I just think—could you stop avoiding me? I promise, aside from desire, I have no other designs on you. You said you wanted to leave, and I haven’t stopped you. I only suggested you come with me to the eastern capital before—if you don’t want to go, I won’t force you.

“I do desire you, but that’s not enough to make me forget who I am, or lose control of myself. You’ve barely spoken to me these past few days—have I been putting too much pressure on you? Wutong, whatever’s on your mind, just tell me.

“My temper really is quite good, I really don’t get angry much… I have so much official business to deal with every day, I’m truly exhausted—can’t you spare even a little desire to satisfy me?”

Shen Qingwu thought to herself: there he goes again, scheming, full of sweet lies, coaxing her.

Then she thought again: but he’s holding me and being sweet.

She thought: he’s dissatisfied with things again, and he’s taking it out on me. He’s the one who says he’s consumed by desire, and he’s also the one who says it’s not really that serious.

She thought again: but being held by him feels so good, his breath brushing lightly against my ear, sweet and fragrant. His lips accidentally brushed my ear, so soft…

She thought: I originally wanted to make him regret it, wanted him to want me and never have me, wanted to abandon him at just the right moment. I think now is that moment.

She thought again: but he keeps murmuring in my ear, keeps holding me, rubbing my waist, holding my hand…

Shen Qingwu’s face flushed red then pale, caught in a war between heaven and desire—nothing more, nothing less.

How was a person supposed to balance the thrill of revenge against being bewitched by beauty? It was far too difficult. Shen Qingwu tried hard to hold firm, but Zhang Xingjian, Zhang Xingjian…

He pressed a light kiss to her cheek.

Shen Qingwu suddenly spun around, grabbed his collar, and settled herself into his lap, looking down at him.

The candlelight couldn’t warm the coldness in her eyes: “Don’t try that trick on me. All your sweet talk—it doesn’t work on me.”

Zhang Xingjian looked up at her flushed cheeks.

Doesn’t work?

Then why was she blushing?

Before he could move, Shen Qingwu couldn’t hold back any longer, and leaned down to kiss him.

Zhang Xingjian’s brow arched, amusement rising in his eyes; just as he opened his mouth to speak, Shen Qingwu reached out and covered it with her hand. She glared fiercely at his fair, handsome face—

No more using that mouth of his to lie to her.

Shen Qingwu lowered her head, her cheek gently resting against his.

She said, “What I felt for you before…”

Resentment. Revenge. Unresolved feelings.

Some of it, probably, still remained.

But…

Pressed against him, she kissed his cheek lightly, her voice quiet: “…but there’s something else I want too.”

She could hold back those feelings. She could bear it, and not hurt him.

She could let him go back to the eastern capital, never see him again, never bother him again.

Bo Rong had once said: know when to hold on, and know when to let go.

Shen Qingwu was trying.

Eyes closed, she said, “Let’s be good to each other until the Lantern Festival. Zhang Yuelu, be a little kinder to me.”

She said, “Compared to all that… I think I want a beautiful memory too. I’ve never had one. I want it.

“If you give me that, I’ll truly let you go. No lies, I promise.”

Zhang Xingjian had no intention of letting her let him go.

But… she said she wanted a beautiful memory.

Zhang Xingjian pulled her hand down, and with the mouth she’d accused of “only speaking sweet lies,” pressed a gentle kiss to her eyes.

Tender and gentle, he said, “All right. I’ll give you a beautiful memory.”

—

With terms settled, Zhang Xingjian didn’t forget the other reason he’d come—to teach her to read.

He’d been teaching her these past few days, gauging where her foundation actually stood, and by now had a good sense of exactly where Bo Rong had left off in her education.

Under a single candle, Zhang Xingjian sat with her at the small table by the bed, robe draped over his shoulders, teaching her poetry.

His collar hung loosely open, simply because Shen Qingwu kept glancing at it, again and again.

She looked eager to try something. He kept smiling: “It’s fine. Take it off if you want.”

Shen Qingwu said, “That doesn’t seem right.”

When Bo Rong taught her, he always had her sit up straight and proper. She’d never been like this before… sitting with a teacher while turning to try to strip off his outer robe.

Zhang Xingjian said, “I’m not Bo Rong.”

Shen Qingwu paused, then gave herself an excuse: “Right, you’re the reckless moon.”

The reckless moon let her eagerly strip off his outer robe, and after some fumbling beside him, she found the position she’d always wanted to try, and settled obediently into it—

Shen Qingwu leaned back against Zhang Xingjian, one hand idly toying with his sash, the other draped lazily across her knee. She wanted him to hold the book and feed her the knowledge himself, only glancing at it lazily now and then.

In this lordly pose, it looked as though Zhang Xingjian were the one begging her to apply herself.

Only now did Shen Qingwu truly appreciate his good temper: lazy as she was being, he didn’t mind at all, didn’t scold her for her poor posture.

Zhang Xingjian kept coaxing her with sweet words: “Oh, Wutong’s already read this poem before? How clever. Wutong really is well-read.

“You don’t recognize this character… never mind, it’s an obscure one anyway, no need to worry about it.”

In his eyes, there was no character in the world Shen Qingwu absolutely had to learn, no poem she absolutely had to memorize. He explained things for her, told her stories, his tone gentle and lively, never once demanding she remember everything.

Listening to him, Shen Qingwu felt a bit lost, wondering whether a teacher like this could really teach anyone anything.

But seeing how engaged he seemed, she stayed quiet and didn’t interrupt.

Besides… curled up in his arms like this, she felt rather comfortable too.

Still, Shen Qingwu noticed that when Zhang Xingjian turned to a certain page, he paused suddenly. Then, as if nothing had happened, he flipped past that page and went straight into the next piece.

Shen Qingwu: “…?”

She might not care much for diligence, but she wasn’t about to let something slide that obviously.

She grabbed the book at once: “Wait, what did you skip over? Aren’t we going to cover this page?”

This was a book she’d taken with her when she left the camp, the one she’d been reading with Bo Rong, marking her most recent progress. There was no way she’d let Zhang Xingjian get away with glossing over it like that.

Zhang Xingjian said, “That page is missing, there’s no point reading it.”

Shen Qingwu never trusted him for a second, and scolded him into flipping the book back. He didn’t want to be a good teacher; she wanted to be a good student.

Zhang Xingjian flipped the book back.

Shen Qingwu stared, dumbfounded, to see that the page was indeed missing, the torn edge fluttering faintly in the dim candlelight.

It must have happened from all the traveling she’d done with this book, through fights and chases and rough terrain—the book had been through so much wear that this one corner had simply been lost.

Shen Qingwu looked at Zhang Xingjian.

Zhang Xingjian spread his hands, the picture of innocence: “See? I wasn’t lying to you.”

Shen Qingwu said, “Then you must know what’s on that page! You and Bo Rong are both men of vast learning—when I used to study with him and a page was missing, he’d always fill it in for me from memory. You must be able to do the same. You definitely know what’s on this page, you’re just too lazy to teach it to me…

“Zhang Yuelu, don’t push your luck.”

Zhang Xingjian held the book up to cover his face: “It’s late, time for bed. What’s the point of reading anyway…”

He’d started being shameless about it.

Shen Qingwu was stunned.

She’d never encountered anyone like this before—this was the first time she’d seen his true, unguarded self so plainly. She lunged at him to hit him, and he held the book up to shield his face, absolutely refusing to keep reading.

And as the two of them tussled and played around, it naturally ended up moving to the bed.

Shen Qingwu never did learn what was on that missing page that night—

But her stubbornness was beyond compare.

The next day, braving the deep winter snow, Shen Qingwu tracked down a scholar teaching in town.

She finally recovered the missing lines of poetry—

Lines about a bright moon that could not be had, far off among the distant clouds.

This was the very thing Zhang Xingjian hadn’t wanted her to learn.