His heart skipped a beat, but only for an instant before calming again. He simply said, “There’s no need to hide anything from me. Whatever troubles you, feel free to tell me. We get along well, and we do have some connection. If you can’t trust others, you should at least trust me. My foster mother often says, ‘Birth is difficult enough—if you can live another day, enjoy it fully.’ Take her, for example.

After entering the palace, she never received the Emperor’s favor, spending decades in his presence neither warm nor cold, yet she remained open-minded and knew how to take care of herself.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Or consider me—the hardships I endured in Khalkha are beyond words, yet haven’t they all passed? The obstacles you face are merely trivial matters of daily life, while mine often concern life and career. If I were as narrow-minded as you, I would have died ten times over.”

Ding Yi realized he had misunderstood, mistaking her chest-binding cloth for a suicide cord. It made sense—throughout history, how many women had disguised themselves as men? Could just anyone be like Hua Mulan? How difficult it was for a woman to survive among men! At the mention of “young lady,” princes immediately thought of delicate silhouettes embroidering and playing zithers behind moon-shaped windows. Then look at her—trudging through water and mud, nowhere near those refined maidens.

His assumption that she wanted to end her life caught her by surprise. She had been wondering how to maintain her deception, but unexpectedly, he had provided her with an excuse. Yet she couldn’t agree with his assumption; otherwise, he might confiscate her “suicide tool,” which she kept wrapped around her body and couldn’t produce.

The fire stick’s light dazzled her eyes, causing her to turn slightly away. Searching desperately for a good excuse, she said, “It’s not what you think! I’m not trying to kill myself! Are you referring to the cloth that fell to the ground before I entered the side room? That was something I prepared before leaving home—a binding for my legs. You know, the journey to Ninguta is extremely long, and I’ve rarely traveled so far. Bouncing on horseback every day has rubbed my legs raw against the saddle, and when my clothes brush against the wounds, it’s agonizingly painful. I use that binding to wrap my legs with an extra layer of protection, which helps tremendously.” As she spoke, she squinted at him, trying to see his reaction. “Twelfth Master, you care too much about me. You came all this way just for such a small matter and even got hit by my stone… I’m so sorry. Can we not talk about the binding anymore? I just want to know where I hit you earlier. Are you injured?”

Hong Ce only then became aware of the dull pain in his shoulder, but the embarrassment outweighed any physical discomfort. He had been convinced the young man was contemplating suicide, only to discover he merely wanted to protect his wounded legs. What did that make him—overly concerned and now made to look foolish? Yet something about this binding… His brows furrowed as he studied the face before him. From their first meeting, he had sensed something different about this person—too delicate, too refined… Perhaps he was overthinking it. Looking feminine didn’t necessarily mean being a woman. He recalled Hong Tao mentioning that the youth once had a twin sister—twins, one male and one female. It would make sense if the boy had slightly feminine features.

He rubbed his shoulder, then looked back at the lanterns hanging from the postal station gate—distant specks of light in the darkness, creating an ethereal feeling. Turning back, he asked, “Shall we return?”

The fire stick’s light bothered her, so she blew it out and took the remaining half of the small bamboo tube from his hand, capping it. Smiling, she said, “It’s rare to be so far from them. Let’s sit a while longer. Are you in a hurry to go back? If so, I’ll accompany you.”

Looking out across the landscape, they saw the Yanshan mountains undulating beneath the moon, their high ridges appearing as if draped in a thin veil of mist. The cool breeze from the wilderness swept across the lake, carrying refreshing moisture, unlike the postal station where walls and roofs still radiated heat. It was indeed much cooler here.

It was still early, and there was nothing to do back there except read and sleep. He shifted slightly and said, “Then let’s sit a while longer.”

Ding Yi was pleased and lowered her horse hoof sleeves to fan him. “In this darkness, when I speak, can you see clearly?”

She deliberately exaggerated her mouth movements to help him understand. He replied, “Just don’t mumble and I’ll be fine.” Then he pointed beside him, “You’re facing the moon with your back to the light. I can’t see you.”

She responded affirmatively and sat down next to him, knees pressed together, but seemed uncomfortable, hesitating, “By rights, I shouldn’t be sitting beside you. I’m a servant—this is improper.”

He disagreed, “There’s no one else here. If we had to observe so many formalities, you shouldn’t have sought me out in the first place.”

What a kind and approachable prince! After just a few interactions, she was no longer considered an outsider. Ding Yi pressed her lips together in a smile, “True. If you were harder-hearted, and your household more strict, I couldn’t even have entered your gate, let alone met you! Twelfth Master, how much longer until we reach Changbai Mountain? Will it be cold by then? Have you brought enough warm clothes? As it gets colder, we can’t just camp anywhere—we need to plan our journey carefully, choosing places with postal stations, right?”

He made an affirmative sound, “We should reach there around October when it will likely be snowing already. The northern postal stations all have heated kang beds, so you won’t freeze at night.”

She turned her head to look at his face. Even in the moonlight, his noble bearing remained radiant. The Prince had serene features but carried himself with the quiet confidence of one who held the world in his hands. After some consideration, she cautiously probed, “Is this journey to Changbai Mountain to summon Wen’s three sons? In your view, was there any injustice in Wen Lu’s case? Or was Wen Lu wrongfully accused, with someone using him as a scapegoat, then killing him to silence him?”

Ding Yi naturally hoped it was a miscarriage of justice. Though she didn’t know what kind of official her father had been, which child would want their father’s reputation tarnished after death? A high-ranking official of the second grade, with a great household and estate, ruined so suddenly—the thought still filled her with bitterness.

Hong Ce never handled matters without certainty, nor would he speak without foundation. He shook his head, “It’s difficult to conclude at this point. Even those completely innocent don’t end up in prison. The officialdom is like a dye vat—before entering service, one may be determined to be a good official, but immersed in power, with unstable principles, the poison eventually seeps into one’s bones. After the joint tribunal sentenced him to beheading with reprieve, he was found hanged the next day—that’s unusual.”

So the critical point was whether he died before or after sentencing. Death before sentencing surely involved foul play; death after sentencing, with the verdict already determined, could be someone hastening the conclusion to prevent complications.

Ding Yi sighed deeply, “The official world is complex, a life-and-death struggle. Better to be a common person!”

He smiled faintly, “Each person has their aspirations. Some study diligently through cold nights just to see their names on the golden list, becoming officials to bring glory to their ancestors. The whole family serves them like masters, pinning generations of hope on this achievement. Passing the palace examination is like a carp leaping through the dragon gate—even the most destitute family situation can gradually improve. If they fail, they return to study for another three years, with an uncertain outcome.” He turned to glance at her, “If everyone were like you, going to great lengths to become a Guosha just to see the world, the court officials would face a succession crisis.”

Why was he criticizing her? He didn’t know her circumstances. She was also a person with aspirations, just unable to reveal them.

“If Wen Lu’s case has suspicious points, could his three sons receive a reduced sentence?”

He had been watching her the whole time, needing to read her lips. After Ding Yi finished her question, she noticed his eyes showed some alarm. The Twelfth Master wasn’t easily fooled. Her detailed inquiries might reveal her true identity. She quickly laughed it off, changing the subject, “You mentioned scholars taking the imperial examinations. That reminds me of someone. When I first became my master’s disciple, I lived in Biandan Hutong. There was a neighbor there, a scholar, who shared our courtyard. Every evening, he would recite his books. My master, sitting at the base of the wall eating dinner, would hear phrases like ‘the highly intelligent succeed without teaching, the deeply foolish remain useless even with teaching’ and say, ‘Here he goes again, droning on, memorizing by rote—he’ll fail.’ My master wasn’t wrong. The man failed twice in succession and, in a fit of rage, stuffed all the Confucian classics into the stove and set them on fire. His family was poor, with nothing to eat, so he came to my master. My master pointed him to a job unloading grain at Xiangzha. When the canal boats arrived, they’d load sacks. Fearing theft, workers were stripped naked, with just a cloth around their waist and shoes on their feet, then they’d carry the sacks. Though this man wasn’t dedicated to studying, he was diligent in daily life. Not being allowed to wear clothes didn’t matter—he had large shoes. After one trip through the boat cabin, his shoes would be filled with grain. He’d carry the sacks to the embankment, take off his shoes, knock out the grain, and hide it. At night, he’d retrieve it—that was his day’s food. Later, he said, ‘Books are supposed to contain houses of gold, but after ten years of study, I’ve seen no golden house. Yet going out to do manual labor fills my stomach.'”

Hong Ce enjoyed hearing such stories from common people. Everyone’s experience and insight were limited by their living environment. As a prince, all he usually heard about was which princely or noble household was short on silver and borrowing from the Imperial Household Department. The royal clan was lazy yet concerned with appearances; even in poverty, they maintained their dignity, preferring to sell household porcelain and antique paintings rather than lose face by seeking work. The lower classes, however, became resourceful when facing hunger. Though their methods might not be respectable, they showed quick wit, which was quite interesting to hear about.

“With grain smuggled out that way, didn’t his feet suffer?” he asked. “I’m not particular about most things, but I am about shoes. Too large or too small, both discomfort the feet. How could one walk with something stuffed in them?”

Ding Yi waved her hand dismissively, “At such times, who cares about comfort? Knowing your food is under your feet, discomfort is acceptable! Look at the beggars on the street corners—they don’t mind discomfort. On nice days, they remove their cotton jackets to pick lice; at mealtimes, they collect tokens at places distributing free porridge. That’s not a proper way to live. This scholar later wanted to marry, and the match nearly fell through several times. It was my master who stepped in to arrange it.”

The Twelfth Master was intrigued, eagerly awaiting the next part of her story as if listening to a storyteller. He asked, “Why? Did they think he was worthless and poor?”

She said that wasn’t it. “The girl wasn’t from a wealthy family; if she wanted to wear gold and silver, she wouldn’t look for him.” She clicked her tongue, “This man was stingy. When the matchmaker brought the girl’s relatives to visit, he served them candied fruit. Candied fruit usually comes in pieces, right? He cut each piece into quarters and arranged them on a plate to make them look plentiful. Cutting them in half would have been one thing, but he cut them into quarters—pieces as small as fingernails. People would take one piece and feel embarrassed to take another. Just like that.”

He laughed, “Even before being engaged, he was already looked down upon. It seems he didn’t want a wife.”

“That’s why everyone called him ‘Porcelain Miser’!” she laughed. “Have you heard this rhyme—’Iron Rooster, Porcelain Miser, Glass Mouse, and Glaze Cat’? It describes people like him—unable to part with even a hair.”

Xiao Shu spoke vividly… or at least appeared to. Hong Ce watched quietly. In the moonlight, the person appeared as gentle as a chrysanthemum. Such a description seemed unsuitable for a man, especially one with such a lively personality—calling him gentle seemed unfounded. Yet the word sprang to mind, somewhat amusingly, but impossible to suppress.

“Then what happened? Did your master force the match?”

She nodded, “Of course. When the man was rejected, he came crying to my master, saying how difficult his life had been—his father died when he was four, his mother when he was nine. With no one to care for him as a child, he survived on wild alfalfa and such. My master pitied him and asked the matchmaker to put in a good word. As it happened, the girl’s uncle worked in the same yamen as us, so we had some influence. My master praised the man’s frugality and diligence, saying he would make a good household manager. That’s how it was arranged.”

Hong Ce remarked, “That’s relatively fortunate. But if he couldn’t even afford food, how could he study for so many years?”

“Supposedly, a distant relative pitied him and provided a monthly allowance,” Ding Yi shrugged. “Who knows? After carrying grain, he changed from before. He probably accepted his fate, losing all his former spirit, and just talked nonsense all day. After bringing his wife home, they didn’t live well together—the couple was always fighting. Once a person abandons a scholarship, they forget all their classical learning and just talk about having nine wives like a real man. His wife would get angry hearing this. ‘You can’t even fill your stomach, yet you want nine wives?’ Then she’d beat him with a broom handle, leaving his face black and blue. You see, people spend their whole lives in laughter, anger, joy, and sorrow. Some live richly, while others live more bitterly than huanglian…” She thought of her situation and shook her head with a bitter smile.

They sat side by side, very close. Hong Ce turned his head slightly. Xiao Shu was staring at the moon, its reflected half-circle rippling in his clear eyes, elusive and impossible to capture.

He tried to break this tranquility, smiling, “How old are you to have such reflections?”

She turned to face him, her brow gradually furrowing, “Like that scholar, I too lost both parents. My relatives weren’t poor, but none were willing to help me—they all watched as I became homeless. Fortunately, I met my master. He truly cares for me. Having no children of his own, he placed his hopes on me and my senior brother. When I left him in that tenement to climb this higher branch, my heart was filled with sorrow…”

Her eyes welled with tears as she spoke. Though she knew he was a prince, when they were alone, she didn’t regard him with excessive deference, but rather as a friend in whom she could confide.

A girl is a girl—when facing adversity, she misses her master. If she were still by his side, she would never encounter such difficulties. Now, adrift outside, bullied by those people who manhandled her, she couldn’t even cry properly. The more she thought about it, the more agitated she became. Unable to contain herself, she covered her face with both hands, tears streaming through her fingers and into her sleeves.

The Prince, seeing her like this, fell silent and patted her shoulder. Ding Yi continued to explain through her tears, “I miss my master… that’s all, just missing my master.”

Whether there was more to it, he knew. If she needed to cry, let her cry—afterward, her heart would feel lighter. He said, “On the ninth day, we’ll probably still be traveling. Once we reach Changbai Mountain, we’ll celebrate your birthday belatedly. You mentioned wanting to make sky lanterns—I’ll make them for you. You can write your innermost thoughts on them, and as they fly high, you won’t miss your master any more.”

Ding Yi still had a childlike nature. Hearing his words, she looked up, asking through her tears, “You’ll make them for me? You’re not lying?”

He slowly curved his lips upward, nodding, “I’m not lying. I keep my word.”