Zhang Zhixu was livid.

A wide, well-paved road right in front of her, and she insisted on forcing her way down the narrowest possible goat trail. That there existed in this world a person so utterly uninterested in bettering herself — so determined to leap to the top in a single bound — was almost beyond comprehension.

“Marriage into a great household is not nearly as simple as you imagine,” he said. “If the Pei Family refuses, even if you succeed with him, they’ll never give you a proper standing. At most they’ll keep you as a mistress.”

The Great Sheng dynasty differed from other eras in this regard — any family of standing maintained one wife and one wife only; there was no such thing as taking concubines. Those truly shameless and arrogant enough to do as they pleased kept certain women in separate residences outside the home.

A mistress held no protection under Sheng law, received none of the main household’s power or wealth, and was little better than a kept pet.

Chen Baoxiang was still lost in her daydream. “But my dear Pei is practically an official already — as long as his heart is with me, who else could make decisions for him?”

Truly naive.

He wanted very much to set her straight. The world was full of beautiful people — where did she find the confidence to believe she could hold Pei Ruheng’s devotion entirely?

Yet for no particular reason, a hazy image drifted across his mind — white and full and warm in the mist.

Zhang Zhixu pressed his lips together, and felt the irritation rising again.

“Ouch.” Chen Baoxiang suddenly yelped.

The wound on her shoulder had begun to ache again — a fine, dense, persistent throbbing.

He snapped back to himself, took up the medicine, lowered the bed curtain, and parted her collar to look at the right shoulder.

“It’s still seeping blood. Don’t tell me the Drifting Horse Herb is also a fake.”

“It isn’t.” Chen Baoxiang began unwrapping the white cloth that bound it. “My wounds just heal slowly — I’ve always been this way. What takes others seven or eight days to scab over takes me a full month.”

The dried blood had fused the cloth to the skin. She gave it a hard tug, and Zhang Zhixu broke into a cold sweat.

“Don’t!”

“I need to take it off to apply the medicine.”

“I know.” He drew a sharp breath and took over from her. “Let me do it.”

He fetched hot water, came back, and worked at softening the dried blood slowly — pressing gently, little by little.

The shoulder stopped hurting. In its place came an itching, numbing warmth.

Chen Baoxiang shifted uncomfortably. “Isn’t this taking a bit long?”

“Stop complaining.” He said without patience. “You might enjoy the pain — I don’t.”

The fused blood gradually loosened. The tearing sting of pulling skin and cloth apart eased away. He peeled the cloth free, picked up the medicinal powder, and applied it carefully over the wound.

The skin flinched involuntarily beneath his touch.

“It won’t hurt,” he said reflexively, blowing a cool breath over the wound. “It’ll be done in a moment.”

Chen Baoxiang went still. She looked blankly at her own wound, then at his gentle, careful fingers.

“What is it?” Zhang Zhixu seemed to sense something.

“Nothing.” She drew a small breath through her nose. “Who actually enjoys pain — I’m just used to it, that’s all. Growing up without a father or mother, always moving from place to place, never having anywhere solid to sleep — and certainly no hot water anyone was going to bring just to soak a bandage.”

His hands went still. Zhang Zhixu’s lashes trembled. “You… didn’t you have that grandmother who taught you to write?”

“Granny Ye.” Chen Baoxiang nodded. “She was a good person. Could barely feed herself, and yet she still took me in. Truly kind-hearted.”

“But her health wasn’t good, and I didn’t want to worry her. When I bumped into things or scraped myself, I never told her.”

“I miss her a little.” Chen Baoxiang sighed.

Something struck Zhang Zhixu in the chest. A wave of aching bitterness rose and spread.

He lifted his head to look at her — and found he could only see the low, gray curtains of the bed hangings closing them in on all sides.

Unbidden, Xie Lanting’s words returned to him:

“You were born without a day’s worry in your life. But Shangjing is full of people living hard. Take the courtesan I’m trying to redeem — her family has a drunken father, a paralyzed mother, and a gambling brother who gave her no choice but to enter this life.”

“The world is full of things people have no say in. Not everyone was born as fortunate as you.”

At the time, he had been inwardly laughing at Xie Lanting for saying it. But now, knowing Chen Baoxiang’s past, Zhang Zhixu suddenly felt that perhaps the one who deserved to be laughed at was himself.

“So the reason you’ve always wanted to marry into a wealthy family,” he said, with a heaviness that bordered on guilt, “is that your own life has been too hard.”

Looking down on her — hadn’t he been like someone demanding to know why a lamb waiting for slaughter didn’t simply run free, or mocking a person on the edge of starvation for not eating more meat?

He had read so many books and come to so little — he had allowed shallow appearances to lead him into misunderstanding Chen Baoxiang entirely.

“Oh — that’s actually not it.”

Chen Baoxiang waved her hand with breezy openness. “I want to marry into a wealthy family because I want to. Wealth, status, people to wait on you — who wouldn’t want that kind of life? It has nothing to do with how things were before.”

Zhang Zhixu: “…”

The little bubble of compassion that had just formed in him popped cleanly, splattering him in the face.

He was silent for a long while before pressing a tired hand to his forehead. “Truly, I cannot think too highly of you.”

“Is it all done?” Chen Baoxiang flexed her right shoulder, smile fully restored.

Zhang Zhixu’s mouth curved a little despite himself. “Done — but it’s still unsettled outside. Don’t go out. Rest.”

Cheng Huaili had yet to regain consciousness, but there was considerable activity in the courtyard — people coming and going with medicine and treatment, and others in cloaks whose faces were hard to make out, though their bearing was striking.

Chen Baoxiang watched for a while, lost interest, and yawned. She lay down and was asleep almost immediately.

Zhang Zhixu stayed awake, straining his ears. Occasionally he caught snatches of Cheng’an bidding guests farewell.

“The message has been delivered. Please, General and Steward, do take care.”

That voice — it sounded familiar.

Zhang Zhixu pushed Chen Baoxiang upright, trying to get a look — but she was sleeping too deeply, and moving her was an enormous struggle. By the time he made it to the window, the person below had already gone.

He lowered his eyes and tried to recall.

He had no prior dealings with Cheng Huaili, and no mutual acquaintances. He shouldn’t recognize anyone in Cheng Huaili’s circle.

Could it be that Chen Baoxiang’s hearing was simply poor, and he’d misidentified the voice?

He shook his head and lay back down.

But the very next morning, Cheng’an summoned Chen Baoxiang and Sun Sihuai together.

“My thanks to you both for your efforts.” He smiled and presented Sun Sihuai with a tray of silver. “A carriage is ready outside. If there were any shortcomings in our hospitality, please forgive them.”

Physician Wang beside them went blank. “Steward Cheng — what are you doing? They still need to continue the General’s treatment.”

“The General is now out of danger, and the imperial physicians on hand are sufficient for what remains. I wouldn’t want to take up any more of the Physician God Sun’s valuable time.” Cheng’an moved to redirect Physician Wang, and turned to Sun Sihuai with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “After all, the young master of the Zhang Family is Physician God Sun’s disciple — and while the disciple has yet to regain consciousness, surely the master cannot be without his concerns.”

Zhang Zhixu felt something shift behind his brow.

The Zhang Family had kept his situation tightly sealed — whether it was his daily habits, his studies, or the matter of who had taken him as a disciple, no genuine information had leaked outside. What little circulated beyond the family was rumor and conjecture.

And yet here was Cheng’an, naming Sun Sihuai directly as his master — and with complete certainty.

The familiar voice from the night before drifted back through his mind. Zhang Zhixu’s eyes narrowed slightly.