The moonlight slanted westward, and the rippling waves in the pool quietly settled.
Zhao Yān sat on the couch, wrapped in dry undergarments, her eyes moist, the tip of her nose slightly red. Her unbound figure rose and fell gracefully, like snow gathered in the moon.
In the pool, long and translucent silk floated like misty clouds. Wenren Lin had hastily pulled it off and thrown it into the water when she had cried until she couldn’t breathe, to prevent her from fainting due to shortness of breath.
Wenren Lin had accompanied her in the pool for a long time, his clothes soaked through. Now he emerged wearing a frost-colored middle robe, his hair half-bound with a polished wooden hairpin, the other half hanging damp from his shoulders, swaying slightly with his steps.
He walked to the side to fetch a towel and a comb. With the clean, soft cotton cloth, he grasped Zhao Yān’s waist-length hair, which was like black satin, and absorbed the water, drying it inch by inch from top to bottom before carefully combing it out.
The floor-length bronze mirror reflected his tall, straight figure, his profile warmed by candlelight, with a kind of casual ease.
Noticing Zhao Yān’s gaze in the mirror, Wenren Lin lowered his eyes and asked, “Feeling better?”
Zhao Yān raised her hand to wipe the corners of her eyes and said hoarsely, “I’m hungry.”
Wenren Lin laughed softly. What girl of this age doesn’t know how to act coy?
He put the jade comb back on the table. On the back of his hand, a small, bright red circle of teeth marks was visible. Zhao Yān saw it too, and remembering where the bite mark came from, she couldn’t help but look away.
…
…
Wenren Lin walked to the outer room and gave a low command. In a brief moment, he stepped back in carrying several dishes of porridge and late-night food.
Zhao Yān didn’t know how many of his people were at his disposal in the Jade Spring Palace. Too many things had happened tonight for her to care about such matters.
Seeing Wenren Lin place the food before her, Zhao Yān instinctively raised her eyes to look at him.
Her long eyelashes still hung with undried tears, and when she looked up, there was a certain fragile, pitiful vulnerability.
Wenren Lin couldn’t help but smile, casually pulling a chair from the side to sit down. He picked up the porridge bowl, stirred it a few times, scooped a spoonful, and placed it near her lips, saying, “This prince has no habit of eating late-night meals. Your Highness, please help yourself.”
Only then did Zhao Yān open her mouth to take that spoonful of warm porridge, swallowing it as her thoughts continued to churn.
Wenren Lin merely glanced at her slightly dazed, wet, red eyes and knew she had not yet fully recovered.
He set the porridge bowl aside and used a handkerchief to wipe the crystal droplets at the corner of her mouth, saying casually, “How did Your Highness develop this personality of taking all responsibilities upon yourself?”
She knew that Zhao Yǎn had a gentle temperament but was not a fool.
That letter must have been written in a handwriting very similar to hers and delivered at the opportune moment after the siblings had parted on bad terms, which was why Zhao Yǎn opened it without any suspicion.
In the moment he realized he had been poisoned, all Zhao Yǎn could do was burn the letter.
Until the very end, Zhao Yǎn had protected her with his frail body. And the last memory she had given Zhao Yǎn was only those hurtful words.
If only she hadn’t said those words about wanting to exchange lives with him; if only she had been more honest. But how many “if onlys” are there in the world? There are only the regrets of the dead and the remorse of the living.
Perhaps she needed someone to confide in too much. Zhao Yān murmured, opening her lips: “He died from a letter supposedly sent by me, but… he burned it.”
Wenren Lin quickly connected the meaning behind Zhao Yān’s words. The final truth was not much different from what his spies had discovered last year. If Zhao Yān hadn’t impersonated the Crown Prince and briefly confused everyone’s vision, the Great Xuan Dynasty would probably be in chaos now, as he had planned.
“If only he had left the evidence, the true culprit could have been found more quickly…”
Zhao Yān unconsciously choked, hurriedly resting her chin on her knee and closing her eyes as she said, “Fool.”
Wenren Lin picked up a slice of crystal pear and offered it to her. Seeing her dazedly unwilling to open her mouth, he asked, “How could Your Highness not realize what would happen if the Crown Prince hadn’t burned the evidence, if you had been implicated in such a major case?”
“The letter wasn’t written by me; it would have proven my innocence,” Zhao Yān said.
Compared to capturing the real culprit and clearing her brother’s name, what did it matter if she suffered some hardship?
“Your Highness has studied the ‘Comprehensive Records of Chengde’ and must have read the story of ‘Yang Jin Suspecting His Servant’①.”
He seemed to fall into a long reminiscence, slowly narrating, “During the Chengde years of the Yin Dynasty, General Yang Jin fled after a military defeat with only one loyal servant accompanying him. One day, when crossing a river, Yang Jin encountered pursuing soldiers and suspected his servant had betrayed him. He ordered the servant forward and interrogated him severely. The servant, unable to defend himself, took a knife, cut open his abdomen, and carved out his heart for inspection①.”
In the tenth year of Tianyou, gray clouds loomed. A lonely city without aid, with corpses lying everywhere.
General Wenren was covered in blood, rainwater mixed with blood flowing down his body. His half-kneeling figure was like a monument as he stuffed the last medicinal pill into his youngest son’s mouth.
“With my life, I preserve the name of loyalty and righteousness.” He firmly covered the young man’s mouth, preventing him from spitting out the pill. “Father is leaving. Live well.”
Arrows fell like hemp, and fresh blood splattered into the desperate, trembling pupils of the young man. Wenren Lin looked up, the same dark color swirling in his pitch-black eyes.
His lips moved slightly as he said in a low, deep voice: “Your Highness, proving one’s innocence requires cutting open the abdomen to examine the heart.”
So the Crown Prince wasn’t covering up something for the Princess; he simply didn’t want his sister to endure the pain of having her heart examined.
Zhao Yān understood Wenren Lin’s meaning and couldn’t help but freeze, her eyes filling again with moist light. With a flutter of her eyelashes, tears flowed uncontrollably.
Wenren Lin used his finger to wipe away the crystalline teardrop under her eyelashes, bending down to kiss it away.
He said nothing more, slowly raising an arm to draw Zhao Yān into his embrace, his palm gently stroking her back, his chin very lightly and slowly brushing against her damp, trembling hair at the temples.
The noble little cat was born to be loved.
The lamp shadows gradually darkened until the thick night outside slowly turned into a slender white dawn.
When Zhao Yān woke up, the sun was already high in the sky. She was lying in the bedchamber of Guanyun Hall, but Wenren Lin was not beside her.
She had cried too hard last night and woke up feeling dizzy. She propped up her head and reminisced for a long time before remembering how she had returned here at dawn.
She had shamefully clutched Wenren Lin and cried most of the night in the Bath Hall, making his frost-white, neat clothes wet and disheveled.
Exhausted from crying, she had finally closed her eyes, only to be startled awake by nightmares of killing Zhao Yuan’yu. Wenren Lin had no choice but to good-naturedly escort her back to Guanyun Hall’s bedchamber through the back door, ordering someone to bring soothing incense, and sitting by her bedside for quite a while before leaving.
After a night of emotional release, Zhao Yān’s chest finally didn’t feel as suffocating as if blocked by a huge stone. The chaotic thoughts caused by emotional impact gradually gathered back together.
Now was not the time for self-pity. She needed to find out who had impersonated her to send that letter, and what exactly Zhao Yǎn had done to bring such a catastrophe upon himself…
After sitting quietly to clear her mind for a moment, Zhao Yān rang a bell to summon Liu Ying, who was on duty outside the hall. Covering her swollen, painful eyes, she said hoarsely: “Bring me some ice for a cold compress, and… prepare a new chest binding.”
After applying ice for a long time, by nightfall, Zhao Yān’s tear-reddened eyes were finally presentable, though her face was still somewhat pale.
She raised her hand and patted her cheeks until a faint blush appeared, then exhaled deeply, dressed, pinned her hair, and went to the Listening to Rain Pavilion.
She wanted to know what important details Liu Ji had concealed.
The doors of the Listening to Rain Pavilion were wide open, as if expecting someone’s arrival.
Zhao Yān dismissed her attendants and entered the room alone. She saw Liu Ji wearing only a simple middle garment and skirt, with a loose moon-white robe draped over. She hadn’t pinned her hair with ornaments but had loosely tied it at the end with a plain-colored hair band.
Two small insects had entered the lampshade and couldn’t fly out.
Liu Ji stared absently at the fluttering insects inside the gauze lamp, the warm light falling on her heroic, profound features, making it momentarily difficult to distinguish male from female.
Zhao Yān steadied herself and sat down opposite Liu Ji.
On the table lay a palm-sized silk scroll and a neatly folded winter jacket—Zhao Yān recognized it as the one Liu Ji had worn when she returned last year. It had now been cut open, revealing the interlining.
“You know why I’ve come?” Zhao Yān’s gaze swept over the items on the table as she asked softly.
Liu Ji nodded, her voice deep and hoarse: “I know. Since Your Highness returned from tracking Zhao Yuan’yu, I guessed it couldn’t be hidden anymore.”
Saying this, she took out a neatly folded note from the winter jacket’s interlining, gently unfolded it, and pushed it before Zhao Yān’s eyes.
Zhao Yān saw the familiar and elegant small regular script on the note and couldn’t help but feel her nose tingle: “This is…”
Liu Ji said, “The Crown Prince had already prepared for the worst. This is what he left for Your Highness… no, it’s what he left for the next heir to the throne—his final words.”
The words “final words” fell like a thousand-pound weight on Zhao Yān’s heart.
She took a deep breath, picked up the thin note, and examined it word by word.
[If you see this note, I am no longer in this world. In fifteen years of life, my ambitions remain unfulfilled. Now that you have succeeded to the position of Crown Prince, I only ask that you continue my unfinished aspirations, implement my unrealized policies, and save the great edifice from collapse… I bow deeply from the nine springs below, and bow again.]
Seeing the last line, Zhao Yān couldn’t help but tremble.
After reading it from beginning to end once more, she placed Zhao Yǎn’s final letter back on the table, her resolute gaze falling on the scroll nearby: “Is this what Zhao Yǎn was planning?”
All the answers, the origin of all misfortunes, lay in this reform policy thesis that had consumed their hearts and blood to draft.
Zhao Yān reached for the scroll, but Liu Ji held her hand.
Liu Ji’s throat moved slightly as she said, unusually serious: “Your Highness should consider carefully. Once many truths are known, there is no returning to the past…”
Zhao Yān’s expression remained unchanged as she said calmly: “From the moment Zhao Yǎn died and I took the position in the Eastern Palace, I could never return to the ignorance of the past.”
Zhao Yān lifted her finger to untie the string, swept her sleeve, and immediately the three-foot-long scroll densely covered with small characters unfolded before her like a vast sea of smoke.
The nation’s reform must begin with taxation. Change from paying taxes based on population to paying taxes based on land area, so that noble families will no longer extensively annex land and local government powers. The poor will have land to cultivate and flourish. Secondly, reform the imperial examination system, promote commoners and reduce the influence of nobility, weakening the hereditary aristocracy’s control over important court positions…]
The thousand-character scroll analyzed more than ten regulations, from taxation, imperial examinations, and imperial clan reforms to even the elevation of Confucianism over religious teachings, proposing reform principles.
Zhao Yān dared not imagine how many people’s interests this document would affect and what disasters it would bring.
At the end of the scroll was a line of small characters with several rows of determined vows: [No matter what position I hold, I am willing to fulfill this pledge even at the cost of my life. In this life, I wish to be like the moth that flies toward the lamp—though it dies, it moves toward the light.]
Zhao Yān finally understood the meaning of the words “flying toward the lamp” that her brother had treasured in the “Ancient and Modern Notes” gifted by Shen Jingming.
In this life, I wish to be like the moth that flies toward the lamp—though it dies, it moves toward the light—what a grand and pure aspiration.
That group of learned and talented youths were willing to pledge their lives, to enter court and support the Crown Prince’s reforms in the future, like moths flying into fire, never regretting even in death.
But one by one, they had fallen before dawn’s arrival.
Zhao Yān held this weighty draft of reform policies, her fingertips trembling slightly. After closing her eyes and breathing deeply several times, she asked: “Why didn’t you tell me all this earlier?”
Liu Ji’s eyes also reddened at the corners as she said softly: “I didn’t trust Your Highness at first, and besides, Zhao Yǎn didn’t want you involved…”
She paused: “I had originally intended to bathe in the hot springs with Your Highness that day and reveal everything, but…”
But ultimately, that opportunity was missed.
Zhao Yān stared at her and after a long while asked gently: “Liu Ji, who exactly are you?”
The moths in the lampshade finally crashed into the candle flame and dissipated as heroic blue smoke.
After a long time, Liu Ji, as if having made up her mind, raised her head, reached across the table, and gently placed Zhao Yān’s hand on her chest.
The outer robe slid off her shoulders, followed by the inner garment that padded the soft protrusions. He exposed his true self to Zhao Yān—
In the warm candlelight, that porcelain-white chest was completely flat, without any of the expected curves.
He looked into Zhao Yān’s eyes and said: “My real name is Liu Baiwei.”
The wind passed silently. Wenren Lin stood in the corridor, just in time to see two shadows on the window paper standing opposite each other, hands placed on their chests.
Prince Su rubbed the bite mark on his cold, white hand with his fingertip, and after a long while, narrowed his eyes.
—
①Note: The story of “Yang Jin Suspecting His Servant” is a reference to demonstrate extreme loyalty and sacrifice to prove one’s innocence.