After Prince Shao and Princess Yongtai departed, Ming Huashang, too, felt the pull to leave. Unlike these princes and princesses who needed only to seek pleasure, she had spent the day at the Jing Zhaoyiin office before coming here, and had long since depleted her energy. But she had nothing like Prince Shao’s standing, and with full self-awareness she did not go to trouble their host — instead she retreated to a corner, endured the noise, and waited for the banquet to end.

She had barely sat down when a maidservant approached and said: “Second Young Lady Ming, the Duke Zhenguo household has sent a carriage to take you home. The Princess says that if you are tired, you are free to return at your own convenience.”

Ming Huashang looked up toward the head of the hall in surprise — Princess Taiping was surrounded by guests in the center of the room, clearly too occupied to spare her a thought. Ming Huashang felt unexpectedly moved, and could not imagine which benevolent soul had included her in their kindness. An opportunity to go home was not to be wasted — she asked one of the Princess’s maidservants to convey her respects to Princess Taiping on her behalf, then pulled her outer garments close and stepped outside.

On the carriage, Ming Huashang found Zhao Cai had come to meet her. Zhao Cai had prepared tea and refreshments on board, and the moment she saw Ming Huashang she hurried to drape a cloak over her shoulders. Cradling the warm cup, Ming Huashang asked: “Why did you come? Was it Father who sent you?”

“No — Second Young Master sent word that you would be returning, and asked us to prepare hot water and fresh clothes, and come to the Princess’s residence to fetch you.”

Ming Huashang was somewhat surprised, yet on reflection it made perfect sense. The Duke would never have had such thoughtful consideration — remembering to prepare hot water and a change of clothes for his daughter. This could only be Ming Huazhang’s doing.

So the benevolent soul was none other than Ming Huazhang. He had gone to Princess Taiping and arranged for Ming Huashang to leave early, then notified the Duke Zhenguo household to prepare the carriage — and so she was able to go home to rest.

The entire time, Ming Huashang had known nothing of any of this. He had handled everything, then placed the result quietly in front of her. In his attentiveness, he even surpassed the Duke Zhenguo himself.

Ming Huashang took a small sip of the hot tea, and for reasons she could not quite name, a heaviness settled over her mood.

The night air of Chang’an was vast and still, and it was not long before Ming Huashang arrived home at the Duke Zhenguo household. As she entered the courtyard, three of her maids heard her arrive and came to meet her: “Young Lady, please drink the sobering broth first. The hot water is ready — warm yourself up before you bathe, and when you’re finished you can go straight to sleep.”

Ming Huashang found that everything had been arranged before she had said a word. She let out a sigh. “Was this all Second Brother’s instructions as well?”

Jin Bao and the others nodded. Ming Huashang had nothing to say to that, and resigned herself: “Fine, do as he said. He’s becoming more and more like an old nursemaid.”

By the time Ming Huashang had finished with everything, a full hour had passed. Her body was exhausted, but her mind was perfectly clear — she felt not the least bit sleepy. Her thoughts were a tangle, and she said to her maids: “I would like to sit by myself for a while. All of you, go out.”

Jixiang startled, holding the towel she had been about to use: “But, Young Lady — your hair hasn’t been dried yet.”

Ming Huashang took the white cloth from her. “I’ll manage it myself. The rest of you, go on.”

All four maids withdrew with a word of assent. The door closed, and the room settled into silence. Ming Huashang let out a long breath, picked up the cloth, and dabbed at her hair in a half-hearted, distracted way.

Her mind kept replaying Su Xingzhi’s words from earlier, leaving her too unsettled to care about drying her hair. She tossed the cloth carelessly aside, let her damp hair soak through her clothing, propped her chin on her hand, and stared blankly at the wavering candle flame.

Su Xingzhi had said his biological younger sister had been dead for some time — and Nanny Su herself had said Su Yuji was of the Ming family. That meant one of Ming Huashang or Ming Huazhang was not the true child.

Which one could it be?

She was so lost in thought that a sudden shiver ran through her, and only then did she realize her damp hair had gone untouched long enough to soak through her back. She rubbed her arms and thought she might simply go to sleep like this — when a pair of hands lifted her hair, and then the back of her neck was covered by a warm, dry sensation. Two hands holding a cloth moved slowly, blotting the moisture from her back.

“Didn’t I tell you to sleep early? Why are you sitting here without drying your hair?”

Ming Huashang gave a violent start. Recognizing who was behind her, she made to rise at once: “Second Brother — why are you here? Let me do it—”

Ming Huazhang pressed her shoulder to keep her seated. Usually so nursemaid-careful and attentive, he now radiated something that could only be described as quietly insistent. He hadn’t applied much force, yet somehow Ming Huashang could not bring herself to resist.

“You always ignore what I say,” he said. “Let me help.”

Ming Huashang sat rigidly still. Ming Huazhang finished drying her neck, replaced the cloth with a clean one, wound her long hair around his palm, and patiently drew out the moisture within.

Ming Huashang had just finished bathing and wore only her inner garment, which — through her own careless neglect — was now soaked in several places, the fabric gone nearly translucent, offering scant concealment.

Her entire spine felt prickly. Even between true siblings this would have crossed a line — and they were not siblings. Ming Huashang sat rigidly, deeply ill at ease, and managed to ask: “Second Brother, how did you come to be here?”

“Princess Taiping’s banquet has just ended. I came to check on you and found you hadn’t gone to sleep.” Ming Huazhang’s voice was level and composed as always — but this time Ming Huashang kept imagining a danger beneath the calm, something like a submarine volcano, or a glacier before an avalanche: stillness concealing something frantic.

Ming Huashang gave a strained little laugh. “You are far too good to me, Second Brother — I don’t know how I could ever repay it. Zhao Cai and the others ought to be punished. You arrived and not one of them thought to tell me.”

“I told them not to announce me.” Ming Huazhang said mildly. “I saw you were so deep in thought, I didn’t have the heart to interrupt. Huashang — what were you thinking about?”

She could hardly tell him she had been wondering whether he was truly her brother. She deflected with a vague laugh and a clumsy change of subject: “I was thinking about a case. Second Brother — you searched the city today. Did anything new come to light?”

Ming Huazhang’s lashes lowered slightly. He stared at the long strands of hair wound around his fingers. The candle swayed, casting his eyes in shifting depths of dark, as if they held the flicker of flame.

The expression on his face was too serene — it verged on coldness. He said: “No different from before — nothing new. But speaking of you, Huashang, Xie Jichuan tells me you were discussing someone dear to your heart today.”

Ming Huashang cursed Xie Jichuan silently — the traitor, always embellishing things. She said vaguely: “No, I was just annoyed by his chatter, so I told him he’d never find anyone to love him if he kept talking like that. I was only needling him — it was hardly a real conversation.”

Ming Huazhang gave a low sound of acknowledgment, then asked: “Does Huashang have someone she cares for?”

Ming Huashang found herself at a loss again. She had barely redirected the topic when Ming Huazhang pressed after it without relenting.

He was not so easily managed. In the past he had allowed her to dodge and sidestep — but only because he had chosen to go along with her. Tonight, he simply did not want to pretend any longer.

Ming Huazhang decided to ask directly: “At today’s banquet — who did you give your flower to?”

Ming Huashang glanced quickly at Ming Huazhang’s reflection in the mirror. Unfortunately, he was taller than her — even half-kneeling behind her he was still half a head above, and she couldn’t make out his expression clearly. She could only vaguely sense that his manner was composed and unhurried, his emotions seemingly steady.

Feeling somewhat reassured, she said boldly: “I gave it to Wei Zi.”

Ming Huazhang raised an eyebrow, his expression unreadable: “Truly?”

Ming Huashang thought to herself that Wei Zi’s mind was such that by the time this evening was over he’d have lost count of how many flowers he’d received — let alone remember whose they were. So she said with great conviction: “Truly.”

Ming Huazhang seemed to smile — faintly. He leaned forward, reached to the writing table, and picked up a rhinoceros-horn comb, drawing it slowly from the roots of Ming Huashang’s hair all the way to the ends.

When he had suddenly leaned close, every muscle in Ming Huashang’s back had tensed instinctively — but he was only reaching for something, and the warmth from him had grazed her arm for just a moment before withdrawing. As she registered that he was combing her hair, she did not relax; inexplicably she grew even more tense.

Even the motion of his fingers separating her dark hair seemed weighted with unspoken meaning. Ming Huashang was sitting there in quiet apprehension when, without warning, a voice struck her like a clap of thunder close beside her ear: “When the poetry was being written, I saw you step out. You didn’t come back for the better part of an hour. Where did you go?”

The hair at the back of her neck practically stood up. She sat frozen, rapidly trying to determine what exactly he had seen — whether this was something truly suspicious, or simply a brother’s ordinary concern for his sister. Ming Huashang weighed it for a moment, bit her lip, and then laughed as though nothing were amiss: “It was nothing — the banquet hall was too stuffy, so I stepped out for air.”

Ming Huazhang set down the rhinoceros-horn comb. He leaned slightly forward, bracing one hand on the writing table. It was a casual posture, effortlessly composed — the cool, clean scent of him like pine after fresh snow — and yet Ming Huashang’s nerves pulled taut without explanation.

He sat behind her, one arm propped on the surface beside her, a simple enough gesture, yet it felt like a cage sealed on three sides, leaving only one face open to the prisoner. Yet even that seemingly open side — one could not say whether it was an escape into open air, or a deeper trap.

Ming Huazhang held her in an indecipherable gaze and said: “Huashang. I will give you one last chance, and I want only the truth. Who did you go to meet?”

Ming Huashang’s fingers curled quickly. She tightened her grip, raised her eyes, and met his gaze in the mirror, still wearing her most guileless smile: “No one. I went to meet no one.”

Ming Huazhang let out an almost inaudible sigh, as if in regret. “Little sister, your patience really hasn’t changed at all.”

At six years old she practiced calligraphy — her characters never came out well, so she threw down the brush and never practiced again. At ten she took up the qin — spent half a month on a single piece, still couldn’t get it right, and then never bothered again. At sixteen she finally realized she should cultivate a better relationship with her brother, but after barely a year, she ran out of patience for that too.

From the time Ming Huazhang learned he was not truly of the Ming family — and thus, in relation to Ming Huashang, was an unrelated male — he had deliberately kept his distance. The Duke Zhenguo, also fearing that the constitutionally lazy Ming Huashang might lead Ming Huazhang astray, had similarly moved to keep them apart. Without that comparison, Ming Huashang’s laziness grew only more unquestioned; and Ming Huazhang was free to focus on becoming the kind of man worthy of Prince Zhanghuai’s legacy.

Before the age of four, they had been inseparable, even sleeping together. And yet as they grew older they drifted further apart. They might have sustained that coolly distant sibling relationship all the way through marriage and separate lives. Whether or not Ming Huazhang’s true identity was ever revealed, he would have quietly watched over her, helped care for her husband and children.

Then, the year they both turned sixteen, she had suddenly come to him. She followed him wherever he went. Ming Huazhang carried out a brother’s duties conscientiously — but they were not truly brother and sister, and many things that would be perfectly natural between siblings became transgressive between an unrelated man and woman.

While Ming Huazhang was struggling with this, troubled and uncertain, she seemed entirely untroubled — calling him “Elder Brother” in just the same tone she used with everyone else, turning around to make the same kind of gestures toward other young men.

Xie Jichuan. Su Xingzhi. Every one of them had been called “brother” by her at some point; every one had received her attention and praise. Xie Jichuan, at least, had a reason — but her partiality toward Su Xingzhi was entirely without basis.

And today — presenting her flower to Su Xingzhi, arranging a private meeting with Su Xingzhi, Ming Huazhang having seen with his own eyes Ming Huashang following closely on Su Xingzhi’s heels and reaching out to take hold of his arm.

Ming Huazhang was so furious he nearly broke apart inside. He was furious at Ming Huashang for saying she had no desire to marry and then developing feelings all the same — and furious at Su Xingzhi for that oblivious ingratitude, for daring to treat her that way.

Once fury passes its peak, anger becomes a cold and perfect calm. Ming Huazhang took composed leave of Princess Taiping, citing the need to send Ming Huashang home early. They had only just acknowledged each other — Princess Taiping would not refuse him over something like this, so she agreed. Prince Shao, overhearing, took the opportunity to propose leaving as well.

Afterward he calmly sent word to the Duke Zhenguo household to prepare things for her recovery from the wine and from fatigue. He was even capable of reasoning it through clearly: when a young woman’s heart is just awakening to love, a certain curious, ambiguous pull toward a brother figure is understandable; and that she should rein herself in and redirect her feelings toward another young man was also entirely reasonable.

And yet. She had been the one to come seeking him first. If she had no real feeling for him, why had she come at all? And having come, why could she not have continued to treat him well — and only him well?

By saying these words, Ming Huazhang had declared his intention to tear through the last veil of pretense between them, with all the finality of someone who, if he could not have the answer he wanted, saw no reason they should ever meet as they had before. Ming Huashang was silent for a long moment. All the unease that had been gnawing at her since the prophetic dream suddenly came crashing down, and she could no longer hold herself together. Her smile fell away. She turned her gaze cold and direct, staring straight into Ming Huazhang’s eyes: “Then let me ask you — how should I treat you?”

“My dear elder brother.”

The window had not been latched properly. A gust of wind flung it open. The candle flame leapt violently several times, then was extinguished by the cold air.

The room fell dark. The moonlight outside seemed all the brighter for it. The full moon was close now, and it grew more generous by the night — scattering silver light gently across the world. Thin threads of moonlight filtered through the latticework of the window and pooled on the floor, as though a layer of frost had settled there.

Ming Huashang and Ming Huazhang sat in this moonlit frost, facing each other, breathing the same air, neither willing to look away, yet neither saying a word.

Having spoken, Ming Huashang grew calm — she felt she had been perhaps too impulsive, but she did not regret it.

It had come to this, and she had nothing left to fear. Every day now might be her last. Ming Huashang had no desire to look back on her life at the end and regret the moments she had failed to be brave — the feelings for someone she had never spoken aloud. They might never see each other again after this, might become strangers — but she had to know one thing.

Who he truly was. And toward her — was it duty? Guilt? Or something deeper?

Having given voice to it, Ming Huashang found herself at peace. It was Ming Huazhang, now, who fell into long silence.

He suspected she had already guessed — she was perceptive, and her mind was clear. He didn’t know exactly when she had realized the truth, but evidently she had long since understood that they were not truly siblings.

There was nothing more to say. The only question was the answer he gave. If he said: “elder brother,” then Ming Huashang would continue in negotiations for a match and eventual marriage — and even if his identity were revealed someday, they would remain only siblings by a different name. If he said: “the man who loves you,” that was to confess something shameful and reprehensible — that he who held himself to the standard of a gentleman had developed unseemly feelings for his own sister.

Those feelings were dark and distorted, not fit to be seen. If she chose to reject him, that was what he deserved. But if she was willing — then they might go on as they had for the past seventeen years: sharing the same household, going out and returning together, she never marrying, he never taking a wife, their world undisturbed by any third party, until the truth came to light, or until the day he died.

Ming Huazhang wanted, of course, for Ming Huashang to remain by his side forever — never agreeing to meet another man to appease her elders, never in discussion of a match with any other. He did not mind the world’s censure or the Duke Zhenguo’s reproach. He had developed feelings for her knowing full well she was his “sister” — that was his own moral failing, his own willful transgression. He was willing to bear the blame.

But beyond the blame — what would the path forward look like? That he could not afford not to think through. To say “I love you” required only a moment’s impulse. But then what?

What of the Duke Zhenguo household? What of the unjust case against Prince Zhanghuai? What of all the people who had staked their lives and safety on the seventeen years they had stolen for him?

The situation could shift in an instant. Prince Wei watched with the eyes of a tiger. The Li family already walked on thin ice, and if his identity were exposed at this moment, not only would the Duke Zhenguo household and the Xie family be annihilated — even the Crown Prince and Prince Xiang, who had only just stepped back into the light, would be implicated. So many people had quietly dedicated themselves to restoring power to the Tang — he could not allow himself to become the undoing of the dynasty.

He trusted Ming Huashang completely. He believed she would guard his secret and never reveal his true identity. Yet Princess Taiping was already intent on using Ming Huashang as a shield, and Prince Wei had most likely already determined that Prince Zhanghuai’s orphan was somewhere among the two twins in the Duke Zhenguo household. If Ming Huashang were to die at this juncture, the matter would become impossible to clarify.

Even if Prince Wei suspected that Ming Huashang was not Prince Zhanghuai’s child — what would it matter then? A dead person cannot speak. The Duke Zhenguo and Xie Shen would not step forward and expose themselves. Even if Prince Wei brought the matter before the Empress, so long as all parties maintained ignorance, what could the Empress do about a young woman suspected of being her own granddaughter, but already dead? The only possible outcome would be to let the matter quietly dissolve.

If necessary, to sacrifice Ming Huashang — this was the unspeakable last resort already tacitly understood among those who knew the truth.

Had Ming Huazhang not known, it might have been different. But knowing Princess Taiping’s intentions, to tell her the truth now — what kind of love would that be? It would be hypocrisy. Selfishness.

He could, of course, act on a momentary impulse and tell her everything right now — bare his heart, confess that he cared for her deeply, and promise that when the Empress passed from this world and the Li family reclaimed its power, when his own father could finally be absolved of his wrongful charge, he would make her his wife. They could disregard convention, defy every code of propriety, live entirely in the present, asking not for permanence but only for this.

But imperial struggle would not soften its hand for the sake of their love. When Prince Wei traced a path to Ming Huazhang’s door — when Princess Taiping, the Xie family, perhaps even the Duke Zhenguo himself considered sacrificing the lesser piece to protect the greater — what then would become of her?

Let her take it with noble understanding, and cooperate in her own undoing? Or resist, and be condemned as disloyal and unfilial?

Ming Huazhang could not do it. He was incapable of lying to himself that this was love — giving her a moment of fleeting joy, then letting love itself become the thing that lured her to her death. Some words, once spoken, carry responsibility. He could not give voice to them while he remained powerless to clear her path, unable to shoulder her future.

Ming Huazhang clenched his fist hard, drew his hand back, and put distance between them.

He lowered his eyes. His voice, always cool, now carried a rough, quiet edge: “I’m sorry.”

Ming Huashang waited a long time, full of hope, and received only these two words. This was, without question, a refusal. As a woman with any pride remaining, she should have let it go — and yet she could not stop herself from reaching out and taking hold of his sleeve, her voice earnest: “Have you truly nothing to say to me? Whatever it is you are hesitating over — tell me, and I will face it with you.”

Ming Huazhang’s fingers pulled tight. He feared that if he let his guard down for even a moment his arms would disobey him and pull her close. He marshaled every last thread of reason, forced himself to withdraw his sleeve from her hand.

This was not an ordinary difficulty — the kind two people could weather by leaning on each other. The price here was her life.

His Huashang was resolute and brave, kind yet with a quiet edge. He was afraid that if she knew, she would expose herself — she would go to die in his place.

He could not take that risk. Too many people had already sacrificed themselves for his sake. If she were to die because of him, he would never forgive himself for as long as he lived.

Ming Huashang’s palm came away empty. In that instant it was as though something inside her had cracked open — the wind howling through — and all the warmth left her blood.

She could set aside a woman’s pride and reach out once, twice — but there was no possible version of herself that could reach for someone’s sleeve a third time after being pulled away.

Ming Huashang smiled, drew on the dignity of a grown young woman, and said: “It grows late, Second Brother. Please go back and rest. By the way — I think I’ll allow myself a small indulgence tomorrow morning and not go to the Jing Zhaoyiin office with you. Go ahead on your own; no need to wait for me.”

Ming Huazhang’s chest contracted with a sharp pain. In that moment he thought of Cheng Xun, of the second and third household branches. He had once seen Ming Huashang smile graciously at whatever the second branch mother and daughter said to her, never losing her temper, and had felt vaguely dissatisfied — how could she have so little spine, be so easily taken advantage of? But now, today, he finally understood what it felt like to be treated that way.

Because she did not care, she could keep up appearances. She did not feel it was even worth letting him stir her emotions. He would have preferred her anger, her temper — anything over this: her lips still curved in a smile, while her eyes were cold and courteous, drained of any warmth.

As if he had become a stranger. From this point on, she need not reply to his messages first, need not call for him before going out — and when her spirits were low, she would no longer come to speak with him.

Ming Huazhang’s lips moved. He found himself suddenly resenting his own clear-headedness — that even now he could calmly reason through every consequence, laying out what this impulsive moment would cost him, cost her, cost the larger situation. His life had been stolen for him. The pleasure of living on instinct was too much to ask for. He did not get to have it.

In the end, clarity won. He said quietly: “Take care on your way. Rest well. Good night.”

After Ming Huazhang left, Ming Huashang stared at the moonlight pooling on the floor — and then all the strength went out of her, and she crumpled onto the bed, folding her arms around her knees and burying herself in them. Zhao Cai saw that Ming Huazhang had gone, and crept inside. She pushed open the door to find Ming Huashang curled in on herself, and cried out in alarm: “Young Lady, what is the matter?”

Ming Huashang shook her head, her face still tucked against her knees. “Nothing — I’m only a little tired. Blow out the lamp and go to sleep. I want to be alone for a while.”

Zhao Cai seemed on the verge of saying something, then stopped herself. At last she quietly lowered the bed curtains, smoothed out the covers, moved the charcoal brazier closer to Ming Huashang, and said: “Young Lady, I haven’t read books and I don’t understand grand principles — a lot of your thinking is beyond me. But I know you will always be my Second Young Lady. Whatever has happened between you and Second Young Master, I stand with you. If you want to be alone, be alone — but if you want to talk, just call for me. Zhao Cai will always be here.”

Tears rose to Ming Huashang’s eyes. She gave a low sound of acknowledgment. “I know. Go on.”

“I’m going, then.” Zhao Cai left with several backward glances. “Young Lady, the bed-step is cold — please go sit on the bed.”

After many parting words, Zhao Cai finally left. The sound of the closing door came — and Ming Huashang raised her head. Her eyes were red. No sound came from her, but the tears fell like water breaching a dam, rolling one after another, unstoppable.

She kicked off her shoes, climbed onto the bed, and wept while pulling the covers around herself. Ming Huazhang had not said it aloud — but who else could have moved the Duke Zhenguo to cold-heartedly surrender his own daughter? Combined with the Xie family’s background and the way Xie Jichuan behaved toward Ming Huazhang, it was not difficult to connect the threads — he was most likely connected to Prince Zhanghuai, who had died unjustly seventeen years ago.

She could understand the Duke Zhenguo sending away his own daughter in order to protect the Crown Prince’s heir. She could understand that when suspicion fell on the Ming family and one of them had to be chosen, he chose Ming Huazhang. But even Su Yuji had Su Xingzhi beside her, steadfast and unwilling to leave — while she, the daughter her father had treasured most, had been cast aside without a moment’s hesitation when it counted. The elder brother she had most admired and respected, the one she would have traded her life to save, had at this crucial moment still refused to tell her the truth.

She did not know why she had been given that prophetic dream, but she knew: what it had shown was something that could very likely happen — something that perhaps had already happened. In the dream, she had died quietly and without trace. For a long time she had been unable to understand what terrible thing she could have done, why anyone would think it worth killing her. She had suspected Su Yuji, the Duke Zhenguo, the second and third branches, even her own maids — everyone except Ming Huazhang.

“I did not kill Bo Ren; yet Bo Ren died because of me.” He had never intended it, of course. But there was no denying it — she had died because of him. The only difference was whether it was his loved ones who had killed her, or his enemies.

She was a little more fortunate than the version of herself in the dream — she had learned the outcome a full year early. She had worked to save herself. Yet the more she refused to accept fate, the more she was chilled by fate’s indifference.

If she refused to die, then the ones to die would be him, the Duke Zhenguo, the Xie family — and all the loyal subjects who had silently protected the orphan of the Li Tang dynasty. To trade many lives for her one single life — was it worth it?

Ming Huashang could not choose. Time had come round again to her seventeenth year — the year of her death. Early that year, when the New Year’s fireworks had burst open the sky, and Ming Huazhang had bent over her to shield her from the sparks, she had in truth already stopped fighting.

At that point she had not yet known the particulars of the child-swapping, but she had already sensed that her death in the dream was connected to the struggle for imperial power. She resolved to walk calmly into the end that waited for her — for the vast gap in status, the inequality of information, left her without even the knowledge of when those princes and princesses intended to kill her. All she could do was live every day as though it were her last, and leave as few regrets as possible.

Ming Huashang had often asked herself: what is loyalty? What is filial devotion? The Duke Zhenguo had exchanged his own child for the Crown Prince’s orphan, and raised the young master with devotion and care. If this could be handed down to posterity, it would surely be praised as a righteous act throughout the court and the realm. But no one would remember that one daughter had been cast out to live in a stranger’s home for seventeen years; nor that another daughter had been raised at his side and loved and indulged — only to be abandoned without hesitation when the wave came crashing down, her life the price of seventeen years of wealth and privilege.

Ming Huashang had no wish to condemn the Duke Zhenguo, and no right to resent Ming Huazhang. It seemed as though none of them had any choice — they could only try to make the right decision with what they had. And yet all she wanted — all she had ever wanted — was for those she loved to tell her the truth.

The Duke Zhenguo would not. Ming Huazhang would not. And the only elder sister she had — may still have been filled with resentment toward her.