Ming Huazhang had been reading with uncommon gravity — a solemn, focused expression wholly unlike his usual manner. The moment Ming Huashang so much as twitched a finger, he noticed. He immediately set down what he was holding and leaned forward to support her. “Shang Shang, you’re awake. How do you feel — is there anywhere that’s uncomfortable?”

Ming Huashang shook her head slowly. Ming Huazhang helped her sit up, then turned to pour a cup of clear water, which he offered to her with careful hands. Ming Huashang instinctively shied away. His movement faltered, his fingers tightening for just a moment; he did not press her, but instead placed the cup directly into her own hands.

Ming Huashang cradled the cup and drank in small sips. The water carried a faint saltiness — neither hot nor cold, but exactly the right temperature to drink. She finished the cup quickly. Before she could even open her mouth, Ming Huazhang, as though he could read her thoughts, poured her another.

“You had a fever and sweated a great deal. The physician said you need to replenish salt and water. The taste may seem a little strange — bear with it.”

Ming Huashang had spent an entire day and night burning with fever; her mind had gone numb from it. Whatever Ming Huazhang placed in her hands, she drank without question, obediently swallowing the half-cooled salt water. When she had finally drunk enough and set the cup down, she noticed that the maps from before had disappeared.

She had not even registered when Ming Huazhang had put them away.

Ming Huazhang had tucked the maps away without making a scene, unwilling to let those matters disturb her recovery. She was perceptive by nature — quick to sense the psychology of criminals, but equally quick to be wounded by their malice.

That was precisely why he had, from the very beginning, refused to let her reconstruct a killer’s mindset through immersive re-enactment. When she stepped into a killer’s perspective, she could effortlessly deduce what drove the person’s actions and what desires they sought to fulfil. That certainly aided the investigation — but to be submerged in a vat of ink for too long left even the most steadfast white paper stained with black marks. And Ming Huashang’s emotions had never been particularly armoured.

In her current state, seeing Zhao Cai’s body would surely be a devastating blow. Yet he also feared that if she never said a final farewell to Zhao Cai, she would carry that guilt for years to come — so he had done everything in his power to preserve Zhao Cai’s remains. Whenever she recovered enough to face it, she could decide for herself whether she wished to go.

He had not been able to save Zhao Cai, nor could he be ill in her place. What he could do was place himself between her and the world — shielding her from every doubt, every hostile word, every pressure from outside — so that she could simply be herself, without burden. Whatever she decided, Ming Huazhang would help her see it through.

Yet in Ming Huashang’s presence, he breathed none of this. He spoke as though nothing had happened, asking in a warm voice: “Would you like something to eat?”

Ming Huashang nodded slowly. Ming Huazhang had a maidservant bring a bowl of medicinal broth, tested its temperature, and set it within her reach. The moment she finished, he took the empty bowl from her and placed a candied fruit in her palm.

The stone had already been removed. Ming Huashang rested the fruit on her tongue and let a soft, gentle sweetness spread through her mouth, overriding the faint bitterness the medicine had left behind.

She had not said a single word, yet she found that every small thing had already been considered on her behalf. His care was like a spring rain — thorough, all-encompassing, soft as water soaking into the earth — and yet it placed no weight upon her. If anything, it was more thoughtful than anything she might have arranged for herself.

When she finished the candied fruit, Ming Huashang finally spoke her first words since waking: “I want more.”

Ming Huazhang heard her voice and visibly relaxed, the tension easing from his brow. His tone remained gentle but carried a quiet firmness: “Only one more. It is late — too much sweetness will cause a toothache.”

Ming Huashang gave a soft sound of assent. Ming Huazhang quickly fetched another piece. He seemed mindful of her earlier recoil when she had refused to be fed; he made no further attempt to offer it directly. Instead, he placed the candied fruit in her palm and drew back — attentive, measured, and perfectly gentlemanly.

Ming Huashang ate two sweet jujubes in a row, and strength seemed to flow back into her body. She was just beginning to feel bothered by the stickiness on her fingertips when Ming Huazhang produced a damp cloth and cleaned her fingers one by one. He returned the cloth to the basin, wrung it out with slow, even pressure, and draped it neatly over the rim of the bronze basin. Then he picked up a dry cloth, casually wiped the moisture from his own hands, and reached out to press the back of his hand to Ming Huashang’s forehead. “Still a little warm — you need to sweat it out more. Are these quilts too heavy? Should I bring a lighter one?”

Ming Huashang said, her voice still hoarse: “Second Elder Brother, you don’t need to be this careful. I’m all right.”

Ming Huazhang looked at her for a moment and said nothing. He turned to the maidservants: “Take all of this and clear it away, then withdraw. Your attendance is not needed here.”

The maids answered in quiet voices, gathered up the cups and the basin, and pattered out. The door closed again. Ming Huazhang drew the quilt around Ming Huashang and remarked, with an almost casual air: “I have told Father everything — about the two of us.”

During her fever, Ming Huashang’s mind had been clouded; when she had seen him at that moment she had not been able to stop herself from breaking down in tears. Now that her head had cleared somewhat, every word of their conversation that night came flooding back. Recalling the sight of herself clinging to Ming Huazhang and weeping, she felt nothing but embarrassment.

From here onward, they were only siblings. She ought to keep her distance. She had refused to let him feed her water; she had refused his company; she had consciously been steering things back to the proper space between a brother and sister. She had been quietly drawing that line — and was utterly unprepared to hear those words from Ming Huazhang’s lips.

It was nothing short of a thunderclap out of clear skies. Ming Huashang’s head shot up, all her resolve to maintain distance forgotten in an instant. She stared at him in disbelief: “What did you say?”

Ming Huazhang’s expression remained as calm as ever. He reached out and straightened her sleeve, as though the loosened cuff in that moment were the most important matter under Heaven. Unhurried, he said: “Although I believe you already know, there are certain things I still want to tell you myself. I am not truly your elder brother. I am the son of Crown Prince Zhānghuái. These years, I have been sheltered by the grace of Duke Zhenguo, and raised in the Ming household as a ward. The question you asked me once — I wish to answer it now. Is it still not too late?”

Ming Huashang was completely stunned. Ming Huazhang looked at her expression and smiled, reaching out to smooth the soft, somewhat ruffled strands of her hair. He said: “I have been your elder brother for seventeen years, and I do not know how well I have done. If it has been passable — then from this point forward, may I stand by your side, not as a brother, but as a man?”

Ming Huashang’s fever had not yet broken. Her eyes were bright with moisture, her cheeks flushed, and the dazed look on her face was like a little deer that had lost its way — inspiring both tenderness and longing.

Ming Huazhang dearly wished to touch her cheek, but checked himself before his hand reached it. He drew his palm back from her hair and spoke with the restraint of a brother who knew the proper bounds: “There is no pressure. I tell you all this only because I felt the matter deserved a reply — for your sake, and for mine. Whatever you answer, nothing will change. I will continue to fulfil my responsibilities as your elder brother.”

Under that gaze, Ming Huashang found herself at a loss. She lowered her eyes and said softly: “Since there is no blood between us, what responsibilities could there be?”

“Of course there are,” Ming Huazhang said, with perfect seriousness. “These are debts I owe your family.”

Ming Huashang heard those words as though she were listening to a divine judgement whose verdict she had known all along — not surprised, only emptied and exhausted. She leaned back against the bolster, retreating into the pillow, and said: “You owe me nothing. It is I who have wronged her. I occupied the place in the Duke’s household yet achieved nothing in letters or in arms, and still required all of your care and attention. If only the one who had been sent away were me — she would have been here, and she would certainly have done far better than I ever did.”

Ming Huazhang gripped her hand firmly and said: “Shang Shang, you are wonderful — you are irreplaceable. No one could ever take your place. Your sister being sent away is not your fault. The accident in the case is not your fault. Rest and recover, and do not let your mind wander like this.”

Ming Huashang still had her eyes cast down, without energy or spirit. Two days before, she would have agreed to stand alongside Ming Huazhang without a moment’s hesitation — willing to face with him the questions of his birth, his grief and vengeance, their uncertain future, and the endless gossip of the world. But now, Ming Huashang had lost her courage.

Zhao Cai’s death had struck the naïve, hopeful, brimming-with-life Ming Huashang like a heavy hammer blow. She had once told Princess Yongtai with full confidence that she would live bravely as herself; she had once believed she had the courage to face every prejudice in the world. But now she discovered that she was not capable of it at all.

She was nowhere near as brave and strong as she had imagined herself to be. Her recklessness only brought disaster to the people around her. Perhaps, as Elder Madam Ming had said, to marry and bear children quietly, to live a proper and orderly life within the rules — perhaps that truly was the right way.

Watching Ming Huashang’s fragile expression, Ming Huazhang’s heart ached. He wanted to pull her close and hold her tight, but was afraid of startling her. He clenched his fingers, hating his own helplessness with a ferocity that had nowhere to go.

There came a knock from outside. A guard stopped at the door and said: “Second Young Master, there is a child who wishes to see you.”

Ming Huazhang’s brow drew together; his lips pressed into a thin line. He had a fairly good guess as to which child it might be, but Ming Huashang was at her most vulnerable right now, and he wanted to stay here with her—

Ming Huashang could see that Ming Huazhang was conflicted. She spoke up of her own accord: “Second Elder Brother, go attend to your business. I’m a little drowsy — I want to sleep a while.”

Even in a moment like this, she was still thinking of others. Ming Huazhang’s lips parted slightly, then pressed together again. He gently helped her lie back down, and said in a warm voice: “Very well. I’ll be back before long — rest easy.”

He summoned a maidservant, gave quiet instructions about when to change her water and when to give her medicine, and then slipped out, taking care with each step.

Ming Huashang lay on her side behind the bed curtains, staring blankly at the vivid, ornate interlocking flower pattern overhead. Sleep refused to come.

She could not have slept anyway. Since the previous night, she had done nothing but sleep, until her very bones ached from it. Ming Huashang turned over and asked the maids: “What has become of Prince Shao and the heir of Prince Wei?”

Jin Bao and the others started, only then realising Ming Huashang had spoken. They kept their voices hushed, moving with utmost care, afraid of startling her: “Prince Shao has passed away. The heir of Prince Wei did not have sufficient fortune; he could not be saved either.”

Ming Huashang was dazed for a long moment before sitting up and asking: “And Princess Yongtai?”

Princess Yongtai had been compelled to divorce Ji Xian and was remarried to Wu Yanji. Fortunately, the two of them had gotten along well enough, and after she became with child, their life together had begun to find a measure of contentment. If Wu Yanji was dead, what would become of her?

The maids seemed to release a small, quiet sigh; their voices dropped lower still: “Princess Yongtai was so frightened that she miscarried, and then passed away as well, following Prince Shao and the heir of Prince Wei.”

Ming Huashang took in those words and went completely still. She whispered to herself: “How can this be… only two days ago, they were all perfectly fine…”

·

Ming Huazhang walked to the outer courtyard. The moment he stepped through the door, he glanced up and caught sight of two small, thin silhouettes behind the window frame — and thought to himself: of course.

The visitors were the young errand-runner from that day, and true to his word, he had brought along the young beggar who had carried the message to Yan Jingcheng.

The two children, finding themselves inside the Duke’s estate, were fidgety and ill at ease, yet could not help letting their eyes wander everywhere with curiosity. When they heard footsteps and turned to find a tall, strikingly handsome young gentleman standing in the gathering dusk, both of them froze for a moment.

The beggar boy, catching his first glimpse of someone who looked like a figure descended from the celestial realm, was suddenly and acutely aware of his own shabbiness; he did not even know what to do with his hands. The other child, however, saw Ming Huazhang and broke into excitement, running over with rapid steps: “I found him!”

Ming Huazhang smiled and walked into the main hall, speaking warmly: “Thank you. It must have been tiring, coming all this way so late in the evening. Would you like something to eat?”

The errand-runner immediately said: “I want chilled pastry!”

“Very well.” Ming Huazhang crouched down to their level, patiently asking: “What flavour would you like?”

The errand-runner showed not the slightest awe of Ming Huazhang, declaring without ceremony: “I want red bean — a big plateful!”

Ming Huazhang nodded and turned to the beggar boy: “And you?”

His features were striking, his bearing uncommon, yet his manner was entirely warm and easy. The beggar boy’s courage slowly gathered, and he said: “I want cherry.”

Ming Huazhang agreed to both with gentle composure, sending word to the kitchens to prepare two portions of shaved-ice dessert — one topped with red bean, one with cherry. After that, he invited the two children to sit, treating them with the same courtesy he would afford a guest from a noble household, with not a trace of condescension because of their age or their ragged clothes.

Ming Huazhang said: “The kitchen will need a little time to prepare the desserts. In the meanwhile, would you be willing to tell me — that day, who was it that sent you to bring word to Yan Jingcheng?”

Receiving this rare sense of respect, the two children — though they knew full well that a gulf like heaven and earth separated them from Ming Huazhang — felt not the slightest discomfort, and poured out the whole account of that day like water from a tilted jar.

Ming Huazhang looked at them with genuine attention, nodding from time to time. For the first time in his life, the beggar boy became aware that someone was actually listening to what he said. He grew happier with every word, his speech steadying and losing its stammer: “The person wore a black cloak and a green ghost-face mask — I didn’t see what he looked like. But I remember there was a mole on his hand.”

Ming Huazhang extended his own hand and let the beggar boy point to the exact location, not minding at all that the boy’s hand was dirty. The boy pointed to a spot in short order. Ming Huazhang narrowed his eyes slightly, fell into thought for a moment, then asked: “Do you remember whether he reached out his left hand or his right when he gave you the thing?”

The beggar boy considered for a while. “I think… the left.”

Ming Huazhang’s chest tightened. The wound in Zhao Cai’s abdomen had been inflicted by someone who was left-handed. Ming Huazhang called in several guards and asked: “How tall was this person? Whose build does he most resemble?”

The beggar boy walked around the assembled guards once, then pointed with some hesitation at one of them: “A bit like him.”

Ming Huazhang asked: “Was the person very thin?”

The beggar boy nodded: “Yes. Oh — I just remembered — whenever he spoke to me, he kept coughing.”

Ming Huazhang offered his quiet thanks, and had a retainer take the two children to a side room to eat. In addition to the desserts, he arranged for hot food to be prepared for them as well.

They were still growing. The evening meal ought to centre on warm soup dishes. If they were truly fond of sweet things, they could take the desserts away with them.

After the children left, Ming Huazhang stood alone under the eaves. He gazed at the deepening sky — a wash of cobalt fading layer by layer into black — and at length said: “Send for Rěndōng.”

·

Night fell. There was no moon that night, but a sky full of cold stars.

Ming Huashang lay in bed, turning left and right, unable to sleep no matter how she tried. Resigning herself with a quiet sigh, she gathered her quilt around her and sat up. She leaned against the screen panel and stared, somewhat dazedly, at the shadows pooling on the floor.

She had told herself that Li Chongrun and Wu Yanji were, at the end of the day, imperial grandsons and sons — that even if the Empress was furious, she would not truly have them beaten to death. She had told herself that with so many people in the imperial family, someone would find a way to save them.

And yet, they truly had been beaten to death.

Two illustrious princes — the Empress’s own grandsons, the crown prince’s eldest legitimate son — beaten to death publicly at the Danfeng Gate. It was beyond comprehension.

That a pregnant woman had been frightened to death — how utterly despairing Princess Yongtai must have been in those final moments? And when Ming Huazhang learned all this, how wretched must he have felt?

Yet she had not asked him a single word about it. She had let him spend the entire day caring for her, while he had come forward to address everything left unspoken between them — and she had buried her head and avoided it, selfishly consuming his tenderness as though it were owed to her.

And yet he was the one who was most grief-stricken, who had endured the most. She had lost Zhao Cai; but Ming Huazhang had lost a cousin-brother, a cousin-sister, a cousin-brother-in-law, and a nephew not yet born into the world. What he carried was far heavier than anything she bore.

Ming Huashang sat in a daze, when all at once a cool draft swept in through the window. The bed curtains shifted gently, disturbing the stillness of the night. Ming Huashang came back to herself and looked up instinctively: “Second Elder Brother?”

No answer came from outside. A chill ran through Ming Huashang. Her hand moved by reflex toward the underside of her pillow — only to find nothing there.

She had spent this entire day in a fog. Where would she have thought to stash a weapon? Ming Huashang pressed her nails quietly into her palm and kept her face perfectly composed as she slipped out of bed and walked unhurriedly toward the door.

If whoever it was had come and gone without alerting anyone, playing the fool would do her no good. She might as well face it directly. The closer she was to the door and window, the sooner she could cry out for help when the moment came.

Ming Huashang lifted the bed curtain and raised her eyes — and found herself face to face with an unexpected, yet somehow not entirely unsurprising, person.

Su Yuji stood in a pocket of deep shadow, watching her in silence.