From the time of the incident at the Four Deities Temple, Zhang Yuanchu had not thought very highly of Chen Baoxiang.

This person was crude and discourteous, ignorant of social convention, and there were even rumors about her killing her own father.

If not for the fact that anything involving her sent Zhang Fengqing into a frenzy, Zhang Yuanchu would have moved against her several months ago, just as the Wang and Gu families had.

But now.

With the great edifice already crumbling and crisis bearing down, he had to go and beg her for mercy.

Zhang Yuanchu went to call upon the Pingqing Marquis estate, steeling himself.

Before going, he had already prepared himself — knowing this was not someone easy to deal with, expecting she might name an exorbitant price.

But Chen Baoxiang looked at him and said only one thing, her expression completely flat: “Give Zhang Zhixu to me.”

Zhang Yuanchu was taken aback: “He is a member of the Zhang family — by rights he should advance and retreat together with the Zhang family.”

“Advance and retreat together?” Chen Baoxiang gave a derisive laugh. “When he was being held responsible for the institutional reforms, why didn’t you think about advancing and retreating together? When Shangjing fell into upheaval and you pushed him forward as your shield and last resort — why didn’t you think about advancing and retreating together then?”

“He was born into an aristocratic family and has lived a privileged life — naturally he has responsibilities he must bear.”

“A privileged life, is that so?” Chen Baoxiang clapped both hands together.

Qianlafu immediately came out cradling a thick ledger, sat down nearby with brush and ink at the ready.

“Do me the favor of calculating how much money you have spent on him over the years — I will settle the entire sum on his behalf.”

Zhang Yuanchu felt some irritation, yet dared not let it erupt, and only pressed his voice down: “A parent’s grace and kindness — can that really be calculated in money?”

“Very well, then let us speak of grace and kindness.” Chen Baoxiang nodded. “Apart from arranging all manner of lessons for him, applying family discipline, and using him to compensate for your own regrets — tell me what else there is in the way of grace and kindness. I’ll have someone record it here.”

Zhang Yuanchu was stunned.

He felt he had been affronted by Chen Baoxiang — what right did an outsider like her have to lecture him about his relationship with his own son?

“Can’t remember anything, can you?” Chen Baoxiang was clearly not prepared to let the matter drop. “After each time you injured him, did you ever send medicine?”

“…”

“When he passed the examination and placed third — when he took up the post as head of the Bureau of Construction — did you ever once praise him?”

“…”

“His birthdays — apart from his coming-of-age ceremony — did you ever spend them with him?”

“Of course I did.” This question he answered quickly enough.

Chen Baoxiang shook her head: “I mean truly spend time with him — not sit in the main hall waiting for him to come and pay his respects, and then put on a performance of lecturing him for a few sentences before leaving him to deal with the guests by himself.”

Zhang Yuanchu: “…”

Unable to contain himself, he said: “We are a distinguished aristocratic family — how can we conduct ourselves the same way as ordinary common households? A strict father is a blessing for his son.”

“Strictness and having not a shred of human warmth are two entirely different things. That it is a blessing is because he was willing to be guided — not because you know how to put on airs.” Chen Baoxiang’s gaze went ice-cold. “What I find strange is how a person with such a fine upbringing could still lack any desire to go on living — it is because you have never truly loved him from childhood to now, and so he came to believe that he could die like a tool, and it would not matter.”

Absurd — his own flesh and blood; how could he possibly not love him?

Zhang Yuanchu carefully searched through his memories of all these years, trying to find some warm and tender recollections of father and son to offer in rebuttal.

But after a lengthy search, he fell silent.

One could not blame himself for this — great aristocratic families were simply different from ordinary households. He had never had the time to accompany a child at play. Many things could be done by servants; he naturally had no need to attend to them personally.

His high regard and expectations for Zhang Zhixu were already the finest grace and kindness there could be.

Chen Baoxiang was a woman — she simply didn’t understand.

“Just tell me directly what your terms are.” He was losing patience.

Chen Baoxiang regarded him with cold eyes, clenched her fist, then unclenched it, and at last bit down and exhaled a breath.

·

Zhang Zhixu woke from his sleep to find himself already in Chen Baoxiang’s room.

He moved his injured arm, and was just about to call for Jiuquan to ask what had happened, when he turned his head and saw his father sitting at his bedside, the corners of his mouth stiffly drawn up.

Seeing him open his eyes, Zhang Yuanchu did not scold him, nor did he lose his temper — instead, using both hands, he lifted a bowl of thousand-thread pork congee and asked him with paternal warmth: “Are you hungry?”

Zhang Zhixu froze.

Twenty years — this most ordinary of exchanges between father and son; not once had he ever heard it from Zhang Yuanchu’s lips.

It all felt rather unreal.

“Ningsu said your teacher found you the finest medicine available, and your injuries have stabilized.” He brought the short side table along with all the dishes on top of it over to set before Zhang Zhixu. “There is nothing I can do to help, so I made some appetizing food for you. Have a taste.”

Zhang Zhixu’s pupils contracted sharply.

His father — with his own hands — had cooked food?

A faint shiver ran through him; he even began to wonder whether the injury to his back was not a surface wound at all, but some mortal disease on the verge of claiming his life.

“Father has been busy of late — there is no need to go to such trouble for me.”

“You are my son — how could I not take extra care of you?” Zhang Yuanchu placed the chopsticks in his hand, and seeing him try to sit up straight, even thoughtfully adjusted the pillow behind his back to prop him higher.

Zhang Zhixu: “…”

He must truly be close to death — how else to account for such a preposterous delusion?

“You’re awake?” Chen Baoxiang poked her head in from outside.

Zhang Zhixu looked toward her at once, eyes filled with a desperate plea for rescue.

But Chen Baoxiang walked to his bedside and asked Zhang Yuanchu with complete naturalness: “Have you had your morning meal yet?”

“I ate before coming over.” Zhang Yuanchu replied warmly. “I was delayed on the road and worried the congee might get cold, so I had it warmed up in your kitchen.”

“We’re all family here — no need for such formalities.” Chen Baoxiang covered her mouth, laughing.

“…” Zhang Zhixu shifted himself slightly further away from her.

He hesitated for a moment, then reached out and pinched himself firmly on the thigh.

Hiss—

“What are you doing instead of eating properly, child?” Zhang Yuanchu piled several more pieces of meat into his bowl. “Eat more — you’ve lost a lot of weight recently, you need to build your strength up.”

“Baoxiang, you eat too — don’t you love meat best?”

“Yes, I will.”

The two of them harmoniously helped themselves to dishes together, then turned their heads to look at him.

Zhang Zhixu instinctively reached out and helped himself to dishes along with them.

Zhang Yuanchu nodded approvingly, and continued piling food into his bowl while going on at length about his injuries and asking after his wellbeing, making plans for the whole family to go on an outing together once the examination results were posted, and then saying that since he happened to have some free time recently, he could go fly kites with him.

Chen Baoxiang sat beside them, listening and nodding along.

Just as they were getting into the spirit of it, Zhang Yuanchu suddenly stammered to a halt, his mouth opening and closing, a flash of bewilderment crossing his expression.

Zhang Zhixu looked at him, puzzled: “What is it?”

Zhang Yuanchu took the opportunity to clutch his own throat and stand: “A fish bone is caught. I’ll go to the kitchen and drink some vinegar.”

“Allow me to show you the way.” Chen Baoxiang rose with a smile to see him out the door.

The moment they stepped outside and rounded the corner, her expression changed abruptly. “What happened?”

Zhang Yuanchu stood with clasped hands, his posture very dignified, though his voice was distinctly sheepish: “The slip of paper you gave me got wet from the soup — the writing is completely smudged.”

“Didn’t I tell you to memorize it in advance?”

“There was too much of it. I keep needing to glance at it to remember the next line.” Zhang Yuanchu was mildly indignant. “And it is not as if I’m complaining, but what sort of lines did you have someone write for you? Didn’t you see that Fengqing looked completely terrified?”

“I don’t care — you agreed to do as I said, so you need to finish delivering all those lines.” Chen Baoxiang’s expression turned ominous. “Otherwise everything I promised you can also be considered void.”

Zhang Yuanchu was absolutely furious — he had lived to this age and once held high station, and now he was being held over a barrel by a young girl.

But then he thought of the generous terms Chen Baoxiang had offered.

He composed his smile again and returned to the room to continue piling food into Zhang Zhixu’s bowl.