“Murong, you may go.” Yan Qing looked up. “As for the matter of the Eighth Miss, I know what to do.”

“Yes, miss.” With those words from Yan Qing, Murong gave a respectful bow and withdrew. Sure enough, the Young Master’s words were ones only the Young Mistress could decipher.

Once Murong had pulled the door shut behind her, Yan Qing set down her teacup. “Go wash up first.”

“Together?” He blinked, the suggestion plain in his voice.

Yan Qing shot him a look and tossed a towel at him. “Go by yourself.”

Shi Ting caught the towel she’d thrown, undeterred, and tried once more. “Really not together?”

His answer this time came in the form of another flying towel, which landed squarely over his head. The Director of the Division, thus struck, let out a long, drawn-out sigh.

Shi Ting bathed at remarkable speed, and by the time he came out, Yan Qing was already seated at the table, fresh and neat.

Once both of them had washed up and settled down, sleep refused to come. The image of those big-headed dolls with their fixed expressions kept surfacing in their minds. The smiles painted on those doll faces felt like the killer’s silent mockery.

Yan Qing picked up the rubbings E’Yuan had made of the numbers, her brow knitting slightly. “The performance troupe had dozens of big-headed dolls, yet the killer only stole four. Was that chance, or deliberate? If deliberate, then judging by the interval between killings, a fourth victim will appear before long.”

“Which is why we need to crack these numbers before the killer strikes again.” Shi Ting’s eyes grew heavy, and the hand resting on the table tightened involuntarily. “The Marshal is hosting a dance at the Egede Dance Hall next week. A number of people from the Di nation will be invited — on the surface it’s a social event, but in reality it’s an open-ended negotiation between the government faction and the Di nation. All three of these murders have targeted dance hall girls. I can’t help but connect this to next week’s dance.”

“You think the killer’s real target is the dance?”

“Even if it isn’t, the dance is bound to be caught up in it somehow.” Shi Ting’s voice was low. “The Marshal will soon order me to solve the case by a set deadline — otherwise it will affect the dance.”

“To solve the case, we have to crack the cipher first.” Yan Qing was a forensic pathologist, and ciphers were quite beyond her. Even in the modern world, serial cases where killers left coded messages to taunt the police only happened in novels and on television — they were almost unheard of in real life.

Shi Ting also had a copy of the rubbings. He stared at the seemingly random string of numbers, his brow furrowing slightly. “Actually, the cipher itself may be quite simple. The hard part is finding the key. Once we find the key and match it to the numbers, the cipher will unravel.”

“But how do we find the key? There are so many things in the world that can be represented by numbers. Who knows what framework the killer used to write this sequence.” Yan Qing pressed her fingers to her temple. “If the key comes from the killer’s own mind, cracking it would be next to impossible.”

“If the killer’s intent is to provoke our Military Police Division, then he would certainly have left clues about the key at the scene.” Shi Ting said, “We just haven’t found those clues yet.”

“Shi Ting, look at this.” Yan Qing listened to him while keeping her eyes fixed on the paper in her hand. “When this killer writes the number 7, the downstroke is perfectly straight, top to bottom.”

Most people, when writing a 7, give the lower stroke a slight diagonal slant. It was rare for anyone to write the digit with a completely vertical line.

“All four 7s in here are written the same way.”

Shi Ting leaned over for a closer look. “You’re right.”

The other digits were written in fairly ordinary ways, nothing particularly notable about them. Only the 7 stood out — clearly a distinctive habit of the killer’s handwriting.

“If we ever narrow down our suspects, this could be one of the criteria for identifying the killer.”

“Well done.” Shi Ting gave her head an affectionate rub, a smile crossing his face.

She had just washed her hair, and it was still soft and slightly fluffy. Being this close, he could catch the clean, fresh scent of it clearly.

“Even so, finding a suspect is no easy task.” Yan Qing sighed almost immediately, deflating like a punctured balloon. “We don’t even know whether the killer is male or female, tall or short, heavy or slight.”

“Don’t rush. You eat a meal one bite at a time, and you find clues one piece at a time.”

Shi Ting glanced at his watch. “It’s late. Get some rest.”

Once they were both lying in bed, Shi Ting reached over and switched off the electric light, and darkness rushed in to engulf everything.

“Shi Ting, why do you think the killer deliberately left a cipher?” Yan Qing nestled against his broad, solid chest, tracing idle circles on him with one finger.

“Stop thinking about the case.” He suddenly caught her hand, his voice a little husky. “And stop moving around.”

Outside, moonlight spilled in through the window and fell across the warm, red-gauze canopy, fell across their two hands clasped together.

Yan Qing held perfectly still, pressing herself carefully against his chest. Through the thin layer of fabric, she could feel the strong, steady beat of his heart.

He told her not to move, so she truly dared not. She knew that even the smallest motion on her part could stir his desire.

A low, amused sound came from above her head. “So obedient?”

Yan Qing pressed her lips together and said nothing.

“All right, all right.” Shi Ting patted her back gently. “Your husband is very tired tonight — I won’t do anything to you.”

Yan Qing did not quite believe him. As it turned out, whatever he said with his mouth, his body was not tired in the slightest — in certain respects, one could only call him a master.

“Sleep.” Shi Ting pressed a soft kiss to the top of her hair. “There’s plenty more to do tomorrow.”

“Mm.” Yan Qing gently closed her eyes. “Husband, good night.”

“Wife, good night.”

The arm encircling her waist drew her in a little tighter. His clear, refined voice echoed softly near her ear, and even the dreams that came that night felt pleasant.

When Yan Qing woke, Shi Ting was already gone.

Jing Zhi came in to bring water and told her that Shi Ting had left before dawn had even broken.

“Miss, what’s this?” Jing Zhi picked up the sheet of paper on the table. “So many numbers — is it a telephone number?”

—