Dusk had fallen and all was quiet. But the night in Pingkang Ward was only just beginning to come alive. Shantea leaned against the window, listening to the seductive and exuberant music coming from the brothel next door, and fumed, tearing and releasing her handkerchief over and over.

The Jing Zhao Office had clearly ruled that Zhang Sanlang had died by his own hand, and that it had nothing to do with Tianxiang Tower. Yet the guests still considered it bad luck, and even the regular clients refused to come through the door. The other brothels, seizing the opportunity, were gleefully poaching Tianxiang Tower’s business, and Shantea had watched with her own eyes as women far inferior to herself were elevated to the position of top courtesan. Some of them had even brought out red silk ribbons and were openly imitating her aerial dance.

Shantea was trembling with rage, and yet when she looked at her own leg, she felt that even heaven was working against her. It would be at least a month before she could dance again. After a month — to say nothing of Pingkang Ward as a whole, even within Tianxiang Tower, how many people would still remember her?

Shantea was brooding when she heard voices in the corridor, and it sounded as though someone had gone out. She craned her neck and asked the woman in the room across the way who had her window open: “What is it?”

The figure across the way shifted and said in an insinuating tone: “What else could it be — the young master has taken a fancy to our top courtesan and has called her for a private performance. That’s all.”

This was like driving a blade into Shantea’s heart. She went momentarily quiet. The woman across the way was still not satisfied and drifted on: “The young master has shown particular favour to Yuqiong — two full days now, every evening he calls for her alone. The way things are going, tonight he may well keep her there through the night. The young master treats those two handmaidens of his so indulgently — a sign he’s soft-hearted and easily managed. The way I see it, Yuqiong is about to step up and fly into the Marquis of Jiang’an’s household as his phoenix consort.”

Shantea slammed her window shut with a bang. The woman across the way let out a faint sniff of contempt. She turned and looked through her wide-open door to the room opposite — just in time to see Yuqiong entering Guanghan Yueyuan.

Then the door to Guanghan Yueyuan closed, leaving no crack for the outside world to peer through. The woman sighed deeply and felt thoroughly wistful.

To personally attend on a wealthy young lord of noble birth and dashing youth — why was it never her turn for something like that?

Guanghan Yueyuan.

After Ren Yao shut the door, Yuqiong stood in the entrance and looked at the tightly shuttered, brightly lit room. An instinctive premonition of ill fortune settled over her. She smiled and said: “Young Master, Chang’an evenings can feel rather close. Why not open the window for some air?”

Jiang Ling sat sprawled on the couch and said: “I don’t like open windows. Too noisy.”

Yuqiong smiled gently: “As the young master says. Yesterday’s piece was left unfinished — shall I continue?”

“Not in the mood.”

Yuqiong startled slightly and smiled: “Yuqiong has been presumptuous, taking liberties on the young master’s behalf. What would the young master prefer to hear?”

Jiang Ling had one leg propped up on the couch, his arm resting carelessly on it, and said: “I’ve heard so many pipa melodies from childhood to now — at least eighty, if not a hundred. I’m honestly weary of it. Why not set the pipa down and just talk?”

Yuqiong’s fingers tightened around the pipa, her knuckles turning faintly white: “At the young master’s command, Yuqiong would not dare refuse. But Yuqiong has little experience and no great learning — I fear I would disappoint you.”

“That’s all right. Just tell me about yourself.” Jiang Ling said. “For instance — your relationship with Weitan and Zhang Ziyun. I hear Weitan was on very familiar terms with you and often called for you at his estate — he was a regular client of yours. But recently, both men have died. How strange.”

Yuqiong knew this evening was not going to end well. Ever since the Marquis of Jiang’an’s young master had appeared at Tianxiang Tower after the murder, showing no reluctance to walk about despite the ill omen, she had felt something was off. And so it was — these visitors had not come with good intentions.

Yuqiong remained composed. Holding her pipa, she answered with neither servility nor arrogance: “I have had an ill-fated life, and in my early years a Daoist priest read my birth chart. He said my destiny was a strong one, likely to be harmful to my household. Perhaps it is true that I am a bringer of misfortune — every man who was good to me has died by accident, while I alone remain perfectly well.”

Inwardly, Jiang Ling clicked his tongue. That was a clever move — turning retreat into advance. Better than even his stepmother could manage. Jiang Ling patted the seat beside him and said: “That pipa of yours looks heavy. Isn’t it tiring to hold it? Set it down and sit for a moment — I’ll hold the pipa for you.”

Yuqiong smiled: “That would be improper. You are of noble birth, young master — Yuqiong dares not presume.”

Jiang Ling tilted his head and looked at her for a moment, then suddenly smiled: “Can’t, or won’t?”

Yuqiong cast her eyes slightly downward, her expression perfectly still: “Yuqiong does not understand what the young master means.”

“Don’t understand? Then shall we switch to a topic that’s easier to understand — like how you killed Zhang Ziyun and staged it as a suicide, and stole Weitan’s painting from his walking cane?”

Yuqiong’s heart contracted when she heard the word “painting.” She knew the blade had finally come down. Her fingers drew tight, gripping the pipa close. She lowered her eyes and asked quietly: “Who are you people? Are you actually the Young Master of the Marquis of Jiang’an?”

Jiang Ling blinked at her with a grin: “Your guess?”

Yuqiong’s face fell. She had found those two handmaidens dressed as men strange from the start — they showed no interest in competing for the young master’s favour, no desire to attend him, but instead wandered freely about every corner of Tianxiang Tower. But daunted by the power of the Marquis of Jiang’an, she had reasoned that no one would have the audacity to impersonate the son of a marquis, and so had held back and waited.

She had never imagined she would come to grief in so unexpected a place.

Yuqiong understood: they had called her here and said all these things because they wanted the painting’s whereabouts. She resolved not to say another word. Jiang Ling clicked his tongue and said: “They said the painting was hidden inside your pipa. I didn’t quite believe it — but it’s true after all, isn’t it?”

Yuqiong felt as though she had been cast into an abyss of ice. Her last fragment of hope was shattered. At that moment, a coolness pressed against the side of her neck. The handmaid who had closed the door a moment ago had appeared from nowhere at her back, a short blade against her artery: “Miss Yuqiong, I find it difficult to hurt someone with a beautiful face. Will you hand it over yourself, or shall I take it?”

Jiang Ling tapped his knee with his fingers in a leisurely rhythm and clicked his tongue: “Nonsense. You never showed any such reluctance when it came to hurting me.”

Ren Yao narrowed her eyes, her mood evidently volatile. Ming Huashang could not bear to see this escalate and stepped out from behind the screen: “That’s enough — we are in front of Miss Yuqiong. No coarse language, please. Miss Yuqiong, we have the deepest admiration for your talent and truly have no wish to make things difficult for you. The painting is not something you should be holding. Return it to us now, and I can guarantee your safety.”

A flash of contempt crossed Yuqiong’s eyes. Amusing — she was an official’s disgraced daughter. The moment she had started to live somewhat better, people had wanted to take it from her. Now that they had caught her in a mistake, these people were not about to let her go. Yuqiong’s fingers pressed, almost without thinking, on the peg of the pipa — as if weighing something.

Ming Huashang noticed Yuqiong’s movement and guessed it was some kind of mechanism — she was considering destroying the painting. The invisible tension in the room drew taut. Ming Huashang almost felt she could hear the sound of a hidden weapon clearing its sheath. She spoke quickly: “Miss Zhao, we are not your enemies. All we ask is that you bring out the map. We will not hurt you.”

Yuqiong had been calm, composed, and strategic since the moment she walked in. Yet when she heard the words “Miss Zhao,” her entire body convulsed. Even the expression on her face could no longer be maintained.

Miss Zhao… how many years had it been since she had heard that surname, since the day her father was condemned as a traitor?

Ming Huashang saw Yuqiong’s reaction and knew she had gambled right. Yuqiong was cautious and meticulous — a person like her would not entrust her life and fate to someone else’s keeping. The map of the Grand Ming Palace was most likely still on her person. Ming Huashang had considered this at length and found Yuqiong’s pipa, which never left her hands, suspicious.

From her painting, one could see that what Yuqiong was truly gifted in and deeply loved was painting — not music. Yet she held a pipa that never left her hands. Why?

Moreover, when Yuqiong visited the Wei estate, she had also brought a pipa.

Too many coincidences. Ming Huashang could not dismiss them as ordinary. She and Ming Huazhang had both reached the conclusion that Yuqiong’s pipa concealed a mechanism, and that the map of the Grand Ming Palace was hidden within it. However, the map was unlike any other piece of evidence — if Yuqiong were cornered and chose to destroy it in a moment of desperate resolve, all their effort would have been for nothing.

Xie Jichuan had proposed an ambush: act with the force of thunder, a single decisive strike. With five of them against Yuqiong, subduing her would be no problem. But Ming Huashang had thought that perhaps cooperation was possible — if she could talk to Yuqiong, she might be able to persuade her to surrender the painting of her own accord.

Yuqiong had reacted to “Miss Zhao.” That was a good sign. Ming Huashang pressed on: “I am told Lord Zhao was a man of integrity, associated with many illustrious scholars, including Right Minister Yan, known throughout the land. If Lord Zhao could see your skill with the brush today, he would surely be deeply gratified.”

Yuqiong went even more silent. Ming Huashang pressed her advantage: “Why did you kill Zhang Ziyun? Was it to avenge Weitan? Weitan was Right Minister Yan’s student. Right Minister Yan and your father were friends. If your father had never been charged, you and Weitan would have been social equals — and being both lovers of painting, it would not have been an inauspicious match.”

Ming Huashang had said so much without getting any reaction from Yuqiong and had not truly expected an answer. But unexpectedly, Yuqiong said coldly: “He and I shared a kindred spirit in the realm of art. Using the language of romantic sentiment to speculate about our relationship is base and vulgar.”

Ming Huashang opened her eyes wide in surprised delight, entirely unmoved by the hostility in Yuqiong’s words: “So you did do it for revenge? But simply for the sake of one Weitan — that alone wouldn’t be enough for you to risk your life over, would it?”

Yuqiong exhaled, falling into a brief, distracted stillness.

Her decision to kill Zhang Ziyun had truly been an accident. Just as on the day she had been at the Wei estate, playing the pipa, and had watched Weitan suddenly collapse vomiting black blood — the same accident and shock.

After Weitan died, she and the other guests had been confined to the side rooms. People came to question them repeatedly — three separate rounds of interrogators. At the time she had been performing, and had had no physical contact whatsoever with Weitan before his collapse. Her suspicion had been cleared first, and the constables eventually let her go.

When Yuqiong walked out, she saw Zhang Ziyun overseeing the funeral arrangements on Weitan’s behalf. The household steward was weeping helplessly, at a complete loss. Zhang Ziyun, leaning on his cane, was issuing instructions with calm authority, a steadying pillar in the chaos. Passersby were all remarking on how fortunate Weitan was — to have a friend like this was a true blessing, so that even in death he would be seen off with dignity.

A blessing? Yuqiong had her doubts.

Weitan had confided in her before: the court had ordered him to recreate the architectural plans of the Grand Ming Palace as preparation for a proposed relocation of the capital. Weitan was arrogant and fond of showing off. He had been unhurried and deliberate about it, finishing as close to the deadline as he dared. The moment the painting was done, he could not resist holding a grand banquet and inviting people to come and admire his work.

Yuqiong had not thought much of it at the time. This was typical of Weitan. The Ministry of Works was sending someone to collect the painting the very next morning. One indulgent night ought to be harmless.

No one could have anticipated that Zhang Ziyun — the man Weitan counted as his closest friend — would be moved to thoughts of murder over a single painting.

With tremendous pride, Weitan had hung the painting in the hall for all to see, basking in the admiration of his guests before finally putting it away and having a servant carry it to the study for safekeeping. Barring the unexpected, those present were the painting’s first audience, and would be its last.

Yuqiong had noticed that something was off in Zhang Ziyun’s expression while they were viewing the painting, but had not given it a second thought at the time, and had continued to play. Zhang Ziyun slipped out for a while, and when he returned, he stood in silence leaning on his cane, urging Weitan to drink. Still Yuqiong had thought nothing of it.

Then Weitan died. Everyone present was detained as suspects. Through round after round of questioning, Yuqiong began to direct her suspicion at Zhang Ziyun.

Zhang Ziyun’s behaviour had been somewhat peculiar. But Yuqiong had only suspicion — not a shred of proof. And besides, ever since the confiscation of her family’s estate, she had felt no goodwill whatsoever toward constables and had no desire to report her suspicions to the authorities. She returned to Tianxiang Tower, and the more she thought about it, the more wrong it felt. And just then, she saw Zhang Ziyun enter the brothel.

That day was the premiere of Shantea’s aerial dance. The madam had advertised it far and wide, and Yuqiong had made her own arrangements long in advance — there was a distinguished guest to attend to that evening. But Zhang Ziyun so rarely came anywhere alone, and if this chance was missed, she did not know when she might get close to him again.

So Yuqiong, knowing full well she had a client to see that night, had still gone out of her way to draw Zhang Ziyun in, bringing him up to Feng Qing Si Yuan under the pretext of comparing their skill in painting. She knew Feng Qing Si Yuan had a hidden door — there was little that happened in Tianxiang Tower she did not know of. At the start, she had not been planning anything in particular; on pure instinct she had laid in an extra layer of insurance.

After several rounds of wine, Zhang Ziyun grew increasingly drunk and started talking boastfully about how fortune was smiling on him, how he would soon be joining the inner circle of Prince Wei. With the context of what had just happened and these words taken together, Yuqiong needed no further illumination.

Zhang Ziyun had betrayed Weitan. For the sake of a promotion, he had willingly become a lackey of the Prince Wei faction.

That the court had ordered Weitan to reproduce the plans of the Grand Ming Palace was no secret — and Weitan, being so boastful, had made it the talk of the whole city even if it had been. The Wu family faction wanted to stop the relocation of the capital and had secretly approached people close to Weitan. Zhang Ziyun had been swayed by the lure of rank and position and had agreed to steal the painting on their behalf.

But Weitan had dragged his feet for too long. Once the painting was finished, the Ministry of Works was coming to collect it the very next morning. Zhang Ziyun had no time for a leisurely approach. He had no choice but to go out and kill the servant carrying the painting, then come back to poison Weitan.

With Weitan alive, if one sheet of the plans went missing, another could simply be redrawn — it would be of no lasting consequence. Only with Weitan dead could the Hangyuan Hall be prevented from being rebuilt, truly obstructing the empress’s plan to relocate the capital.

Zhang Ziyun had set his heart on waiting for Prince Wei’s messenger. The moment he delivered the painting into those hands, he would soar to the heights, his ambitions finally given free rein. But until then, he had to survive long enough for Prince Wei’s people to find him.

Weitan’s death was suspicious, and the authorities were not fools. The old nobility of Chang’an immediately recognised that someone was trying to block the capital’s relocation. With their families’ futures, honour, and very survival at stake, for once the Chang’an nobility were uncommonly united, sparing no effort to dispatch their shadow guards and search with all their might for the thief of the painting.

Zhang Ziyun was terrified. He did not dare to stay at home any longer and wanted somewhere safe, densely populated, and difficult to track — and the most ideal location was naturally a brothel.

The most prestigious brothel in Pingkang Ward, with the most refined women, was Tianxiang Tower. And so, by the arrangement of fate, Zhang Ziyun stepped across Tianxiang Tower’s threshold — and was spotted by Yuqiong, leaning alone on the third floor.

Once Yuqiong perceived the full extent of what Zhang Ziyun had done, she felt contempt for his betrayal of his friend for personal gain, and a still deeper outrage at his willingness to serve as a pawn of the Wu faction. If this scheme of the Wu family succeeded and the relocation of the capital was ruined, no one could say what upheavals might follow.

Her own father had died because of Empress Wu’s seizure of power. Sixteen years had passed. She had watched helplessly as her mother and sisters were humiliated and died, her brothers exiled to the frontier, her kinsmen dead or broken. Now only she remained. She could not allow the Wu family to continue to extend their reach. Only when the imperial throne was restored to the Li clan could her father, could their entire Zhao family, have any hope of being posthumously exonerated.

She watched that man become drunk and lose himself, talking wildly and without restraint, and the hatred in her was like ice beneath deep water — slowly, slowly crystallising into something monstrous.

She was going to kill him.

Yuqiong calmly, methodically conceived how to commit the murder, doing the most reckless thing in a state of perfect composure. Using the excuse of going to fetch something from her room, she retrieved the poison she had been keeping in her quarters.

Years spent in this profession had led her to accumulate certain things that could not bear the light of day. This poison was called Intoxicated Life — purchased at great expense from a Western Region merchant. It was colourless and odourless, with a powerful effect, and mixed with wine it worked especially well. Its greatest virtue was that after the poison took hold, the symptoms were not pronounced. Outwardly, the victim appeared simply to have died of a sudden illness, just as its name implied: to live drunkenly, dream until waking, with no rest until death.

When Yuqiong went out, her plan was already fully formed. It would not be long before her pre-arranged guest arrived and the madam would come to have her clear the room. She would hold Zhang Ziyun’s attention, leave him alone in the private room, and go with the madam when the time came. Before stepping out, she would find an opportunity to coat the lip of the wine vessel with Intoxicated Life. Zhang Ziyun would be guaranteed to die of the poison, and she would be cleanly removed from suspicion.

At the hour of Xu, Shantea would perform her aerial dance as arranged. Yuqiong had watched Shantea rehearse — she knew the dance was novel and spectacular, more than capable of capturing every man’s attention. She would use the pretext of jealousy to excuse herself from her client, go to the small compartment to rest, then slip downstairs when no one was watching, use the passage through the mountain-and-river screen to cross the main hall, climb up to the east building, enter the little compartment through the ventilation window and the hidden door, tidy up the scene, and take the painting from Zhang Ziyun’s person.

That idiotic show-off had made it so obvious — she had seen long ago that the painting was hidden in his walking cane.

Yuqiong believed she had considered every contingency. But no plan in the world was perfect. Once put into action, even the most meticulous scheme would be subjected to all manner of unexpected tests.

The first was the madam. She sent two jars of wine to Zhang Ziyun. Yuqiong’s brow furrowed inwardly, but she was not unduly concerned. Her poison had been applied to the lip of the wine vessel — no matter which wine he drank from, he would be poisoned. The madam’s wine might even help cloud the issue.

Then, when she was leaving Guanghan Yueyuan on the pretext of jealousy, she encountered someone in the corridor. Yuqiong was still perfectly composed. She went calmly into the rest compartment and waited until no one was outside before making her way quietly downstairs.

The main hall’s curtains had been lowered at her earlier suggestion, and the screen had been arranged according to her instructions as well. Ziyuan admired her most and was almost entirely obedient. On the pretext of testing the audience, Yuqiong had asked Ziyuan to separate the screen into its layers and keep the arrangement secret. Ziyuan had complied without hesitation. Yuqiong passed smoothly through the screen and climbed to the east building — where she discovered another unexpected obstacle: she could not reach the compartment’s ventilation window.

Yuqiong had no choice but to go back downstairs and secretly cut a section from the silk ribbon using the dagger she carried. The ribbon had fallen behind the curtain and was presently the only thing she could reach. Shantea would not be using this piece of ribbon again any time soon. Once things had quieted down, she would find a way to hint to Shantea that she should replace it with a new one. No one would ever know.

Yuqiong had trained rigorously in the Imperial Music Academy for years. Though her true gift lay in painting, her dancing foundation was by no means weak. She draped the ribbon over the beam on the third-floor staircase and, with its support, easily climbed through the ventilation window, passed through the hidden door, and entered Feng Qing Si Yuan. There, she discovered the fourth unexpected obstacle in her plan.

Zhang Ziyun was lying on his back beside the tea table, sound asleep.

He was not dead.

It turned out the madam, wanting to prevent Zhang Ziyun from causing a scene, had put a sedative in both wine jars. Zhang Ziyun had not drunk from the wine vessel; instead he had lifted the jar itself to drink, and so had not been poisoned — but had been knocked out first by the madam’s sedative.

This contingency was nearly catastrophic to Yuqiong’s plan. She had already set things in motion, and the painting had to be taken tonight. Given Zhang Ziyun’s suspicious and petty nature, once he sobered up he would certainly suspect her. Between her and Zhang Ziyun, only one could survive.

Yuqiong chose herself. She had to kill Zhang Ziyun. But the madam’s stupidity had created this useless complication — Zhang Ziyun’s jaw was clenched tight, and Yuqiong could not force the poison down his throat.

Outside, the hall was full of guests and noise, and at any moment someone might come in. Yuqiong tried for a long time, the wine vessel trembling in her hands, but she simply could not pour it past Zhang Ziyun’s clenched teeth. Worse still, the poison was colourless and odourless — but when applied to the gold vessel, it had left black marks on the inner surface.

Everything had gone completely contrary to plan. Her scheme had nearly entirely collapsed. Yuqiong forced herself to calm down, looked around the room, and began searching for a new method of killing.

She saw water and paper. Drawing on her deep knowledge of painting, Yuqiong quickly thought of a second way to kill without leaving a trace.

She soaked several sheets of paper thoroughly in the basin. These were papers she had specially commissioned for water marbling — they would not disintegrate even when wet, and had extraordinary tensile strength. They were completely air-impermeable. To be safe, she used the section of red silk ribbon she had cut earlier to bind Zhang Ziyun’s hands, then pressed down on his body and covered his mouth and nose with the saturated sheets of paper.

Killing a person could be either very difficult or very simple. At least when it came to asphyxiation, the end came quickly. The suffocation jolted Zhang Ziyun out of his stupor, but it was already too late to save himself. Yuqiong pressed down on his body and watched him with clear eyes as he struggled, convulsed, and then gradually fell still. His face went from red to white, and finally he lay motionless.

He was dead at last. Only then did Yuqiong exhale, and realised her entire back was soaked with cold sweat. At this point, the original cover story of death by sudden illness was no longer viable. Yuqiong dragged Zhang Ziyun to the side of the writing table, threw the sodden sheets of paper back onto the pile of discarded sheets, and disposed of the murder weapon in a manner that was almost flawless. Then she drove the dagger into the blood vessel on the side of Zhang Ziyun’s neck, staging the appearance of a suicide.

Overlapping Dream Powder could render a person unconscious, but in the period before that, it also produced hallucinations. Staging Zhang Ziyun as a man who had stabbed himself in a drug-induced vision was plausible enough.

Yuqiong erased the traces of her presence from the scene. She had wanted to take the wine vessel, but that evening she had dressed in a narrow-sleeved ru skirt for playing the pipa — it was manageable to roll up a painting and tuck it away, but there was simply nowhere to conceal a gold wine vessel that large.

She had no choice but to leave the vessel at the scene and adapt as opportunities arose later. In the meantime she made her way back the same way she had come: first to the west building rest room, where she concealed the painting in the hidden compartment on the back of her pipa, and then returned to Guanghan Yueyuan to be with her client, establishing an alibi.

Her stratagem succeeded. When Zhang Ziyun’s body was discovered, the Jing Zhao Office was quickly drawn in. The clerks and constables came and went in waves, questioning everyone present, yet no one suspected her.

Her movements had been impeccably clean — a whole hall of guests as her witnesses. The madam, fearful of being held accountable by the authorities, had not dared disclose the Overlapping Dream Powder in the wine. The commotion went on all night, but since Feng Qing Si Yuan was a perfect sealed room with no trace of anyone entering or leaving, the case could only be ruled as a suicide.

There had been ongoing commotion on the second floor, and Yuqiong had found no opportunity to return to the scene and retrieve the wine vessel. She told herself that once the authorities ruled and withdrew, she would go back the following day.

The Jing Zhao Office did not disappoint her — they declared it a suicide in their usual muddled fashion, and the constables retired with relief. Yuqiong waited patiently for nightfall, but late in the afternoon, a group of unusual visitors arrived at Tianxiang Tower.

The Young Master of the Marquis of Jiang’an — and his two attendants.

And so Yuqiong’s near-perfect plan came crashing down.

Yuqiong’s recollection halted abruptly. She raised her eyes to find that the handmaid with the pallid face and those devastatingly beautiful almond-shaped eyes was still watching her intently.

This young woman was certainly no handmaid. If she had not been born into wealth and peace, raised in love and trust, she could not possess eyes like those.

Out of nowhere, Yuqiong thought: if her family had not fallen, if her father had never been implicated in treason — would she have had eyes like that?

She would never have the chance to know.

Yuqiong gave up. She could hear two other sets of breathing in the room. There was no escape for her regardless. Having accepted death, Yuqiong became extraordinarily calm, and said composedly: “All your questions were just a means to draw me into saying I killed him to seek redress for my father’s name, to induce me to claim there’s someone behind me directing things. But why — can a woman not have the courage of her convictions and risk her life to avenge a friend?”

She was perceptive, but she had misread Ming Huashang’s intent. Ming Huashang said: “That was never my meaning. I won’t keep it from you: we are, in fact, agents of the court.”

“The court?” Yuqiong gave a light, contemptuous laugh. “Slandering the loyal and the righteous, a nation in disarray, a mob of vile sycophants — what gives them the right to call themselves a court?”

“How do you know there are none of upright character serving within?”

Ming Huashang, Jiang Ling, and Ren Yao were all startled, and looked simultaneously toward the screen.

The screen was drawn tightly — nothing of what lay behind it was visible. But a voice flowed through it like wind through a pine forest, like a clear spring rising between stones, unhurried and even: “How do you know we are not people of upright character?”

Into the stunned silence, one cool, detached voice struck a singularly discordant note. Xie Jichuan asked: “Is that really something you say about yourself?”

Ming Huazhang paid Xie Jichuan no attention. He stepped out from behind the screen and spoke directly to Yuqiong in a calm, unhurried tone: “We act under the court’s commission to retrieve the map of the Grand Ming Palace, to protect the imperial household and the pillars of government, and to return to the old capital.”

Yuqiong looked at the screen. She was momentarily stunned. This young man’s features were not particularly striking, but his gaze was resolute, his shoulders straight, and the upright bearing he carried could never be matched by a handsome face alone.

Yuqiong had long since passed the age of believing in words. And yet, looking at this young man standing in the lamplight, composed and clear as pine and bamboo, she found herself — for no reason she could name — believing him.

Perhaps the court truly did still have good subjects who served for the people and the realm. Perhaps these people truly were good.

Seeing something seem to soften in the set of Yuqiong’s brow, Ming Huashang pressed the advantage: “Miss Zhao, you see — even our leader has come forward to meet you in person. If we truly intended harm, why would we have gone to this trouble? The map of the Grand Ming Palace — we intend to use it for exactly the purpose it was meant for. Once we have the painting in hand, we will keep our word and let you leave safely.”

Ming Huazhang walked slowly over and stopped three paces from Yuqiong and Ming Huashang, giving a slight incline of his head: “I give you my word.”

Yuqiong wavered. A face can belong to someone with the heart of a beast, but a person’s eyes cannot deceive. Those who scheme for personal advantage and burn with self-interest do not have eyes this clean.

Yuqiong released the hand that had been pressing on the pipa’s peg and asked: “Are you the Crown Prince’s people?”

Xie Jichuan slowly emerged from behind the screen and, without expression, looked toward Ming Huazhang. Ming Huazhang appeared to not hesitate for even a moment: “We are agents of the court.”

A trace of disappointment crossed Yuqiong’s face, but the string tightly wound within her loosened of its own accord, without her quite knowing when. She held the pipa out to Ming Huazhang and said: “What you are looking for is inside.”

Ming Huazhang took the pipa and looked steadily into Yuqiong’s eyes: “Thank you.”

In that instant, Yuqiong felt a strange sensation. She had prevented Zhang Ziyun from delivering the painting to the Wu faction. In the eyes of officials loyal to the court, that was indeed worthy of thanks. Yet she somehow felt this young man meant something more than that alone.

Ming Huazhang pressed the mechanism release. The back surface of the pipa opened to reveal a long, narrow slot. Inside was a rolled scroll. Ming Huazhang unfurled it and indeed beheld the Hangyuan Hall — grand, meticulous, and annotated with perfect clarity. Ming Huazhang exhaled quietly, rolled the painting back, and returned the pipa to its proper state before returning it with both hands to Yuqiong.

Yuqiong took it back and cradled the pipa with the ease of an old friend. Ming Huazhang said: “Miss Zhao, we thank you for stepping forward to protect the realm. We will help conceal the circumstances of Zhang Ziyun’s death. He will be recorded only as a suicide, with no connection to you. Should anyone make inquiries in future, you need only plead ignorance.”

Ming Huazhang clasped his hands toward Yuqiong with genuine courtesy, showing not the slightest condescension despite her circumstances in the dusty world: “We shall part here. Be assured — I will arrange to have Jiang Ling withdrawn, so as not to tarnish your name. What follows may bring trouble to Tianxiang Tower, and we are deeply sorry for that. Should you encounter danger, take this token to the Wang Silk Shop in the East Market. The people there will do everything in their power to help you. In the time ahead, please take care of yourself. We bid you farewell.”

Yuqiong said nothing for a moment. Then she rose with perfect composure and gave a proper curtsy: “Take care, sir.”

Xie Jichuan had already opened the window. Ming Huazhang said no more. He returned the courtesy and turned to leave. Every moment the map of the Grand Ming Palace remained out in the open was another moment of danger. They had to escort the painting to safety as quickly as possible. Ming Huashang, Jiang Ling, and Ren Yao were known figures and novices besides — bringing them along would be of no use. It was better to leave them here to carry the act through to completion.

On his way to the window, Ming Huazhang suddenly stopped and turned back: “Miss Zhao — if I may ask — your honoured father’s name?”

Yuqiong stared at him and said in bewilderment: “Why do you ask?”

Xie Jichuan was already waiting for him outside. Ming Huazhang lowered his gaze slightly and said with a quiet evenness: “Nothing in particular. Merely asking.”

And with that, he vaulted lightly into the night. The young man, with his long arms and long legs, had the agility of a hawk, and in the blink of an eye was gone, swallowed up by the gilded, painted indulgence of Pingkang Ward.

After the two departed, silence returned to the room. Ming Huashang, Jiang Ling, and Ren Yao looked at each other, at a loss for words. It was Yuqiong who laughed first, at ease: “So you truly are from the Jiang family. Can it be — you are actually the Young Master of the Marquis of Jiang’an?”

This broke the impasse. Jiang Ling resumed his characteristic breezy air, settled back onto the couch with his legs crossed, and said airily: “But of course. I, Jiang Ling, have never changed my name and never hidden my identity. I never say anything false.”

Ren Yao let out a cold laugh and rolled her eyes: “Utter rubbish.”

Jiang Ling was starting to bristle: “A young woman using that kind of language all day long — is that any way to behave?”

“Since when is it your business?”

Yuqiong watched these vivid, dazzling young people bickering before her, couldn’t help laughing — and as she laughed, could not stop her eyes from growing wet.

How good. The young bickering and laughing, their spirit and fire undimmed — stars that would never fall to worldly ways.

Ming Huashang looked at the two of them squabbling like children again and felt thoroughly mortified. She smiled in embarrassment and said to Yuqiong: “Miss Zhao, those two are just like this. Please forgive us for making a scene.”

Yuqiong’s lips curved in the faintest arc. It was generous of her to be willing to address someone from the dusty world as “elder sister.” Perhaps it was the gentle warmth of the April night wind — for once, Yuqiong felt a rare desire to speak of ordinary things: “The way you look — surely this is not your true appearance? No wonder you moved out to another room yesterday. The young man just now seemed very attentive to you. What is the relationship between you two?”

Ming Huashang paused, unsure how to answer either question. Yuqiong quickly caught herself, cut off her own train of thought, and said: “Forgive me for overstepping. Who you are, what you look like — please don’t tell me any of that. Even if we should be able to meet again in future, it is better if we do not know each other.”

This was the safest arrangement for both parties. Ming Huashang felt an inexplicable pang.

She thought she might be beginning to understand what Ming Huazhang had meant when she first joined the Xuan Xiaowei. Choosing this path meant spending one’s life in the company of darkness, disguise, and lies — and even should one encounter a kindred spirit along the way, there was no possibility of lasting connection.

Not wanting this sadness to show before others, Ming Huashang smiled and said brightly: “I have heard that Miss Zhao’s painting and music are two equal wonders. We have had the honour of witnessing the painting. The pipa we have not yet had the fortune to hear. I wonder — might we be so lucky tonight?”

“Nothing simpler.” Yuqiong was equally forthcoming. She settled gracefully in her seat, cradled the pipa sideways, and let her fingers draw lightly across the strings — and at once, a cascade of notes tumbled down, like great and small pearls spilling onto a jade plate. “I am some years your senior and have nothing worthy to offer as a gift at first acquaintance. Let me give you a piece instead: the Melody of the King of Qin Breaking Through Enemy Lines.”

Jiang Ling was taken aback: “Something so martial in spirit?”

Ren Yao gave him an exasperated pat: “What — women can’t go to battle?”

“Not at all, not at all. Of course they can.” Jiang Ling was admirably prudent when the moment called for it: “Ladies, elder and younger, please — whatever you say goes.”

Downstairs, a woman was moving through the cover of the night searching the courtyard. She heard the passionate, heroic pipa music carrying down from above, and looked up in surprise: “What are they doing up there — have they really come to a brothel just to enjoy themselves?”

Beside her, a man stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He listened for a moment, then said quietly: “Yuji — you need not look further.”

Su Yuji hesitated: “A’Xiong…”

“They have already finished.” Su Xingzhi raised his head to look at the clear, high moon and gave a helpless smile. “By this hour, it is precisely right. The Southern Dipper never fails in all it undertakes — that reputation is well deserved.”

“Of course. They should be called the Twin Jades now.”

Jiang Ling had attended countless banquets; even court banquets of the grandest scale were to him a matter of everyday life. And yet he had never in his life heard pipa playing like this. When the Melody of the King of Qin Breaking Through Enemy Lines came to an end, he was still thoroughly reluctant to see it stop. Just then, a commotion broke out at the entrance to Tianxiang Tower, and someone came barging in, announcing loudly: “I am the steward of the Marquis of Jiang’an. Where is our young master?”

Well. Jiang Ling knew the moment he heard the voice from outside that this was the closing act. He was finally, finally going to be able to bring his agonising career as a profligate young lord to an end.

Though, to be honest — those two siblings were truly cast from the same mold. Did they have any regard for his, Jiang Ling’s, reputation? Ming Huazhang had actually sent someone to stand at the front door and announce themselves at the top of their lungs like that?

As if going to a brothel and misbehaving weren’t enough — on top of that, he was to have the additional “honour” of being publicly hauled out of the brothel by his own household staff?

Jiang Ling could not stop grumbling under his breath, deeply aggrieved. Ren Yao and Ming Huashang naturally ignored him. They followed the “household staff” and departed Tianxiang Tower without incident.

One day later, deep in the clear, verdant Zhongnan Mountains, a young woman in white training clothes jogged listlessly. Xie Jichuan caught up with her from behind with ease, but rather than passing her, fell in alongside her.

Ming Huashang looked over in surprise: “Brother Xie, is something the matter?”

“Not particularly.” Xie Jichuan paused, then said in a casual, offhand tone: “She was only a brothel madam — forcing respectable women into prostitution, doing evil without restraint. And you clearly felt a great deal of sympathy for Yuqiong’s circumstances. So that day, why did you still defend the madam so firmly?”

Ming Huashang was quiet for a moment, lowering her eyes, and said softly: “What was done to the women in her brothel — was that not also done to her at some point? Two things are two different things. Whatever wrongs she has committed — perhaps someone will come along to call her to account for them. But that person should never be me.”

Xie Jichuan found this difficult to follow and asked: “What if that person never comes? What if the wicked die peacefully of old age?”

“Then that is fate.” Ming Huashang smiled a little. Almost inaudibly, she said: “I cannot punish her for things she has not done simply because of what I believe justice demands. If I did — then what would make me any different from her?”

Xie Jichuan turned to look at her: Ming Huashang’s pale, rounded face; her soft, downy eyes; the fine sheen of sweat on the tip of her nose.

She was a truly strange young woman. Ming Huashang had the strongest capacity for empathy of anyone Xie Jichuan had ever encountered. She could feel the state of mind of a killer in the act of killing; feel the terror of a victim at the moment of death; feel the grief of Yuqiong, of the young woman Gui Baixuan — of countless women trapped at the bottom of the world. And yet, when the choice was hers to make, she still held back, absorbing the darkness alone, letting all the pain stop with her.

Nothing bound her — no morality, no law. If she had gone along with her private feelings and allowed just the smallest deviation, not a soul would have reproached her for drawing the wrong conclusion about the killer.

And yet she did not.

Xie Jichuan looked at her for a long time without speaking. Ming Huashang began to feel a little unnerved and cautiously probed: “Brother Xie, is there anything else?”

Xie Jichuan came back to himself, looked at her, and smiled: “Keep at it. You have five more laps.”

“No — please don’t remind me!”

The first year of the Shengli era, the fifteenth day of the fourth month.

Tonight, no moon. The day’s martial training and classes were passably dull — better to sleep.

Han Jie inspected the map of the Grand Ming Palace, confirmed it intact, and had it forwarded to the Ministry of Works. Naturally it was intact. Mediocre men always enjoy adding one more step to waste everyone’s time, and call it verification.

I hear that work on the Hangyuan Hall commenced yesterday. Regrettably, the astrologers have calculated that rain is forecast throughout the coming month. One wonders whether the Hangyuan Hall will meet its deadline. If in the end the capital relocation fails because the work cannot be completed, then it will truly be as heaven wills, and future generations will have cause to mock.

Jingzhan has grown increasingly hesitant and overcautious of late — becoming no different from those dull mediocre men, steadily growing tiresome. However, an unexpected new diversion has presented itself. She is in all outward appearances no different from an ordinary girl of good family — equally simple-minded and fragile, equally prone to self-deception. And yet why is it that every choice she makes turns out differently from what one would predict?

Worth keeping. Observe further.

Xie Jichuan, at the foot of the capital, in the foothills of the Zhongnan Mountains.

— The Third Case, “A World Within a Painting,” Complete.