With the Emperor’s permission granted, Ye Tingyan was moved into a private room inside the Qiong Ting Archive to recuperate from his injuries.

The inner room was furnished simply with a table, chairs, and a bed. It was said to have been set up in former times when historians were compiling the chronicles of the previous dynasty—the archivists, absorbed in their work and oblivious to all else, had on two occasions forgotten the hour when the palace gates were locked for the night. The late Emperor had praised their dedication and specially permitted them all to remain and sleep there overnight.

Even so, the security was strict, and no one was permitted to leave the archive.

From that time forward, apart from members of the imperial clan, no one had ever lodged overnight within the Forbidden City.

Word quickly spread that Ye Tingyan had remained in the palace due to his serious injuries and had been entrusted with the Western Garden death case. People said it was a sign of the Emperor’s exceptional favor. Combined with the story of him carving away his old seal on the Crimson Platform—proof of a scholar’s integrity—it had, if anything, done wonders for his reputation.

Pei Xi could not reside in the palace with him. That day had ended late, and he was only able to come to Qiong Ting to look in on him the following morning, after early court had concluded.

Ye Tingyan was still reclining on the couch, though he had dressed himself neatly and properly. The palace attendants, unaware of what was happening, bowed and rolled up the bamboo curtain on one side of the window as someone approached.

The morning sun blazed bright and dazzling. Ye Tingyan glanced outside, raised his hand to shield himself, and cast a dark shadow across his own face.

Hearing footsteps, he turned his head. Seeing it was Pei Xi, he smiled: “Cuozhi, next time you come, you ought to bring some cream pastries from Fengle Tower for me to eat.”

Pei Xi walked over without a word, carrying a food box, and set it down with a heavy thud. He lifted the lid, releasing a waft of sweet fragrance.

He sat down on the stool before the couch, keeping a straight face: “I have important court matters to discuss with Lord Ye. Would everyone please withdraw for the time being.”

The palace attendants suspected nothing and filed out, pulling the door shut behind them.

The moment they were gone, Pei Xi jumped to his feet and swiftly let down the bamboo curtain on Ye Tingyan’s side of the window, completely blocking out the sun—blazing even at this early hour—and only then did he exhale with relief.

The moment the curtain fell, Pei Xi saw Ye Tingyan’s expression change. He slumped back against the soft cushions and broke into a bout of heavy coughing.

He covered his eyes and blinked several times, shedding a few lines of unbidden tears.

Pei Xi quickly took a white silk band and tied it carefully over his eyes, then held out a silk handkerchief—first wiping away the tears, then handing it to him so he could cover his mouth while he coughed.

Ye Tingyan took it. Tear tracks still marked his face, yet a smile played at the corner of his mouth: “My dear Cuozhi, my dear Cuozhi—after keeping company with me, this sickly wretch, for so long, you’re looking more and more like Zhao Weng.”

Pei Xi lowered his voice and called out darkly: “Your Highness…”

Ye Tingyan laughed and cut him off: “Mind your words—mind your words. Here within the imperial city, inside or out, what ‘Your Highness’ is there anymore?”

And so Pei Xi corrected himself: “My Lord’s eye condition requires patient and careful treatment—avoiding bright light as much as possible is best. In spring, when the sun first rises, My Lord already weeps in the wind. If it is this bad at the hour of the dragon, what will it be like at noon—or in the depths of scorching summer?”

“When there is nothing particular happening, I will wear the silk band,” said Ye Tingyan, his conscience slightly uneasy. “Today it was because—because of—”

He had not finished speaking before he could not suppress another coughing fit, and so in the gaps between coughs he made a halfhearted complaint: “It was because of the cold spring night and my fresh wound, nothing else. We are already in the third month—why is it still so cold?”

Pei Xi said abruptly: “Seeing her once—has it truly left My Lord so heartbroken?”

Ye Tingyan waved the handkerchief dismissively: “Not at all, not at all…”

Pei Xi’s gaze swept over his shoulder and neck, and pain filled his voice: “You are worth ten thousand pieces of gold, My Lord. You fought back from the very jaws of death—only to brand yourself with such a—with such a—”

His eyes filled with tears; he choked and could not continue.

Hearing the sound of weeping, Ye Tingyan gave a start, then hastened to pat his shoulder and turn the comforting on him: “It is all right. Look—it has served its purpose in the end. And it left no lasting mark, so it was not wasted. Without it, how would I have concealed this sword wound?”

Pei Xi grew more agitated as he spoke: “I urged My Lord long ago that there was no need to return to Biandu—a few more months of recovery in Beiyou would have sufficed. We have power and troops of our own. All we would have needed was to expose the conspiracy between the Emperor and Empress to the world, and then for you to appear in person to lead the army to the walls of Biandu—everything would have been as easy as reaching into a bag to take what you wanted—”

“Cuozhi,” said Ye Tingyan, calling him by his courtesy name in a low voice, finally setting aside the playfulness that had lingered on his face. “Do you think he has no power and no loyal soldiers of his own? Do you think a war to change the dynasty—carried out without planning or strategy—could be fought so easily?”

Pei Xi said nothing, and Ye Tingyan continued alone: “Not rhinoceros, not tiger, yet ranging through the wilderness—alas for us soldiers, with no respite morning or night. Since ancient times until today, war has always been a last resort, forced upon those who have no other choice. When I was young and reading books, I had contempt for rulers who loved war. The realm has known peace for more than twenty years. Looking back across history and forward into the future, even if I were not to be Emperor, I would not wish to be the kind of man I myself would hold in contempt.”

He spoke these words and then suddenly gave a bitter laugh: “Though as things stand now, it seems I have not managed to do much better…”

Pei Xi had no wish to let him follow that line of thought to its end, and cut in hastily: “My Lord is a gentleman cultivated by Master Su—his servant here is merely a man of petty ambition.”

The moment the words were out, he realized he had said something wrong. Ye Tingyan calmly set down the handkerchief and did not correct him again, simply leaning back against the cushions with his eyes closed in apparent rest.

About a quarter of an hour later, Pei Xi heard again the voice of the young man in the green robe—eyes still bandaged—like something murmured in a dream: “Seeing her again—it is not exactly heartbreak. It is only… a feeling of… unwillingness to let go.”

* * *

Three days passed in the blink of an eye. For fear of letting things drag on and cause further complications, the Office of Palace Attendants had the body retrieved as quickly as possible, conducted an examination at maximum speed, and sent a young eunuch to Qionghua Hall to report—bringing along the palace maid who had witnessed everything that day, now changed into the clothing of an inner attendant and placed under Yan Luo’s supervision.

At that moment, Song Lan happened to be in Qionghua Hall. When he heard the report, both the Emperor and the Empress were astonished—the woman’s body found in the Western Garden was none other than Zhang Siyi, formerly a palace attendant of Qionghua Hall.

Zhang Siyi had started out as an embroiderer. She had been praised by the late Emperor for the ceremonial embroidery she stitched for the Crown Prince’s robes during a ritual ceremony, and was subsequently transferred from the Silk Brocade Bureau into the inner palace to oversee the garments of the imperial family. When Luowei took charge as the central consort, Zhang Siyi came to serve in the Empress’s palace as her Mistress of the Wardrobe.

She had an exceptional skill with crabapple blossoms in embroidery—the patterned skirt Luowei had commissioned long ago had been made by her.

Even Song Lan retained some impression of Zhang Siyi.

Yet toward the end of the previous year, Zhang Siyi had caught a mild chill, and after recovering had submitted a petition to Luowei requesting permission to leave the palace, saying she wished to depart of her own accord.

Zhang Siyi had been only fifteen or sixteen when she entered as an embroiderer; she was still younger than Luowei now. At her age, to have risen to the position of Mistress of the Wardrobe in personal attendance on the Empress was remarkable—one with a boundless future, who could make a fine match with any distinguished family. It was rare for someone in her position to request to retire so abruptly.

Luowei had felt the loss, but she granted the request, awarded Zhang Siyi silver, and found a palace maid surnamed Wan from the Office of Court Attire to fill the vacancy. Zhang Siyi had come to offer her thanks before the New Year’s Eve festivities, saying she was temporarily lodging in the Office of Court Attire and would be leaving the palace before long.

An inner attendant about to be released from the palace naturally attracted little attention from anyone. From the time Zhang Siyi submitted her resignation, Luowei had received no further news of her.

How had she come to meet with misfortune—and how had her body ended up discarded in the Western Garden?

As Luowei had anticipated, some word had leaked from the day of the Crimson Platform gathering, and it seemed as though someone had deliberately stirred up sentiment at court as well, saying that the inner palace was in disarray, and that a violent death had occurred during the scholars’ audience—words aimed squarely at the central consort.

The Censorate could only press for resolution. As Luowei’s reputation had always been excellent, no one had yet dared to formally memorialize against the Empress for incompetence.

But if the matter was not resolved, it would fall to the Ministry of Justice and the Office of Judicial Review—which in any case would do her no good.

The dead woman was a former attendant. Luowei had no wish to pin the blame on some random person and be done with it, so she continued the investigation. Song Lan was unusually roused to anger in Qionghua Hall, berating the Office of Palace Attendants for spending three days and producing nothing but an identification of the body—of what use was that?—and frightening the young eunuch into a cold sweat so severe that when he left his knees would not bend, and he stumbled and fell.

The Office of Palace Attendants handled internal palace investigations, while the Jintian Guard was responsible for defense—neither was particularly well suited to the subtleties of case-solving and inquiry. Not long after Song Lan departed, Luowei heard that he had ultimately turned the matter over to the Ministry of Justice and the Office of Judicial Review after all. Before the case was formally filed, with Ye Tingyan still in the palace, it would temporarily be placed under his charge—if he produced results within seven days, a great deal of trouble could be avoided.

The former Emperor Wen had established the Hairpin-and-Gold Guard to handle unsavory matters and conduct trusted secret operations on his behalf. Song Lan’s manner of proceeding now gave Luowei a hint of his intentions—he had a mind to model himself on the previous dynasty and establish a similar covert institution, and this cultivated young man from a distinguished family, who had come to offer his services with both an old connection and a sharp mind, had given him the perfect opportunity.

He had probably been fretting over having no occasion to undertake such a thing. The remonstrating officials were still fixated on the inner palace, little suspecting the Emperor’s true plan.

Once the institution had established its power and momentum, those officials would likely have no further chance to obstruct it.

The docile young Emperor who had complied for so many years had finally been unable to resist showing his claws.

Ye Tingyan did not disappoint. Within a mere four days he had traced the full course of events. Yet he did not immediately report to the Emperor. Instead, he quietly found a young eunuch with an unfamiliar face and sent him to deliver to Luowei a string of tonal patterns.

The young eunuch had no idea what the patterns meant and recited them haltingly, his expression full of confusion.

“Level, level, deflected, deflected—level, level, deflected, deflected—level, level, deflected, deflected, level, level…”

He finished reciting and, seeing Luowei’s meaningful expression, added: “This servant is nothing but a book-organizing attendant in the Archive. I truly could not make sense of it—I’ve been carrying it in my head from dawn to dusk. Please forgive me, Your Highness.”

Yan Luo was equally at a loss, but she heard Luowei say: “Yan Luo, give him a reward and see him out.”

She pressed a handful of golden melon seeds into his hands. The young eunuch accepted them with gleeful delight, and Yan Luo escorted him to the door. When she returned, she found the Empress with her sleeves rolled back, holding a brush casually, beginning the opening lines of a new lyric poem at her writing table.

“Where lies my old home—a lamp flickers in the wind, a scene of splendor in flower and moonlight…”

She wrote to this point, found herself dissatisfied, and put down her brush. Looking up to find Yan Luo had returned, she smiled at her.

“Cunning beyond all reckoning—” Luowei murmured softly in assessment. She had not mentioned his name, but Yan Luo understood she was speaking of Ye Tingyan. “Whether this is good or bad, one truly cannot say.”

* * *

Between Qiong Ting and the inner palace lay a stretch of woodland. Within the wood there had once been a terrace called Gaoyang, which had long since fallen out of use and lay in far greater desolation than even the Western Garden—it was a mystery how Ye Tingyan had come to know of such a place.

After careful deliberation, Luowei took the risk and, with her head covered, made her way there in secret before the palace gates were locked at the hour of the rooster. The journey passed without incident.

Before the Gaoyang Terrace stood a ferocious stone carving. Luowei gave it an extra glance as she passed but could not identify what it depicted.

The palace hall on the terrace was dilapidated, lit only by two candles in a golden candlestick stand—their flickering light illuminating no more than a small patch of space. The inner chamber was dim and forbidding, cold enough to make one shudder even on a spring evening.

Ye Tingyan stood before the candlestick wrapped in a severe black cloak, his face snow-pale in the warm, lustrous firelight—beautiful and eerie as a ghost.

The moment Luowei stepped inside, she saw him holding a silver-white pair of snuffers, trimming the candlewick, dressed in the uniform of a palace guard—evidently having disguised himself to come here. At her entrance, Ye Tingyan’s hand gave an involuntary tremor. A piece of wick, still with its flame, drifted down from his side and was extinguished in an instant.

“This servant pays his respects to Your Highness.”

He knelt reverently. Luowei said nothing but walked leisurely closer, standing behind the candlestick and letting her gaze travel around the room.

There was no one else present; the silence was unnerving. Even the palace guards had long since stopped making rounds through the woodland—let alone the fact that she had had Yan Luo scout the area before coming.

She removed her hood. Her gilded-phoenix fingernails passed over the fabric of her garment with a soft, drawn-out rasping sound.

Ye Tingyan did not wait for her to bid him rise. His tongue traced a brief arc along his lower jaw, and he lifted his own head—and so he beheld, in the dancing light of the flame, a face of unfathomable beauty, and all manner of feelings and emotions surged forth at once—yet he forced them all back down. When he opened his mouth, only one line emerged: “Why does Your Highness not speak?”

Luowei suddenly raised her voice and declared with unwavering composure: “You have some nerve!”

Ye Tingyan was unperturbed: “What brings Your Highness to say so?”

“Passing secret communications within the inner chambers is no small offense—I do not believe Lord Ye is unaware of this,” Luowei said with slow, mocking deliberation. “Should His Majesty learn of what has happened today, what do you think his reaction would be? How strange—when this Palace wished to reminisce about old times with you, My Lord would not have it. Yet now you have me making my way here at night?”

“This servant’s heart is entirely devoted to His Majesty and Your Highness—there is a reason, one that could not be avoided, for summoning Your Highness to this place.” Ye Tingyan did not answer her question directly but said quickly: “Does Your Highness not know that all people in the world share a certain habit—the habit of saying one thing and meaning another? I have this habit, and Your Highness has it too. If that were not the case, why would Your Highness risk the offense of ‘secret communication’ and come to keep an appointment in the dead of night?”

He deliberately placed emphasis on the words ‘keep an appointment.’ His expression, however, betrayed no shame—he had fully expected that this brazen, understated insolence would cause the person across from him to flush with embarrassed indignation. She had always been quickest to flush with indignation at this sort of teasing.

But unexpectedly, Luowei merely lifted an eyelid at his words and gave a not-quite-sincere reprimand: “This Palace had no idea Lord Ye was so glib. To say such things.”

Yet she was no longer the person she once had been.

Ye Tingyan had no choice but to feign innocence: “This servant misspoke. I beg Your Highness’s punishment.”

Luowei gestured for him to rise: “This Palace wonders—you sent a young eunuch who understood nothing to recite the tonal patterns of ‘Gaoyang Terrace’ before me, and then indicated the following evening at dusk—were you not afraid that this Palace would fail to understand?”

Ye Tingyan replied: “When we parted the last time, this servant said that I hoped Your Highness would come. Since Your Highness listened—naturally you would understand.”

“Very well then. Speak. If this Palace finds your reason unsatisfactory, I will first charge you with the crime of presumption against your superior.”