“No need to have it figured out right now. Eat first — think slowly on a full stomach.” Zheng the Seventh spoke without the slightest hurry.

Zhù San was mildly taken aback, but quickly composed herself and sat in silence. Silence was, for her, a skill long since mastered.

Zheng the Seventh made no demands that she speak immediately. Instead, he said, “Serve the meal.”

A young attendant by his side answered and went out, and before long dishes of various kinds flowed in one after another. Well — it was nearly on par with the prefectural governor’s household, and the portions were generous. The young attendant who had gone out returned wearing an expression of deep apology: “The setting is plain, and there is only this much.”

Zhù San thought: How could anyone find this inadequate? This made her wonder even more about Zheng the Seventh’s origins.

Zheng the Seventh himself seemed entirely unbothered by the “poor fare.” He washed his hands and slowly dried them, then raised his chopsticks toward Zhù San with a pleasantly interested air. “Come, don’t stand on ceremony. You’ve been busy all morning — you must be hungry.”

A basin of clean water was set before Zhù San, a towel draped over its edge. She looked at the basin, then at Zheng the Seventh, then at Jin Liang. Both men, whose attitudes toward her had been not unkind, nodded their encouragement. Inside, Zhù San’s wariness of Zheng the Seventh rose to its highest point. People like this were generally one of two things: exceptionally good, or exceptionally bad. But regardless of which he was, the situation was no longer hers to control.

Zhù San was bold but not foolish. She dropped the posturing she had maintained back at the Chen burial grounds. She rolled up her sleeves, dipped her hands into the basin, and — she was at an age of rapid growing, and had walked on her own two legs all the way to the cemetery — she was, in truth, hungry. Seeing that she had washed her hands, Zheng the Seventh raised his chopsticks once more. “The cook’s skill is merely passable, but the ingredients are fresh.”

Zhù San smiled at him. “Thanks.” She picked up her chopsticks and dug in with great relish.

Zhù San ate quickly. Jin Liang watched a little nervously at first — until he confirmed she ate without making noise and without spilling anything around her mouth. Only then did he exhale a small, relieved nod, the faintest hint of approval crossing his face.

The way this person ate was a little too unself-conscious! Jin Liang gave a soft cough. Zhù San had a rib bone between her teeth and glanced at him. “Mm?”

Zheng the Seventh unhurriedly picked up a piece of green vegetables. Zhù San puffed her cheeks, head bowed, and went on eating. Watching her enjoy the food, Zheng the Seventh picked up a rib as well and tasted it — well, same flavor as always, nothing particularly remarkable — and yet his hand, unbidden, reached for another.

Eating slowly, Zheng the Seventh was also turning things over in his mind: this person had a story. Tea shelter, burial grounds, relay station — three entirely different versions of the same individual.

Zhù San ate with great appetite, her mind spinning the whole time — she had to run. Forget the carrying pole. Run!

In open country she almost certainly couldn’t outrun a horse, and possibly couldn’t outrun this square-built man either — but here in the relay station, with all its idle bystanders and buildings, her chances of getting away increased enormously. She had eighty percent confidence.

She finished quickly. Zheng the Seventh had not yet put down his chopsticks, so Zhù San waited patiently. Meanwhile, someone brought her a cup of tea. She blinked. Jin Liang said, “For rinsing your mouth.” Rinsing one’s mouth with tea — what refinement.

Zhù San rinsed her mouth, but did not drink further. Once Zheng the Seventh had finished and rinsed his own mouth, she asked, “What are you going to do with me?”

Zheng the Seventh smiled. “My dear child, I am not a bandit — what would I ‘do’ with you?”

“Then why did you detain me?”

“To talk?”

Zhù San shook her head. “We can’t even share the same table as equals. What is there to talk about?”

Zheng the Seventh was about to reply when a commotion broke out outside, and from within the station came: “They’re here! Ah… no, not the imperial envoy! Coming from the city again…”

Jin Liang gave a look, and one of the attendants went out. He came back quickly. “They seem to know someone here. The arrivals are government clerks from the prefecture, but they’re not in official robes or uniforms — very strange. Well-dressed though, plain-cloth style but not laborer’s short-jacket.”

Zheng the Seventh gave a small nod. Another commotion outside — the newcomers had also been shown to a “quiet courtyard.” Once inside and told that the main rooms were taken, they were loudly displeased, one voice demanding: “Who is it? Who has taken the main rooms at a time like this?”

Zhù San’s ear twitched. She knew that voice — it seemed to be one of the men from Mister Huang’s circle at the prefecture. When she had been with Yu Miaomiao, she had seen quite a few of Mister Huang’s associates, and this one was the sort who customarily said on Mister Huang’s behalf whatever it would have been impolite for Mister Huang to say himself.

Jin Liang said, “I’ll go have a look.”

Zheng the Seventh nodded.

The moment he stepped out, the noise from across the way quieted somewhat. The conversation was still audible clearly: the newcomer said, “We are here on orders from the prefecture, waiting to receive the newly arrived imperial envoy! And what errand are you on?”

Jin Liang said, “None of your concern.”

Then something indistinct happened on his end. The newcomer said a few perfunctory things and Jin Liang returned. Zheng the Seventh said, “Thoughtful of them.” Jin Liang said, “Probably came to get ahead of things and lodge a complaint first.”

Zhù San noticed there was something off about the tone of these two men’s exchange. More than that — after just a few sentences, Zheng the Seventh pivoted without warning and questioned her again: “What did you see at the Chen family burial grounds today?”

What the hell — he’s still not letting go of me!

Zhù San said nothing.

Jin Liang grew impatient. “If you saw something, say it! You’ve got blood on your hands, haven’t you? What could be worse than blood on your hands?”

Zhù San got a jolt in her stomach, eyes going wide as she stared at him. Zheng the Seventh also quietly said, “Jin Liang.”

Jin Liang held up two fingers pointed at his own eyes. “Someone with blood on their hands looks at people differently from everyone else. I can tell. Not accidental, either — deliberate harm, thought out in advance.”

That was something Zhù San would die before admitting. Past the initial shock, she rolled her eyes at him. “You’ve already dragged me here — for all I know you’ll use me to cover for someone the way that Mister Jian at the prefecture did, or pin some crime on me to make me a scapegoat. Do as you like — you don’t need to go to the trouble of making up a charge like that first. Save your energy.”

Zheng the Seventh waved to stop Jin Liang from shouting back, and continued pleasantly: “I only have matters I wish to consult you about.”

Zhù San knew well that the more she said in front of a shrewd person, the more cracks would show — if she could have her way, she would not give him a single word. She came straight out with it: “Why not just kill me? If you can pin a murder on me, you’ve got blood on your hands yourself, haven’t you?”

Jin Liang’s temper snapped. The goodwill he had for Zhù San was largely rooted in the fact that she had casually fished his coin pouch back for him at the tea shelter — and that small amount of goodwill was nowhere near enough to go on enduring her obstructions this long. Seeing she still wouldn’t cooperate, Jin Liang stepped forward and grabbed her by the collar.

Zhù San wasn’t genuinely afraid of him. She had no real desire to die — she was simply calculating: the men from the prefecture were here waiting for the imperial envoy, the station was full of people, what exactly are you going to do? Stall, just stall — the envoy will be here in a day or two. If this escalates… wait. Why would they dare make a scene at the very station where the envoy is expected? I haven’t actually died!

Something sharp prickled through Zhù San’s chest. An unpleasant conjecture was forming.

Zhù San said, “You’re not the new envoy. Why do you care so much about the Chen family? Family scandals should stay within the family — knowing your teacher’s business, he won’t necessarily be grateful to you.”

Zheng the Seventh turned the question back: “What if I am?”

Zhù San blinked twice before the implication of his words reached her. “You’re the imperial envoy?”

Zheng the Seventh had someone bring his seal case. Jin Liang also released her. Zhù San watched the box being opened and a seal settling solidly into its velvet bed. Inside, however, she felt only dejection.

Before, she had believed that as long as she could get to the bottom of the matter and hand over the evidence, even if Zhū Shenhan wasn’t released on the spot — a beating before release, or even exile — at least something would happen. That was no longer what she thought. Even if the whole truth came out, what would the verdict be? Look at what sort of man the prefectural governor was. Look at Imperial Envoy Zhong and Zhou You — what sort of creatures they were. Then look at Zheng the Seventh — completely unreadable — and now claiming to be a student of Chancellor Chen. If Zhū Shenhan was tangled up in the Chen family’s “family scandal,” the law wouldn’t touch it, and exposing the chancellor’s “private grievances” was enough to cause its own ruin.

This Zheng the Seventh before her — either he genuinely was the imperial envoy, or he was certain that even if he caused a scene at the relay station and the envoy witnessed it, the matter would come to nothing.

Only after she had looked carefully did she speak. “I have no experience with seals. I can’t tell real from fake.”

Zheng the Seventh said, “You are a clever child, yet you consistently refuse to tell me the truth and keep asking about the identity of the imperial envoy. Clearly something is holding you back. Though I am Chancellor Chen’s student, I am first and foremost a subject of His Majesty. I left my procession with the deputy envoy to travel slowly while I came ahead — precisely to investigate the case clearly, so that I would not be deceived when I arrived. Any remaining questions? Tell me what you know. Tell me what you want. I will make arrangements.”

Zhù San knew she could neither break anyone out of prison nor be certain that Zhū Shenhan wouldn’t be executed. She was hemmed in on all sides. All she could do was gamble.

“Does the second son of the Chen family — is he short of money?”

Zheng the Seventh answered that: “Chancellor Chen runs a strict household, but his wife dotes absolutely on her own son. The madam has money to spare and would not let her son go without.”

Zhù San fished the gold lotus pod and silver ingot from her sleeve, set them softly on the table, and sighed. “Then I guessed right. You come from a wealthy family, so let me ask — have you ever seen a household that’s fallen from riches? Ancestors who were wealthy beyond measure, where even as a child the family ate steamed buns and threw away the crusts — enough wasted rinds in one meal to feed my whole family for a day.”

Zheng the Seventh said, “I imagine you have.”

Zhù San saw he would not answer, and did not pursue it. “When they grow up and such wastrels can no longer sustain the household, yet their habits of fine living persist — slowly, everything sellable gets sold. The bottom of the basin leaks, and no one pours water back in, so it empties completely. People still have to live, and still insist on their fine habits, until in desperation they remember: when grandfather and father were buried, they were put in the ground with the good things from when the family had money! Dig it out. Sell it…”

Jin Liang had begun growing impatient partway through, and nearly interrupted — but seeing that Zheng the Seventh was listening with full patience, he had held back. By now Jin Liang had also understood. “Despicable — digging up his own ancestors’ graves!”

Zheng the Seventh asked, “You think Chen the Second is like this?”

Zhù San shook her head. Then she reached into her robe and produced a small cloth bundle, placing it on the table and opening it. Everyone in the room — the attendants who had been put out by her attitude, and both Zheng and Jin — had been drawn in by her strange telling, and their attitude toward her had grown less hostile.

Zheng the Seventh’s brow furrowed as he looked at two completely unrelated objects: a jade hairpin broken in two, and a bronze bell. Born into wealth, having seen fine things all his life, he could tell at a glance that the hairpin was no inferior piece. The bronze bell was far cruder — though it bore some cast markings, they were indistinct and vaguely human-yet-ghost-like, its edges rough and burring.

Zheng the Seventh picked up the broken end and said, “This style — it looks like an antique…”

Jin Liang said, “Could Chen the Second actually have…”

Zhù San shook her head. “I don’t think so.”