Mengshi did not rashly go to lift the blue gauze curtain again. Catching the rich smell of fish soup, he noticed the earthenware pot on the brazier.

The boiling fish soup kept knocking against the lid. He casually padded his sleeve and lifted the lid, placing it on the table. The fresh fragrance of the fish soup came at once along with the drifting steam, making him swallow, and the hunger in his belly grew even stronger.

But in the end he did not touch it. He only lowered his eyes and sat at the table, patiently waiting.

Before long, Mengshi first heard a sound of footsteps. He raised his eyes and saw the young lady in a smoky blue baoxianghua-patterned gauze skirt lifting the curtain and coming out.

It was a sallow, dim face.

Without revealing anything, Mengshi observed her disorderly, unkempt brows, and the faint trace of dark bluish color on her left eyelid that had not been fully wiped clean.

It looked very much like the faded shade left by a smeared eyebrow pencil.

Recalling how the young man had held that eyebrow pencil earlier, Mengshi now guessed that this girl’s entire face—her brows, and even some of the faint speckles—had all been deliberately done.

Yet he knew he should pretend not to notice. He stood up and nodded toward the girl, watching her come over and ladle out two bowls of fish soup, each with fish meat stewed until tender and soft.

“Please eat.”

Shang Rong reached out and handed one of the bowls to him.

“Many thanks, miss,” Mengshi said quickly as he accepted the bowl. Lowering his gaze, he noticed that her hands were as sallow as her complexion.

Famished, Mengshi hastily took a sip of the fish soup. The heat scalded his lips, and he hissed, yet he still chewed the tender, silky fish meat.

At this moment, footsteps sounded again.

Mengshi paused, lifting his head to see the black-clothed youth walking out from behind the curtain. With such a face—handsome and striking—and at his waist, a silver snake soft sword, equally eye-catching.

“You are rather generous.”

Zhezhu’s eyes seemed born with a smile, yet his expression was indifferent. He first glanced at Mengshi, then cast a look at Shang Rong.

For no apparent reason, those words made Mengshi rather awkward. Holding the bowl, he did not know whether to drink or not to drink.

“We can’t finish it.”

Shang Rong pulled him to the table and pointed at the other bowl. “You made the soup. You should eat more of the meat.”

Hearing this, Mengshi could not help comparing the fish in that bowl with the fish in his own. It did seem that the other bowl had a bit more.

Zhezhu said nothing.

Following his gaze, Shang Rong looked at the hand of his that she was holding.

As if scalded, she released it at once.

Mengshi turned his face aside and silently took another sip of soup.

There was only one stool in the room. Mengshi naturally did not dare sit again, so only Zhezhu sat down calmly, while Shang Rong and Mengshi both stood to the side.

He slowly took a sip of soup and reached out to lightly poke Shang Rong’s elbow. “Go sit inside.”

Shang Rong glanced toward behind the curtain. Without saying anything, she went to sit by the bamboo bed. When Zhezhu searched for the mask box, he had already dumped everything from the bundle onto the bed in one heap.

She simply picked them up one by one and tidied them away.

Outside the curtain, Mengshi still stood there holding his bowl. His whole body was weary, but this bowl of hot soup made him feel as if he had come back to life. Looking at the youth seated at the table, he asked, “May I ask where the young master is headed on this journey?”

“Shuqing.”

The youth did not even raise his eyes.

Mengshi nodded, and without hesitation set down his bowl and cupped his hands toward him. “Then may I ask, young master, could I travel with you? Once we reach Shuqing, I will find a place to hide myself.”

Zhezhu finally turned his face to look at him.

“Sure.”

From here to Shuqing, there was still about half a day’s journey. Returning to the damp mountain path again, the mist had lessened somewhat by now.

Mengshi was not skilled at riding. He only dared follow behind Zhezhu and Shang Rong, cautiously holding the reins, not daring to let the horse run too fast. Listening to the sound of hooves, Shang Rong could not help raising her head to look at the boy’s jawline.

“Zhezhu, why did you lie to him?”

Her voice was much lowered.

Whether it was the so-called old grudge with Prefect Qi, or that Prefect Qi had already regarded Mengshi as a trouble that must be eliminated—these were all lies Zhezhu had told Mengshi.

Zhezhu seemed to be thinking about something and had not heard clearly what she said. When he came back to himself, he lowered his eyes to look at her, then leaned closer to her. “What?”

His sudden closeness made her shrink back a little, and her hood slipped down slightly.

Shang Rong lowered her eyes and repeated herself.

“Aren’t you curious why Qi Yusong would risk himself to save a Daoist whose name has been marked by the Wuji Bureau?” Zhezhu lowered his voice as well, imitating her softness. So close, only she could hear him.

“Not curious.”

She answered decisively.

Zhezhu paused at her response, yet she had already lowered her head. All he could see was her jet-black hair, but there was no need to guess—she must be wearing that indifferent expression toward everything again.

“Oh.”

He lifted his brows lightly. “This mask of yours cannot truly change your appearance. He is not some ordinary person.”

“You may have no interest in his affairs, but you cannot be certain that he has no interest in yours.”

The wind whistled. Hearing his voice, Shang Rong could not help reaching up to touch the mask on her face.

“How about killing him?”

The youth’s voice sounded coaxing. “Dead people have no curiosity.”

“No.”

Shang Rong suddenly raised her head, meeting the youth’s pitch-black eyes. “I cannot disregard another’s life just for my own peace of mind.”

It was the Sun family who had harmed Mengshi’s daughter first. In the end, he was not some great villain either.

“I know—you must be thinking,” Zhezhu examined her, and slowly, the interest in his eyes faded a little, “killing him is not as good as killing you?”

Shang Rong avoided his gaze and said nothing more. Her hood slipped off completely, and the simple ribbon tying her long hair also fell away. Frowning, she busied herself trying to gather her hair that fluttered wildly in the wind, but before she could react, the youth behind her stuffed the reins into her hands again.

She wanted to turn back, but he caught her chin.

“Don’t move.”

He released her, yet Shang Rong felt his fingers brush inch by inch through the hair at her temples. She stiffened and did not move. Snow pellets struck her eyelashes.

Zhezhu unhurriedly gathered her smooth, lustrous black hair into his palm and asked her, “You don’t even know how to comb your hair?”

“I just don’t.”

Her mind was in chaos, her heart in chaos. After quite a while, she finally answered in a small, embarrassed voice.

He said nothing more. His slender fingers moved through her hair, weaving it carefully into a neat and beautiful braid, then casually pulled a strand of silk from the tassel at his waist to tie it for her.

The color of the silk suited her dress very well. A trace of satisfied amusement softened the boy’s brows and eyes. He brought the jet-black braid over to the front of her shoulder, tilted his head, and asked her, “Does it look good?”

Shang Rong lowered her eyes, staring at the bamboo-green silk at the end of the braid. Only after the boy placed the hood back over her head did she belatedly respond, softly, “It looks good.”

Riding slowly behind them, Mengshi did not hear what the two of them were saying, but he had vaguely witnessed the entire process of the boy braiding the young girl’s hair.

The wind made his eyes sting. He suddenly turned his head aside, looking toward the snow-covered wasteland of withered grass beside the mountain path.

By the time the sky darkened, the three of them settled in a village near Shuqing City. The small courtyard was hidden among a lush bamboo grove, simple and elegant.

Shuqing was famed for producing scholars, everyone in Great Yan knew this.

It was common here for literati and famous scholars to occasionally live in seclusion in the mountains, composing poetry and prose, drinking with friends, and admiring the scenery of the four seasons. The villagers in these nearby settlements did not truly understand such elegance, yet they knew how to seize the opportunity—building houses in the mountains specifically for those scholars who came from time to time to experience the wilderness.

Zhezhu was clearly not any proper scholar, but he could pretend.

Shang Rong watched as he hid away his soft sword and removed his bracers. He was actually able to imitate the manner of a scholar quite convincingly.

The owner of the residence was a woman around thirty or forty years old. Cheerful and talkative, she carried a lantern and led the three of them into the courtyard, then lit the candles one by one inside the wooden lotus-shaped lantern covers along the flowing water channel in the yard.

“This is called… that thing… qushui liushang¹Qushui Liushang (曲水流觞) — an ancient Chinese literati gathering custom where cups of wine are set to float along a winding stream; participants compose poetry before the cup reaches them, or drink if they fail to produce a verse. It symbolizes refined scholarly leisure and poetic elegance.,” the woman likely did not know how to write those four characters, and she never pronounced them smoothly. Turning back, she smiled. “An old gentleman who often stays here in the mountains had it made, but he’s old now, and he doesn’t come in winter.”

In the bright lamplight, she noticed Mengshi’s pitch-blackened face. “This one… how did that happen?”

“I don’t know how to ride well. Fell into the mud.”

Mengshi gave an awkward smile, his voice trembling slightly. To keep anyone from discovering that he was actually a Daoist, he had long since taken off that filthy Daoist robe and thrown it away.

Shang Rong had originally intended to give him a cloak, but when Mengshi took it and saw the delicate silver-pink embroidery on it, he fell silent for a moment and still refused.

And so he endured the cold the entire way.

“I’ll go heat some water to warm the three of you up,” the woman said briskly. Quick and efficient, she finished lighting the lamps and went to the kitchen to boil water.

The courtyard was small, and there were only two bedrooms. Fortunately, the woman’s husband brought in a wooden bed and set it inside the main room.

Mengshi was freezing badly. Once the hot water was poured into the bathing tub, the woman hurriedly called him to bathe and change in another much narrower room.

Only Shang Rong and Zhezhu remained facing each other in front of the corridor of the main room. The woman poured the last bucket of water into the bathing tub and came out, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her sleeve. “My apologies, this courtyard is a bit small. There really aren’t enough rooms.”

Zhezhu responded indifferently. Looking at Shang Rong, he slightly lifted his chin. “Go on.”

As soon as Shang Rong stepped over the threshold, the woman hurriedly closed the door from outside.

Three lamps burned indoors. Steam rose and drifted from the bathing tub. Shang Rong urgently wanted to wash away the exhaustion and dust of the journey. Looking at the silk tied at the end of her braid, she hesitated for a moment, but still untied it and put it away, then slowly undid the braid, removed her mask, and took off her clothes. But because the stool beside the tub had been accidentally splashed with water by the farm woman, when she stepped onto it barefoot, she slipped and fell straight into the tub.

With a splash, water burst outward and spilled everywhere.

Shang Rong emerged from the water in a disheveled state. She coughed several times from choking, but then heard someone lightly knocking on the window frame. Soon after came the boy’s puzzled voice: “Shang Rong?”

Droplets of water weighed on her eyelashes. She wiped her face and looked toward the faint silhouette reflected outside the window, responding awkwardly.

“Did you try to drown yourself?” he said.

Staring at his shadow, Shang Rong felt both embarrassed and annoyed. “No!”

Footnotes

• 1
  Qushui Liushang (曲水流觞) — an ancient Chinese literati gathering custom where cups of wine are set to float along a winding stream; participants compose poetry before the cup reaches them, or drink if they fail to produce a verse. It symbolizes refined scholarly leisure and poetic elegance.