The last wisp of the setting sun’s afterglow fell upon the square opera stage. People with faces painted in greasepaint, their features indistinct, hung up a long string of lanterns in different colors. Below the stage, some sat, some stood — already a great many had gathered.

Shang Rong had never seen such a scene before. Someone plucked at wind and string instruments, the music breaking off and resuming from time to time. So many unfamiliar faces were smiling. Her line of sight was repeatedly blocked by the surging crowd of heads; she could only be passively pulled along by the boy as he led her out from the crowd gathered before the stage.

Just as Mengshi had said, quite a number of peddlers had indeed come tonight. They sold things to eat and play with. There were also silversmiths who had hurried over to join the bustle, selling hairpins and ornaments that women favored, and they could also melt down old silver ornaments for them and recast them into new items.

Shang Rong saw a group of children circling around an old man. The old man had kind brows and gentle eyes; smiling cheerfully, he melted sugar and, with movements as smooth as flowing clouds and running water, outlined a plump tiger and handed it to one of the children.

Suddenly, the boy who had been holding her hand let go. Only then did Shang Rong move her gaze away from the sugar painting stall and saw that the boy had already stepped forward a few paces, lining up behind the children. Perhaps sensing her gaze, he turned his head and asked her, “What kind do you want?”

He did not care at all about the curious looks the children and women cast at him. Those eyes, dark as if touched with lacquer, looked only at her.

Yet so many pairs of eyes followed his gaze and looked over as well. Shang Rong turned her face aside uncomfortably and only said:

“Anything is fine.”

Zhezhu responded faintly, then turned back and silently glanced at how many children were still ahead of him.

The old man making sugar paintings worked very deftly. The animals the children liked seemed to come to his hand effortlessly. Having just handed over a little dog sugar painting, the old man lifted his head and saw a youth in white.

His jet-black hair was neatly tied up, secured only with a snow-white satin ribbon. Such a young and handsome face was very eye-catching. This was not the old man’s first time coming to Taoxi Village, and he knew that some refined scholars often stayed temporarily in the countryside. Thus he hesitated only for a moment before smiling and asking, “What would the young master like this old one to paint?”

Zhezhu turned his head and saw that the girl wrapped in a cloak trimmed with rabbit fur had already turned her back, examining the women gathered in front of the silversmith.

“Whatever you like.”

Zhezhu turned back again and tossed a piece of broken silver into the old man’s money box.

Seeing that one piece of silver among the scattered copper coins, the old man smiled until his eyes narrowed, stroked his beard, and formed an idea. At once, he began melting sugar to paint.

The night air was cold. The villagers busied themselves piling up firewood and lighting a large fire in the flat open space before the opera stage. The sky darkened quietly. The broken firewood was completely swallowed by the flames, stirring up glowing embers like a cluster of scattered stars, reflected in everyone’s eyes before quickly vanishing.

The air carried the fragrance of hot soup and wine. Zhezhu lifted his eyes and saw that someone across from him had set up a simple stove to provide late-night food for those who had come to the small temple fair.

“Young master, your sugar paintings are ready.”

The old man’s aged voice pulled Zhezhu back to himself. He lowered his eyes and saw the four sugar paintings, amber in color, being handed to him.

“Plum, orchid, bamboo, and chrysanthemum — the Four Gentlemen. May the young master like them,” the old man said with a smile.

“Thank you.”

Zhezhu turned around, unsure which one to eat first.

Shang Rong was staring at the silver ornaments in the silversmith’s opened wooden box when a shadow suddenly fell over her. She noticed at once, turned her head, and met the sight of the four sugar paintings in the boy’s hands.

“Which one do you want?” he asked.

Shang Rong was eager to make him look at the silversmith’s wooden box and did not look closely. She reached out and took one from his hand, then grabbed his hand and said, “Zhezhu, look at that.”

Zhezhu’s gaze, however, first fell upon the crystal-clear sugar painting in her hand. It was a bamboo branch bearing frost and resting in snow. His eyelashes lowered. Only when he heard her voice again did he raise his eyes to look in the direction she pointed.

A silver hairpin lay quietly at the edge of the box. It was slender and delicate, the head engraved with a single leaf, the veins of the leaf lifelike. There were no gemstones to accompany it, no elaborate flowers to adorn it. Among the women coming and going, not one took a liking to it.

“You like it?”

Zhezhu bit into the orchid sugar painting, casually handed the remaining two sugar paintings to passing children, and then reached toward the broken silver at his waist.

Shang Rong, however, shook her head at him and said, “I’ll buy it myself.”

When she had first met him at Yuliang River in Nanzhou, the skirt and embroidered shoes she wore had been covered in pearls. Shang Rong had long since removed them. Compared to gold and jade ornaments, pearls were more convenient to use.

Only after Shang Rong used pearls to exchange for that silver hairpin did Zhezhu take it with one hand and use it to coil up her braid. Seeing her touching the silver hairpin, seeming as though she wanted to speak but hesitated, he asked curiously, “What’s wrong?”

Shang Rong shook her head and said nothing.

At that moment, fireworks burst into the sky in brilliant colors. The night brightened and darkened again. On the opera stage, gongs and drums sounded — the performance began.

Yet the dense sea of people blocked the view, and Shang Rong could not clearly see anything on the stage, until the boy beside her stretched out his arm and drew her into his embrace.

All eyes were fixed on the stage. No one noticed the two figures sweep like wind into the deep shade beneath the great tree, disappearing from sight.

Shang Rong sat upon the thick tree trunk. Through the gaps between the branches and leaves, she could clearly see below the lively scene formed by the continuous glow of lanterns and the crowd.

She had never heard the opera being performed on the stage. Then she looked at the sugar painting in her hand — it was so delicate and beautiful that she felt somewhat reluctant to eat it. But when she turned her head, she saw that the boy beside her had already bitten off the last mouthful of the orchid sugar painting.

Lamplight filtered through the branches and illuminated his profile. His eyes were lowered as he looked at the stage below.

Shang Rong silently followed his gaze and gently took a bite of her sugar.

This was not her first time watching an opera. In Rongzhou City, she had already watched several with Zhezhu. At this moment, the cheers below rose into one continuous sound. Yet she and he were outside that bustle — within the dark, indistinct tree shade — holding a quietness that belonged to the two of them.

“Zhezhu.”

She suddenly called to him.

“Mm?”

Zhezhu responded, but did not lift his eyes to look at her.

“When did you discover the corpse in the courtyard?” she asked him while eating sugar.

“Last night.”

He answered with only two brief words.

Hearing this, Shang Rong thought carefully about last night. She remembered that after dinner he had been in the room, so she turned her face to look at him. “Was it after I fell asleep? In the middle of the night, what did you go out to do?”

“To watch the stars.”

His voice was clear.

Shang Rong looked at him. After quite a long pause, she asked softly, “Was it because I asked about your past that made you unhappy?”

Zhezhu heard this and turned his head to meet her gaze.

“Shang Rong.”

He suddenly called her name, his expression calm and composed. “I may not be what you think. I don’t have any memories that cannot be touched. You don’t need to brood over it.”

“Instead, I think you should think about yourself.” he said.

“Me?”

Shang Rong did not know why he had suddenly mentioned her.

“When we first met that day at Yuliang River, you offered me gold and jade and asked me to kill you,” Zhezhu’s face was steeped in mottled, scattered warm light, those lacquer-dark eyes shimmering faintly, “yet you never thought of ending yourself?”

Shang Rong froze for a moment, then quickly lowered her head to avoid his gaze and said:

“That’s because I’m afraid of pain.”

“Just afraid of pain?”

Zhezhu’s words pressed her until she had nowhere to retreat. She pressed her lips together uneasily, unwilling to say another word.

“You lacked the courage to end your own life, so you placed your hope in me to help you end your suffering,” amid the swaying shadows of branches, his voice fell by her ear like the wind, “but have you ever thought that your hesitation may come from your reluctance to part?”

Shang Rong’s fingers tightened unconsciously, clutching her skirt until the fabric wrinkled. The light in her eyes dimmed, like a small snail hiding in its shell, unwilling to come out.

Suddenly, the boy’s finger gently poked at her snail shell.

Shang Rong shrank away from him, unwilling to lift her head to look at him. Her thoughts were in complete disorder. She slowly shook her head, not knowing whether she was speaking to him or to herself: “There’s nothing I can’t bear to part with.”

The boy silently examined her expression. Amid the rustling leaves, he looked again at the lively crowd below — steam drifting from the food stalls, children chasing one another in laughter.

“Not knowing before doesn’t mean you won’t know later.” he said.

The sounds of strings and bamboo instruments filled the air, the clamor of bronze gongs ringing loudly. At last, Shang Rong lifted her head to look at him.

The boy raised his brows, the curve of the silkworm-like fullness beneath his eyes deepening. “You said before, you and I still have a future as thick as two volumes of books.”

“If I keep you by my side, perhaps one day, you’ll understand.”

The piercing night wind stirred the rabbit-fur trim of Shang Rong’s cloak. The soft fluff brushed lightly against her earlobe, making it inexplicably ticklish. Almost as if fleeing, she turned her face away, looking toward the figures moving back and forth on the opera stage, and bit heavily into her sugar.

The boy said nothing more. Shang Rong’s tangled emotions slowly surfaced in the silence. Amid the gradually mournful music, she did not know when she finally came to understand the play on the stage.

The general stood alone among ruined walls and desolation. Everywhere the eye could see was devastation. The singing stirred a tragic, heroic tune and with the general raising his blade to his throat, the sound came to an abrupt end.

“Don’t cry.”

Shang Rong’s eyes were about to grow wet when the boy’s lazy, cool voice sounded beside her.

The mist of moisture in her eyes truly stopped at once.

Only then did she realize that she was still wearing a mask. If tears stained it, it would not fall off immediately, but it would still form uneven little bulges.

Zhezhu’s hair ribbon brushed lightly past her eyes. She turned her face at once, her gaze falling upon his hair knot.

“Zhezhu.” she called.

The clustered lantern lights made the moonlight seem faint. In a stretch of dim shadow, the boy turned his face toward her — yet he did not expect her to be this close all of a sudden.

In the dense shade unknown to others, the two figures were silent.

Zhezhu saw her remove the silver hairpin gleaming faintly among her hair. Her jet-black braid fell loose over her shoulders. Holding the hairpin, she gently inserted it into his hair knot.

The wind was gentle too. The surrounding noise seemed to grow distant and indistinct in an instant.

His eyelashes flickered once.

“If not for you, I might never have tasted sugar paintings this sweet and beautiful, nor could I have sat here peacefully watching a play.”

Shang Rong looked at him. “You gave me shelter, bought me cosmetics and clothes, and shared with me things that are fun and things that are delicious.”

She said: “Zhezhu, this silver hairpin… was actually a gift I wanted to give you.”