The shadows of branches rustled, the dense shade dim and obscure.

In the mottled warm light, the youth reached up and touched the slender silver hairpin in his hair, thin as a leaf. In his eyes was undisguised astonishment, a faint flicker of spirit, ripples stirring little by little.

“Zhezhu?”

Shang Rong waved her hand in front of his eyes.

The youth’s eyes blinked instinctively. He let go, turned his face slightly, and looked down at the bustle beyond the swaying branches.

“Since it was meant for me, why did you not say so earlier?”

His voice did not sound the least bit unusual.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want it.”

Shang Rong felt a little embarrassed. She had only just bought the silver hairpin, and he had taken it and used it to arrange her hair. At the time she could not bring herself to say it, and only now had she finally gathered the courage.

“Zhezhu, don’t refuse it, alright?”

She looked at the glimmer of silver among his dark, thick hair, “When I saw it, I knew it suited you best.”

Just then, below, someone lightly plucked a few strings. The sound was like shattered jade and like falling rain. The youth sat within a thick stretch of shadow, the clear, crisp notes dripping and scattering into his ears.

“Understood.”

His voice was cool and clear, responding calmly.

By the time Mengshi arrived, the play on stage had already changed to another act. The three of them sat together by a food stall for a late-night meal. Seeing that Zhezhu was about to drink wine, Mengshi hurried to remind him. The youth, with an even expression, simply set down the bowl of wine he had lifted, easily accepting the advice.

Mengshi could tell he was in a very good mood.

“What did the officials ask you?” Zhezhu poured another bowl of tea.

“Just asked me a few casual questions. After the coroner finished examining the body, they carried the corpse away,” Mengshi said, picking up his chopsticks. “All thanks to that pool of water preserving the body intact. I heard the coroner say he died from Hanshi San¹Hanshi San: a historical medicinal powder that can act as a slow poison with prolonged use..”

Hearing this, Shang Rong’s expression stiffened. It was not the first time she had heard of such a thing. She had personally seen what someone who had taken Hanshi San looked like.

“Hanshi San can dispel illness and strengthen the body—who knows where that nonsense came from,” Mengshi’s knowledge of healing arts came from what he had absorbed by exposure at Baiyu Zichang Temple. The alchemy of Xuanwu Hall was poorly practiced, but as for Hanshi San, he had studied it together with his master and fellow disciples.

“When first taken, it may make one feel clear-headed and refreshed, even full of strength, so people say it dispels illness and strengthens the body. But in truth, it is a chronic poison. If a person takes it for a long time, not only will their body become unbearably overheated, they will develop sores and abscesses. In more severe cases, they may be left disabled or even die.”

Hanshi San had existed in the world for several hundred years, and there were never lacking fools determined to touch it.

“If taken in excess, it can kill?”

Shang Rong almost could not hold the chopsticks in her hand.

At gatherings of literati, taking Hanshi San or elixirs was commonplace in Great Yan. But in the palace, whether for his own use or when bestowing rewards upon ministers at banquets, Emperor Chunsheng only granted golden elixirs refined by the Great Zhenren Ling Shuang whom he

himself had conferred the title upon. As for those who took Hanshi San, Shang Rong had only ever seen one.

“That’s right.”

Mengshi nodded. “Since it was caused by Hanshi San, this case should be easy to conclude. Now it just depends on how the authorities verify why those two who came today hid the corpse. Presumably, that lady and her husband should be fine.”

Shang Rong lowered her eyes and suddenly fell silent.

Zhezhu had just taken a sip of hot tea. Perhaps sensing something, he lifted his eyes to look at her.

“What’s the matter with Miss Susu?”

Mengshi also noticed a trace of something unusual about her.

“I…”

Shang Rong had just begun to speak, then suddenly paused for a long while. The night breeze lightly brushed her hair, and her voice became as light as the wind, “I once knew someone who also took Hanshi San.”

How perceptive Mengshi was—just from her brief sentence, he sensed that the person she spoke of must have been someone very close to her. His tone unconsciously grew gentler, “When did he begin taking Hanshi San?”

“I don’t know.”

Shang Rong replied instinctively, but after thinking for a moment, she added, “Perhaps… fifteen years ago.”

Fifteen years.

She herself was exactly fifteen now.

Zhezhu’s fingers lightly tapped the tea bowl, his expression unchanged.

“Fifteen years… if his body has not yet developed sores or any other symptoms, then it proves the amount he takes is extremely small, and he does not take it often. Presumably, there should be no serious harm,” Mengshi comforted her.

“Really?”

Shang Rong lifted her head.

“Miss Susu, rest assured. If there is ever a chance in the future, I can also take his pulse and have a look.” Mengshi smiled at her, then took another sip of wine.

But after hearing this, Shang Rong was stunned for quite a while.

Amid the clamor, she seemed somewhat dazed as she said, “There won’t be any chance.”

She would never return to Yujing again.

Though the village food could not compare with the skill of restaurant chefs, it still had a certain unadorned rustic flavor. Mengshi ate the braised beef with relish. Yet Zhezhu showed not the slightest intention of picking up his chopsticks. He propped his chin up, looking uninterested. Seeing Shang Rong sitting still for a long time, he suddenly said, “Why not go to Shuqing City tomorrow?”

Hearing his voice, Shang Rong raised her eyes.

“Sounds good. If we can go into the city and have a proper meal, that would be wonderful.” Mengshi had just taken a sip from the bowl of rice wine the old woman had brought. Hearing Zhezhu’s words, he smiled.

“Your injury hasn’t healed yet.”

Shang Rong reminded him.

Mengshi saw the youth opposite him, dressed in white like fresh snow, his expression at ease. For a moment, immersed in the late-night meal before him and slightly affected by the wine, he had nearly forgotten that the youth’s blade wound had not yet healed and that he should not be jostled about. He immediately said:

“That’s true. Young Master Zhezhu, let’s wait until your injury is fully healed before we go.”

The night grew late. The play had ended. On the stage, those dismantling the lanterns took them down one string at a time, smiling as they handed them out to the children running about. Mengshi squeezed into the crowd and managed to get two. They were shaped like lotus flowers—one sky blue, one orange-red. He brought them back and gave one to Shang Rong.

The lively crowd dispersed. The candlelight lit in every household of the village shone against each gauze window, hazy and soft. The three of them walked together, carrying lanterns as they left the village and stepped onto the small stone bridge.

Mengshi had drunk too much. A moment ago he had still been laughing and talking, but for some reason, after leaving the lively place, he grew increasingly quiet. Walking alone at the front, he said nothing unless it was to remind them to watch the loose stones underfoot.

The small river flowed gently. The gauze lantern in Shang Rong’s hand cast the shadows of two people silently onto the bridge. The night here was deep and dark, the cold mist heavy. She obediently held the youth’s hand, following his steps.

Mengshi returned first to the small courtyard and heated water in the kitchen. After bathing, Shang Rong came out. In the jagged flicker of lamplight, she saw the water channel. The wooden boards by the channel had already been restored to how they were before, but in such a desolate night, recalling the corpse wrapped in oilcloth from the daytime still made her uneasy.

Mengshi had prepared a medicinal bath for Zhezhu. At this time, Zhezhu was already bathing in the side room, while Mengshi sat within a patch of shadow beneath the corridor. Shang Rong turned and saw the flickering firelight, only then noticing his figure.

Shang Rong walked closer and saw yellowing paper money burning in the bronze basin before him. The small, delicate orange-red lantern he had just taken from beside the village stage had also been thrown into it.

He held that cloth doll in his hand, not noticing Shang Rong approaching at all, nor was it clear what he was lost in thought about.

“Daozhang.”

Shang Rong called softly.

“Miss Susu, why are you still not asleep?” Mengshi came back to himself and smiled at her, though it seemed somewhat forced.

“If you sleep with wet hair, you’ll get a headache.”

Shang Rong crouched beside the brazier and took some of the paper money from the side, tossing it into the basin. The firelight warmed her cheeks until they felt slightly hot. She lifted her head and met Mengshi’s gaze.

“My daughter was born on a mist-thick spring night, so I gave her the childhood name Yaoyao,” a man who always appeared cheerful and broad-minded on the surface found that wine was not a remedy for sorrow, but rather a blade that peeled open hidden thoughts. “Miss Susu does not know—she had dimples like yours. Only, she loved to smile. I have never seen you smile.”

Thus Shang Rong’s dimples were not obvious at all—only faintly glimpsed in subtle expressions.

“When I first brought her to Rongzhou, I once promised her that on New Year’s Eve I would buy her a little flower lantern.”

The firelight in the bronze basin flickered in Mengshi’s eyes as he watched the orange-red lantern being completely devoured by the tongues of flame, “It was given a bit too late.”

Shang Rong noticed that as he spoke, one of his hands was still touching something inside the cloth pouch on his person—the shape of a small jar. In truth, she did not know whether the offerings of the living could truly carry grief and regret along with this basin of ashes to those who had already passed. Her gaze settled on the cloth doll tightly gripped in Mengshi’s hand as she said, “Daozhang, it is also good to keep something of hers by your side. Even to carry her with you always is fine. If you cannot bear to part, then do not force yourself.”

Mengshi lowered his head to look at the small jar cradled in his palm through the cloth pouch. The cold wind stirred his glossy black beard as he sighed slowly, “Since ancient times, when a person dies, is it not always said they should be laid to rest in the earth, to return to their roots?”

But Shang Rong asked him, “Daozhang has wandered half his life—where can be considered Daozhang’s root? And where is Yaoyao’s root? Your wife’s bones lie far away. If Yaoyao is now buried here as well, then next year… where in this world will Daozhang be?”

Mengshi froze. The emotions in his eyes were deep and heavy. He could not help but lift his head again to look at the little girl before him. She had already removed that mask. Her black hair was damp, the hem of her snow-brocade skirt trailing to the ground. The faint courtyard light fell upon her, and her brows and eyes were so clean they seemed never to have been touched by smoke or dust of the mortal world.

“If Daozhang thinks of them, then do not be separated from them across heaven and earth,” Shang Rong rested her hands on her knees, her pale cheeks reflecting the dancing shadows of flame. “Keep Yaoyao by your side. One day, when you return, let her rest beside her mother.”

Memories layered in his mind like stacked pages of a book. Mengshi’s eyes could not help but fill with tears. He drew a deep breath, forcing down the hundred bitter feelings in his heart. Seeing her brows lowered, he said, “Forgive me—Miss Susu, did my matters make you think of home?”

“No.”

She shook her head.

“My home… is not the same as Daozhang’s.” In her mind appeared a man and a woman. She remembered clearly the woman’s splendid garments, noble bearing, and cold, proud features. But no matter how she tried, she could not recall the man’s face—only the dark-gold hem of his robe and his distant back.

The fire in the bronze basin had burned out. This corner, shielded by the wooden corridor, was dim and desolate. She said softly, “I would rather be like Zhezhu, born without a home.”

Just as her words fell, a door opened.

Shang Rong turned back. The lantern beneath the eaves illuminated the hot mist surging out from the room, only to be scattered at once by the wind. The youth stood there with damp hair draped loose, his eyes moist from the steam, his lips—flushed by the heat—lightly biting the silver leaf hairpin. His hands carelessly tied the sash at his waist.

Suddenly, he turned his face and fixed his gaze precisely on her within that patch of shadow.

A droplet of water silently fell from the end of a pale strand of hair beside his cheek. He caught the scent of burnt paper money, yet asked Mengshi nothing, only said to her, “Why did you come out?”

His sash was tied loosely. Droplets shimmered faintly in the hollow of his pale, finely shaped collarbone. Shang Rong abruptly stood up and said, “I’m going to sleep.”

She turned, lifted her skirt, ran up the wooden steps, and pushed the door open to go inside.

Most of the lights in the courtyard were extinguished. After bathing, Mengshi also went to sleep in the side room.

A faint, flickering shadow of light spread silently through the window into the room. Amid the deep stillness, Zhezhu glanced quietly at the silver hairpin between his fingers, then tucked it beneath the pillow and closed his eyes.

Shang Rong fell into a deep sleep not long after her head touched the pillow. She had a dream—again she dreamed of that dense, flourishing great tree. The music from the opera stage echoed again and again in her dream. Without her knowing, the night quietly passed.

Bright light streamed into the room, almost dazzling. Suddenly, hurried footsteps sounded in the courtyard, followed by a woman’s breathless voice:

“Young Master Zhezhu! Is Young Master Zhezhu in the room?”

Shang Rong’s eyes flew open at once.

She had just sat up when she heard a burst of footsteps. She lifted her eyes. Through the screen and curtain, she vaguely saw the youth’s figure flash past.

Then came the creaking sound of the door opening.

“You are Young Master Zhezhu?”

Seeing the door open and a youth in white step out from within, the woman froze for a moment, then hurriedly said:

“Just now, officials came to the village, saying that Lady Yu and her husband killed someone. Even Mister Mengshi from the small schoolhouse was taken to the yamen for questioning. Before he left, Mister Mengshi asked this servant to bring back his books.”

Zhezhu lowered his eyes to the Analects she held in her hands. He gave a slight nod, reached out to take it. The morning wind seized the chance to pour into his snow-white wide sleeves. He flipped open a page, and at once two characters came into view:

— “Leave quickly.”

Footnotes

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  Hanshi San: a historical medicinal powder that can act as a slow poison with prolonged use.