After returning from Fuguang Temple, Gu Jinzhao did not leave the residence for several consecutive days.
It was not because she had been confined. Madam Gu only knew she had gone to the temple to offer incense and light lamps, and that she had returned in a carriage from the Changxing Marquis Residence. Though she had asked a few more questions, she let it go after Gu Jinzhao brushed it off with, “Lady Gao happened to be passing by and gave me a ride.”
Concubine Song, however, had sneered a few times, saying, “The eldest young lady has now climbed onto a higher branch. She doesn’t even need the household carriage anymore.” She was quickly silenced by a look from Madam Gu.
Gu Jinzhao did not care. Her thoughts had been elsewhere these days.
She had already finished reading the Register of Gentry. In the records, there were indeed several private residences of officials near the purple bamboo grove behind Qingfeng Academy in the northern part of the city. But none of those names seemed to have any connection with Ji Minzhong—at least on the surface. She copied the list and placed it beneath the bottom of her dressing box, planning to find an excuse to go north of the city later.
But before that, something else concerned her more.
He had told her to report to the marquis residence before going to Fuguang Temple next time. The words were awkward, but the meaning was clear—he did not trust her going alone.
As she thought of this, the comb in her hand circled through her hair three times without her noticing.
“Miss,” Qing Pu said as she brought breakfast in and set it down. “You’re going to break your hair at this rate.”
Only then did Gu Jinzhao snap back to reality and casually set the comb aside.
“Is there porridge today?” she asked.
“Yes. Red bean porridge, and steamed jujube cakes,” Qing Pu replied while laying out the tableware. “Oh, and the gatekeeper said the second young master will return home this afternoon.”
Gu Jinzhao paused mid-bite of a jujube cake and looked up. “Jinrong? Isn’t his academy still in session?”
“It seems his teacher’s household has a celebration, so he was given a few days off,” Qing Pu said. “Madam has already sent people to prepare his courtyard.”
Ye Xian was her younger brother, two years her junior. When they were young, they had grown up together in the capital and were very close. Later, she had been sent to her maternal grandparents’ home in Jiangnan, while Jinrong remained in the capital to study. After she returned, he was still in the academy, and they rarely met. The last time had been during the New Year—he had stayed only three days before leaving, still childishly tugging at her sleeve and saying he would bring her sesame candy from the academy next time.
In the afternoon, just past the hour of Wei, Ye Xian indeed returned home.
He made quite a commotion upon entering—not intentionally, but because he had brought too many things. Two book chests, a cage of pigeons, a broken-stringed zither, half a sack of wild chestnuts from somewhere, and the dust of travel mixed with the vigor of youth.
“Elder sister!” he called as he stepped into the courtyard. When he saw Gu Jinzhao standing under the corridor, he waved brightly. His voice, still rough from adolescence, carried a familiar warmth, his brows curved in a smile that resembled hers.
Gu Jinzhao walked out and looked him over. “You’ve grown taller.”
“Of course!” Ye Xian tapped the top of his head proudly. “I’m over an inch taller than last time. The teacher says I might still grow more.”
“You grow taller but not wiser,” she teased, brushing a piece of grass from his shoulder.
He laughed, then pulled out a paper packet from his sleeve like a trick. “Here. Sesame candy. I promised you last time.”
She took it, opened it, and the warm sweetness filled the air. As she ate, a faint memory surfaced—of another kind of candy from long ago, when she was even younger, crouched somewhere crying, and someone had placed candy into her mouth.
Whose hand had it been?
She could not remember the face. Only the cool fingertips.
“Elder sister?” Ye Xian waved a hand in front of her. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing,” she said, wrapping the candy back up.
After paying respects in the main courtyard, the family gathered. Madam Gu asked after him, Gu Lan chirped about gifts, and the courtyard filled with warmth like a festival.
Later that evening, Gu Jinzhao sat outside her room under the corridor, reviewing account books. Concubine Song had handed her kitchen procurement ledgers the previous month, intending to embarrass her—but every entry had been checked cleanly.
Ye Xian sat beside her on a small stool, eating a pear.
“Elder sister, do you have something on your mind?”
“Hmm?” she replied without looking up.
“You feel different since coming back from Jiangnan.”
Her hand paused slightly. She had thought she was hiding it well. She could not speak of rebirth, nor of the past life. She had believed others only saw her as more composed than before.
“Different how?”
“You don’t fight me for candy anymore,” he said thoughtfully.
She laughed. “So you just miss arguing with me?”
“That’s not it,” he said more seriously. “Is life in the capital hard for you? Has Concubine Song been bothering you?”
“No.”
“You used to show everything on your face.”
She closed the ledger and turned to him.
“Jinrong,” she said softly, “I’m thinking about childhood.”
“What childhood?”
“The parts I can’t remember.”
He leaned closer. “You don’t remember, but I do. You lived in the capital before Jiangnan. Before you were six. We lived in the western district. Father was still in the Hanlin Academy.”
She blinked.
She knew she had been in the capital as a child, but everything before six felt like a fogged mirror.
“Do you remember the neighbor next door?” he continued excitedly. “There was an older boy. You followed him everywhere. He ignored you, and you pulled his sleeve until his clothes were crooked. Once he shook you off, and you cried in the corner until nightfall.”
Her heart gave a small, strange jump.
A corner. Crying.
Someone had placed candy in her mouth. Cold fingertips.
“Later?” she asked.
“One day you followed him up a tree, got hurt, and cried again. He blew on your wound and said—” Ye Xian imitated carefully, “‘Stop crying… I’ll marry you in the future.’”
Silence settled over her.
She should have laughed, but she did not.
Because she had heard something like that before—not with her ears, but somewhere deeper in memory’s edge.
“After that,” Ye Xian continued, “you were taken to Jiangnan by your grandmother. You fell ill for half a month. After that, no one mentioned the capital again.”
Gu Jinzhao looked down at her hands in the fading light.
So it had not been forgotten.
It had been buried.
That night, she opened a hidden wooden box in the storeroom.
Inside were old fragments of childhood. At the very bottom, she found a worn pouch.
On it, embroidered in childish stitches, was a crooked bamboo branch.
On the back, two words:
Chao. Xian.
She pressed it against her palm.
Later, she dreamed.
She was crying in a courtyard corner. Someone knelt and placed candy in her mouth.
“Stop crying. I’ll marry you someday.”
She woke before dawn, her eyelashes damp.
And she finally remembered.
That face—belonged to the same young man standing before her now in the marquis residence.
The next morning, she went to the Changxing Marquis Residence.
Not invited this time—she came herself.
The courtyard was full of blooming peonies. Lady Gao welcomed her warmly, speaking of tea, food, and family matters. Then she suddenly excused herself.
Footsteps followed soon after.
Boots on stone pavement.
Ye Xian entered.
He looked at her briefly—just a glance—but it paused in the air for the briefest moment before he turned away.
“Have you been well?” she asked.
“Mm.”
He poured himself tea, ignoring everyone else.
After a moment, he placed something beside her cup.
A paper packet.
Inside were pine nut candies.
“You had pine nut candy at Fuguang Temple,” he said casually. “That one was too sticky. This is better.”
She looked at him. “Thank you.”
“Mm.”
After a pause, she asked, “Did you live in the western district when you were young?”
His hand stopped.
Then he looked at her directly.
“When did you remember?”
It was not a question. It was confirmation.
She took out the old pouch and placed it on the table.
“You embroidered it,” he said quietly. “You said bamboo suited me.”
Her heart tightened slightly.
He placed a jade pendant beside it.
On the back were two engraved characters:
Jin. Chao.
The past had never disappeared. It had only been waiting.
Outside, peonies swayed in the wind.
“Since you’ve found it,” he said, standing, “then take it.”
He turned to leave.
At the doorway, he stopped without looking back.
“Tomorrow my mother is going to the temple. If you are free, come.”
A pause.
“Was that Lady Gao’s invitation?”
“No,” he said. “Mine.”
Then he left.
The garden swallowed his figure among the peonies.