Jiang Yue told Fu Ying in full what the assassin had said before he died.
Fu Ying turned over in her mind the scene of yesterday’s assassination attempt, stringing together everything that had happened recently, and could not help but break out in a cold sweat.
Presumably, the assassin’s target had been Wen Zhuo, not her. The reason he had spoken that way was probably that he had mistaken her for Wen Zhuo’s accomplice.
Wen Zhuo had never told her anything about his background. When she had first saved him, it had only been out of pity for a dying man, extending a helping hand, nothing more.
In this long life of hers, her chance meeting with him had been brief. She would simply bury deep whatever feeling had grown in her heart, that would be enough.
“Did that man say anything else?”
“No, he died from the poison right away. Commander Chen even thought your subordinate had struck too hard, and reproached me for it.”
Fu Ying relaxed at once, and earnestly cautioned Jiang Yue: “Chen Shi is my brother’s trusted man. As a military officer, it’s hard to avoid a short temper, bear with it for now, and yield a little where you can.”
“Your subordinate feels no grievance,” Jiang Yue said, at ease. “It’s only that, the Crown Prince sent Commander Chen here in the name of protecting you, but I suspect they’re also watching your every move, young lady…”
Fu Ying raised her index finger and held it up in front of her lips, signaling him not to say any more. Her knowing gaze already made clear that she understood full well.
“Ah Yue, you and I are of one mind, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Jiang Yue swears to follow the young lady to the death, and will never betray that trust.”
Jiang Yue’s gaze was resolute, looking straight at Fu Ying, his words firm and forceful.
Fu Ying nodded, reassured, a comforted smile rippling at the corners of her lips.
At the hour of chen, Wen Zhuo was jolted awake by a sudden, intense cold surging up from within his body.
“Young master?”
He opened his eyes, his whole body shivering, and everything gradually came into focus, Fu Sang’s soft, rosy little face coming into view.
Wen Zhuo felt a touch of disappointment, his raised lashes lowering again. The person he most wanted to see upon waking was not her.
He suddenly felt very cold all over, yet his body temperature was abnormally scorching, nothing like the usual burning urge of waking in the morning, but more like a sickly fever.
Seeing that Wen Zhuo’s face had gone rather pale, Fu Sang mustered her courage to touch his forehead, then hurried up and ran out. “Young lady, the young master has a fever.”
A moment later, Fu Ying, wearing the Nuo mask, appeared before him.
Today, unusually, she wore a step-shake hairpin, its gold-threaded jade pendant swaying back and forth with her graceful steps, dressed in an apricot-colored gown, her look elegant and refined, like a snow lotus blooming in the northern land.
Wen Zhuo immediately felt a sense of comfort and ease, light returning to his dull eyes as he asked with concern: “Miss, are you… feeling any discomfort right now?”
Having survived a night where life and death hung in the balance, the moment he woke he gave no thought to himself, but worried instead about her safety.
Fu Ying’s heart gave an uncontrolled leap in her chest, a strange, fluttering sensation spreading through her like morning mist.
“Thanks to the young master’s blessing, I am perfectly well. It’s only that the young master’s color isn’t good, let me check on you first.”
Fu Ying came and sat by the bed, reaching out to feel his forehead, and upon sensing the abnormal temperature, pulled his hand out from under the quilt, turning his palm up to check his pulse.
Wen Zhuo let her skin touch his without resistance, his thick brows relaxing as he watched her quietly.
Having spent yesterday together through a moment when his life hung by a thread, these somewhat intimate touches had, without either of them saying so, become natural between them.
Fu Ying said to Wen Zhuo, who lay half-asleep on the bed: “Young master has caught a chill from the wind. I’ll have someone brew medicine for you.”
“All right.”
She said something to Fu Sang nearby, and Fu Sang bowed in acknowledgment and left.
“It’s been two days, let me help the young master sit up so I can change your bandage.”
Wen Zhuo, seeing that a few spots of blood had seeped through the gauze on his shoulder, nodded readily.
She lifted the quilt, slipping one hand under his sturdy, burning-hot arm, and wrapping her other arm around his waist, her palm supporting his firm lower back, half-lifting him up to sit.
The moment their skin touched, both of them seemed to pause, almost imperceptibly.
They were so close now that Wen Zhuo’s nose was filled entirely with the crisp scent of orchid and snow pear on Fu Ying.
Once she had helped him sit up, Fu Ying went to fetch the medicine box set by the bedside, taking that scent belonging only to her along with her.
“This might hurt a little, bear with it.”
She took out the medicinal powder and clean gauze, reminding him gently.
Some of the old bandages had stuck to the wound’s scabs, and though she had done her best to work carefully so as not to hurt him, a few drops of blood inevitably seeped out from the pulling.
Fu Ying used a cotton ball dipped in medicinal wine to wipe away the blood, sprinkled flesh-regenerating powder evenly over the wound, and wound clean gauze around it in even layers, wrapping it neat and snug.
Her fingertips were somewhat cold, brushing gently against Wen Zhuo’s somewhat feverish skin.
Like a dragonfly skimming the water’s surface, that faint coolness vanished again in an instant.
Something stirred in the deep pool of his heart, as though a stone had been dropped in, sending out ripple after ripple. It was a feeling he had never known before, of some string in his heart being plucked.
“Miss is skilled in medicine, with a practiced and gentle touch, it doesn’t hurt at all.”
Hearing Wen Zhuo’s sudden praise, Fu Ying looked up, and sure enough met his gaze, soft as water.
As though scalded, she looked away, but her eyes fell by chance on his chest, where several scratch marks left the night before, from when her mind had been in disarray, stood out clearly.
A wave of guilt washed over Fu Ying, and she quickly took a cotton ball to gently wipe at the spot where she had scratched him.
A broad, warm palm, somewhat hesitant, covered the back of her hand.
Wen Zhuo stopped her movement, a faint smile curving at the corner of his lips. “This wound is already about to heal.”
“Uh… right…”
Fu Ying was mortified in an instant, and nodded in a fluster, carefully withdrawing her hand.
Somehow, though she hadn’t noticed it before, now that Wen Zhuo had pointed it out, Fu Ying felt her cheeks growing hotter and hotter, the flush even spreading to the tips of her ears.
“Last night, thank you, young master, for risking your life to save mine. I’m truly sorry that it caused you to catch a chill.”
The woman’s timid voice was like a flower bud about to bloom, the kind that made one want to crush it gently against one’s own heart just from hearing it.
Wen Zhuo happened to notice, without meaning to, that there was a tiny mole on the round curve of her right earlobe. Flushed from her embarrassment, the earlobe had turned rosy, setting off the cinnabar mole as though it were a drop of blood fallen on peach-blossom jade.
He called out to her: “Miss.”
Fu Ying raised her head, meeting his fathomless, ink-black eyes.
“In my homeland, if a man and a woman sleep on the same bed together, then according to custom and propriety, she… becomes that man’s own.”
His words were clear and forceful, and in the depths of his eyes, seriousness, nervousness, and testing intertwined and churned like rolling mist, blending into an emotion she could not quite read.
Fu Ying froze for a moment, her lashes suddenly lowering, her heart pounding out of control in her chest.
How could someone with such a handsome face say something so embarrassingly sincere?
At that life-or-death moment, the two of them had done nothing improper at all. What had happened the night before could just as well be seen as Wen Zhuo falling asleep holding a cold, lifeless doll.
She looked up, studying Wen Zhuo.
His face looked somewhat haggard, carrying a certain fragile quality, could it be that the fever had muddled his mind, and he was starting to babble nonsense?
“The young master has no obligation to do any of this. I know full well that what happened was out of necessity, the young master is kind-hearted, and simply did not want to see me die.”
Fu Ying took his words as teasing, and so, suppressing the turmoil in her heart, feigned calm and tried to shift the subject.
Hearing this, Wen Zhuo shook his head gently, his low voice sounding almost like a solemn vow: “I am not joking with you. I have no obligation, but I am willing.”
Once she realized he meant this sincerely, Fu Ying lowered her head, a complex tangle of emotions welling up inside her, feelings all mixed together.
He was a high noble of Great Yong, a prince and general, she was the orphaned remnant of the former Khan of the Northern Di. Politically, their identities stood naturally opposed, like two parallel lines destined never to cross.
Fu Ying raised her head, her voice unable to keep from trembling slightly: “Young master, I am of the Northern Di, I suffer from a skin ailment on my face, and I am currently observing mourning. If the young master were to see my true face…”
“I have never cared about your background or your appearance.”
Wen Zhuo cut in quickly, his tone carrying an urgency he had never shown before. “Although I must leave for now, once your mourning period is complete, I will come back here to find you.”
Fu Ying shook her head gently, saying firmly: “To receive such deep regard from the young master, this lowly woman is unworthy. It is only that, this lowly woman believes only in one life, one partner. I wish only to be joined as one with a single husband, growing old together, hand in hand.”
Hearing Fu Ying use such a humble term to refer to herself, and gently refusing him, Wen Zhuo’s face could not help but darken, a flicker of sorrow, barely noticeable, passing through the depths of his eyes.
Did he really look, from the outside, like the kind of man who chased after women and kept a houseful of wives and concubines?
Wen Zhuo, the second son born to Empress Zhen Yi, was deeply cherished by the emperor, and had been named Prince of Wei of Great Yong while still young. Since the age of eleven he had led troops into battle, riding at the front lines. Over more than a decade, he had reclaimed the southern frontier and pacified Xiliang, winning Great Yong nearly half its territory, with illustrious military achievements.
For his outstanding merit, the emperor had granted him countless honors and titles. Among all the princes, Wen Zhuo’s standing at court was second only to the Crown Prince of the Eastern Palace, exalted in status, holding great power.
This year he was twenty-two years old and still unmarried, though countless court officials and elder statesmen had tried to climb the dragon and attach themselves to the phoenix, offering their beloved daughters to marry him.
He had turned every single one of them away without exception.
At court, treachery and scheming ran rampant, everyone plotting against everyone else, in the military, power and connections were tangled together like a cage.
Wen Zhuo did not want his wife to be a mere tool for binding together interests, nor did he want his own children to become products traded away in the games of political power.
Fu Ying had truly misjudged him, and rather deeply at that.
The door opened, and Fu Sang came in carrying a bowl of steaming hot medicinal soup.
The atmosphere seemed somewhat off, Fu Ying’s ears were flushed bright red, her head bowed, saying nothing, Wen Zhuo’s expression was displeased, tinged with a hint of melancholy.
Unable to hold back, she asked, “The medicine is ready, young lady, young master, is something…?”
“I’ll take it.”
Fu Ying turned and took the traditional medicine sitting on the tray, picked up the spoon beside it, and turned toward Wen Zhuo.
“I also have feelings for the young master, that’s exactly why I’m so troubled over this. Caring too much only muddles the mind…”
Realizing that her earlier words had cut too deep and hurt him, her voice was now filled with apology, and even choked with emotion.
Hearing Fu Ying say this, the heavy, blocked feeling in Wen Zhuo’s chest eased somewhat.
His expression softened slightly, but he did not respond, letting the two of them, both worked up, settle down a little.
“Speaking of which, I still don’t know the young master’s name.”
Fu Ying stirred the medicinal soup with the spoon, scooped up a spoonful, and gently blew on it to cool it. “May I know the young master’s given name?”
This was the first time she had ever asked about anything of his.
In all her years growing up, this was the first time Fu Ying had ever developed feelings for a man. Since she could not be joined with him in marriage, at least knowing his name would make their chance meeting not entirely in vain.
“Xuexi,” Wen Zhuo said, gazing earnestly into her eyes behind the Nuo mask, all his complicated, intense feelings hidden beneath the surface of his gaze. “To meet snow and light a lamp, a flame that burns on forever, never going out.”
Xuexi was his courtesy name. When Empress Zhen Yi had still been alive, she had always called him by it.
Fu Ying smiled softly, repeating the name silently to herself several times in her mind. These simple two syllables seemed to carry a scorching warmth, deeply etched into her heart.
She scooped up a spoonful of the brown medicinal soup, gently blowing away the rising steam, and brought it to Wen Zhuo’s lips, meaning to help him drink it.
The main door was suddenly thrown open with force, and a wild, howling gust of wind poured in.
The commotion was so unusual that Fu Ying could not help but stop what she was doing, turning around in confusion.
Bi Luo’s panicked voice came from behind the screen: “Young lady, the Crown Prince is here!”
“Clatter—”
Fu Ying shot to her feet, terror scattering her wits, as though a basin of cold water had been poured straight over her head.
Her hand lost its strength, and the porcelain bowl fell from it, shattering to pieces on the floor.