That bowl of steaming, scalding medicinal soup spilled entirely over Fu Ying’s left hand.
In that instant it felt as though countless needles were stabbing into her flesh, the pain making her grimace, her head buzzing.
“Young lady!”
Fu Sang was stunned nearly senseless, Fu Ying was always composed and steady, calm in the face of anything, so why would she suddenly panic like this?
The back of Fu Ying’s hand had turned bright red, a few small blisters already forming.
“Young lady, are you all right… what should we do? The Crown Prince’s carriage is already at the gate.”
Bi Luo shrank behind the screen, not daring to show herself rashly, pacing back and forth in a fluster like an ant on a hot pan [1]an ant on a hot pan (ji de xiang re guo shang de mayi, 急得像熱鍋上的螞蟻) Idiom, frantic with worry, pacing helplessly jQuery('#footnote_plugin_tooltip_3270272_1_1').tooltip({ tip: '#footnote_plugin_tooltip_text_3270272_1_1', tipClass: 'footnote_tooltip', effect: 'fade', predelay: 0, fadeInSpeed: 200, delay: 400, fadeOutSpeed: 200, position: 'top center', relative: true, offset: [-7, 0], });.
Wen Zhuo, too, had no time to worry about anything else. He hurriedly pulled the handkerchief tucked under Fu Sang’s bracelet, holding Fu Ying’s burned hand and using the cloth to soak up the scalding medicine from the back of it.
“Miss, is it any better?”
Her hand was wrapped inside Wen Zhuo’s broad palm, the back of it red and swollen, dotted with small marks of blood, like pink plum blossoms blooming in the snow.
“It’s nothing.”
Biting her lower lip to endure the pain, she gave Wen Zhuo a faint smile and pulled her hand back. “I’ll go and come right back, young master, do not show yourself. If anything changes, I will certainly send someone to escort the young master safely away, rest assured of that.”
Wen Zhuo could not bear to let her face the coming storm alone, but in his weakened state right now, not adding to her troubles was already the greatest help he could give.
The title “Crown Prince” rang far too loudly in his ears, and he could not help but ask: “Is the one coming perhaps Wen Huan?”
“No…”
Fu Ying did not recognize the name at all, and shook her head, telling Fu Sang to take good care of Wen Zhuo before hurrying off.
Wen Huan was the Crown Prince of Great Yong, Wen Zhuo’s full brother, born of the same mother.
Yunzhou belonged to the Northern Di, and Great Yong’s influence had not yet extended this far. Besides, Wen Huan had always resided in the Eastern Palace, rarely venturing out, it was even less likely he would travel a thousand li to come here.
If Wen Zhuo’s guess was correct, then the “Crown Prince” they spoke of must be a son of the Northern Di Khan.
He could not help but let out a scornful laugh, his brow and eyes filled with contempt.
For a chieftain of some minor northern tribe to hold his own troops and have his son dare to style himself “Crown Prince”, how brazen.
Just a moment ago, he and Fu Ying had spoken with such sincerity, pouring out their true feelings to one another, yet upon learning this man was coming, she had turned uncharacteristically flustered.
Wen Zhuo’s face darkened at once, a cold, sharp light flashing in his eyes like icy lightning.
“The Crown Prince has arrived—”
Outside the courtyard gate, Wei Changxi’s high, resonant voice rang out.
A man draped in a purple sable cloak stepped down from the carriage, his face as fine as carved jade, his eyes bright as shooting stars, his figure tall and upright as a pine tree, every gesture radiating refinement.
The soldiers, led by Chen Shi, knelt in a row on one knee, bowing in respectful, solemn salute.
“Greetings, Your Highness!”
Shang Jue raised his hand lightly, gesturing for everyone to rise, and strode into the residence.
Fu Ying stood before the house, and seeing this man, even more spirited and radiant than she remembered, took a deep breath and bowed her head to him in greeting.
“Brother.”
“A Ying!”
Shang Jue stepped forward, took hold of her arms, and pulled her a little closer to him, a deep sense of loss showing in his eyes.
“I haven’t been able to come see you in over a month, why does it feel like… you’ve grown distant from your brother?”
Hearing this, Bi Luo behind them could not help but break into a cold sweat.
In the span of a morning and evening, Shang Jue and his father had taken over every position of power and authority that had once belonged to Fu Ying and her father, was she now supposed to greet him with a smiling face and congratulate him too?
Fu Ying remained composed, not meeting his eyes, and answered flatly: “Brother worries too much. A Ying would never dare think such a thing.”
Shang Jue, knowing he had wronged her, let out a sigh.
“I know your confusion and your worries… Father told me today that even though I’ve been named Crown Prince, you remain first in line for the throne.”
Fu Ying suddenly raised her head, and in her eyes, which had been as still as a stagnant pool, a trace of suspicion mixed in, even a faint, budding hope.
“A Ying, the reason I came today was to tell you this, and to see how you’re doing at the same time.”
“Is that really true……?”
Fu Ying seemed hardly able to believe it, her pupils trembling faintly, her tone carrying a relief she could not quite suppress.
Shang Jue said, with grave concern: “Of course it’s true. With Father’s foster father gone, my father has taken the Khan’s place only temporarily, with no other intention. Granting titles to his children is simply tradition passed down through generations. You’re here observing mourning, take good care of your health, understand?”
Fu Ying had no way of knowing whether this was merely Shang Jue’s one-sided account.
Still, his words were better than nothing, bringing some comfort to her pained, shattered heart.
The wariness in her eyes gradually faded, a faint curve rising at the corners of her lips as she gave Shang Jue a small nod.
Shang Jue gently stroked the top of her head, his eyes filled with deep concern as he looked at her.
Fu Ying was radiant and dignified, her skin like snow, her looks like flowers. She wore only a little makeup on ordinary days, never heavily done up, like a lotus rising fresh from the water, delicate and picturesque, with a beauty entirely her own, untouched by artifice.
Not having seen her in so long, he had missed her a great deal, her image filling his eyes and his heart, a knowing smile spreading over his face.
The cold outside was bitter, and he took Fu Ying’s hand: “A Ying, let’s go back inside.”
Fu Ying gave a soft cry, sucking in a breath of pain.
Shang Jue was startled, and looked down to see the back of Fu Ying’s hand red and swollen, dotted with several round blisters.
He grew tense at once. “What happened to your hand?”
Fu Ying pursed her lips, a troubled look on her face: “The temperature’s been dropping sharply these days, and I caught a chill. I accidentally knocked over the bowl while drinking my medicine just now and scalded my hand.”
“See, my worry wasn’t unfounded after all.”
Shang Jue sighed, looking again and again at the back of her hand, a faint ache showing between his brows.
Her aggrieved look stirred his pity, and he could not bear to scold her further. He reached out to lightly wrap an arm around Fu Ying’s slender waist, guiding her together with him into the hall. “Let me put the medicine on for you.”
Fu Ying, keeping her expression calm, glanced at Bi Luo beside her and gave her a look.
Bi Luo understood at once that Fu Ying wanted her to bring the medicine box from the second-floor main room down to the hall, and excused herself to go.
Wen Zhuo was still resting up there, Shang Jue absolutely could not be allowed to go up and discover his presence.
Fu Ying and Shang Jue went together into the first-floor hall.
The room was warm as spring. Shang Jue removed his cloak, revealing a dark purple round-collared robe of soft silk, cinched with an ochre-red white-jade belt, which made him look all the more dashing and spirited.
Once they had warmed up for a while, Bi Luo brought in two cups of fine Huangshan Yunwu tea and set them before Shang Jue and Fu Ying.
Shang Jue did not touch the tea. Instead he took the medicine box from Bi Luo’s hands and found the medicinal powder and gauze.
The two sat facing each other on stools, and he took her scalded left hand, dampened a cotton ball with medicinal wine, and carefully wiped the back of her hand.
His hands were somewhat cool, his fingers slender and fine, nimble and delicate, with thin calluses at the fingertips and second joints formed from years of archery practice.
Fu Ying looked at Shang Jue’s slender fingers, but her thoughts drifted back to when Wen Zhuo had held her hand earlier.
His palm, hot from the fever brought on by his chill, had crisscrossing veins visible beneath the thin skin of its back, his knuckles long and fine, his palm broad, and, seemingly from years of campaigning, the calluses on his hands thick and strong.
Her own slender, soft hand had fit against his palm with a strange, perfect sense of match……
Fu Ying’s knee accidentally brushed against the inside of Shang Jue’s thigh, and she instinctively flinched, drawing both her legs together inward.
In the past, she had never given such contact a second thought, but now……
Shang Jue, not noticing, carefully applied the medicine to the back of her hand and cautioned her: “Be careful to keep the wound dry. Don’t practice calligraphy or painting these next few days, let Bi Luo take care of your bathing and washing.”
Fu Ying watched his lowered lashes, and could not help but interrupt: “Brother, a small thing like applying medicine can just be left to Bi Luo.”
Shang Jue had doted on her since childhood, and Fu Ying was somewhat aware of his feelings.
Only now, having come to see her own heart clearly and distinctly, she no longer wished to let him keep giving of himself to her like this.
“It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, just let me do a few things for you.”
After disinfecting and applying the medicine, he took up the gauze and wound it round and round her hand, delicate as a willow twig.
“The gauze is almost used up, I’ll have someone go buy more.”
“All right.”
Fu Ying, her heart full of unease, nodded again and again.
Wen Zhuo’s wound was large and located on his shoulder, and had used up a fair amount of gauze, she could only hope Shang Jue would not press further into the discrepancy.
“I asked the cook, and heard that your appetite’s been quite good these past few days.”
Shang Jue brought up Fu Ying’s daily life, his tone warm and easy, like the offhand small talk between family.
“That’s right,” Fu Ying admitted at once, explaining: “Winter is so cold, even though I don’t usually eat that much, if I don’t eat a bit more, how could I withstand this bitter cold?”
“But—you still look like you’ve lost some weight.”
A trace of worry colored Shang Jue’s peach-blossom eyes.
Knowing well the unbearable, deep pain in Fu Ying’s heart, he comforted her: “A Ying, the living must always look forward. If you can come out of this shadow sooner, I’ll feel much better for it too.”
Fu Ying only nodded thoughtfully.
Her mind right now was a tangled mess.
Every provision for food and daily necessities at this residence was supplied by the officials of the traveling palace.
These past few days, with Wen Zhuo recovering here, their food had had to stretch to cover the appetite of a grown man as well.
Shang Jue, as noble as the Crown Prince now was, might or might not know the details of this household’s food and daily supplies, this was Fu Ying’s greatest worry.
Only by appearing composed and calm enough, and giving a clear, logical account, could she avoid arousing suspicion.
Shang Jue did not linger too long on this sorrowful topic. “It’s almost noon, let me stay and have lunch with you before I go.”
“All right,” Fu Ying said, the corners of her mouth lifting into what looked like a genuine, warm smile. “I’m happy to have a meal together with my brother.”
In the second-floor main room, Wen Zhuo had finished dressing with Fu Sang’s help.
His whole body was running hot, and his head felt somewhat dizzy. Not wanting to lie idle in bed, he sat at the writing table instead, poring over a scroll of the Spring and Autumn Annals that Fu Ying had left spread open on the table earlier.
Fu Sang sat beside him, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on his profile.
Wen Zhuo had already read this book over a hundred times as a child, and knew every word in it. Having finished that page, he did not reach out to turn it, but instead turned his head to look at Fu Sang.
Their eyes met suddenly, and Fu Sang’s heart gave a start, at this moment, Wen Zhuo seemed to have turned into an entirely different person.
She felt a flicker of fear at that sharp, deep gaze, a fear that seemed to rise from somewhere deep in her bones, the natural fear of prey before a predator.
Wen Zhuo stared straight at Fu Sang and asked, “Is the one who has come the son of the Northern Di Khan?”
“Huh?”
Fu Sang jumped, her face full of disbelief.
Earlier, the three of them had only spoken of the “Crown Prince” in their conversation, no mention had been made of Shang Jue’s true identity. How could Wen Zhuo have guessed so accurately?
Wen Zhuo did not even wait for her to answer, in his heart he already had a definite answer.
“What is his relationship to miss?”
This residence was a hundred li from Yunzhou city, requiring one to two hours by carriage to reach, and with the recent heavy snow, the journey would take even longer.
If the two of them were merely casual acquaintances, Wen Zhuo could not think of a reason why the Khan’s own son would go to such great trouble to come all this way.
“They are……”
Fu Sang nearly blurted out the words “brother and sister,” but caught herself just in time, thinking better of it before the words slipped out.
The young lady’s identity could not be revealed, so she could not answer truthfully, and instead offered a different phrasing, answering timidly: “They’re… very close.”
“Close?”
Wen Zhuo’s expression darkened, as though a thick fog had settled over him, the furrows between his brows deepening, chilling to look at.
“Could it be that miss is someone he keeps hidden away out here in the wilderness?”
The moment the words left his mouth, regret welled up in Wen Zhuo’s heart.
He was being far too impulsive right now, nearly losing his composure entirely, proving Fu Ying’s earlier words all too true, that “caring too much only muddles the mind.”
Fu Sang’s small face flushed bright red, and she raised her voice in repeated denial: “Young master, don’t talk nonsense! How could the young lady possibly be someone’s mistress?”
Wen Zhuo did not grow angry at Fu Sang’s offensive words, he only let out a soft sigh, and instead felt his mind clearing.
That was right, if Fu Ying were someone else’s mistress kept on the side, then what was he?
His heart filled with regret for having doubted Fu Ying just now, and he wanted to say something more.
“Knock knock—”
The door of the main room suddenly sounded.
“Who’s knocking?”
Fu Sang grew alert at once, instinctively raising her arm to shield Wen Zhuo behind her.
A low man’s voice came from outside the door: “Miss Fu Sang, is it? Her Highness wants you to come to the hall right away.”
Hearing that Fu Ying needed her for something, Fu Sang hurriedly pulled Wen Zhuo back behind the screen. “Young master, please wait a moment, I’ll be right back.”
Wen Zhuo nodded, watching Fu Sang’s hurrying figure leave.
The room fell instantly silent, without a sound, as though only the wind passing by outside the window could be heard.
Once Fu Sang left, it was half an hour before she returned.
It was already midday, and Wen Zhuo felt quite hungry, his strength having declined severely from his illness, his head still dizzy and swollen.
Guards stood strict watch outside, and he could not act on his own, it was truly maddening.
“Creak—”
Suddenly, the door was pushed open, and someone stepped inside.
Wen Zhuo thought it was Fu Sang returning, but quickly sensed something was wrong.
Fu Sang was lively and cheerful by nature, always announcing herself with her voice before her presence, she would never stay silent for so long like this.
Wen Zhuo’s gaze darkened, his left hand slowly moving to rest on the gold-inlaid, patterned sheath of the saber at his waist, his right hand gripping the hilt tightly, drawing the blade out a small length without a sound, trying his best to make no noise.
He crept lightly on tiptoe to behind the screen, lowering his eyes to the floor, using the play of light and shadow on the ground to judge the position of the person there.
His saber, Longya, had not tasted blood in several days now.
References[+]