The cold wind carried tiny shards of ice as it lashed against the broken window lattice, its mournful howls never ceasing.
Inside the room, the biting chill mixed with the heavy bitterness of medicinal herbs, weighing oppressively on the heart.
Qin Shu crouched on the icy stone floor, her eyes lowered as her pale fingers moved slowly through the mess.
Fragments of the coarse porcelain bowl lay scattered in the dark brown puddles of spilled medicine like broken bones strewn across the ground.
She picked them up one by one, so focused that she seemed almost numb.
The sharp edges sliced open her fingertips, tiny beads of blood welling up before mixing with the medicine dregs and dust to form dark crimson stains.
She did not seem to notice.
The burn on the back of her hand had become red and swollen, with several small blisters rising along the edges, the scorching pain burning relentlessly.
Yet that pain was insignificant compared to the agony in her chest, as though an icy spike repeatedly pierced her heart before flames consumed it.
“Madam…”
Floating Cloud’s trembling voice broke the silence.
Her tone was timid, filled with suppressed pain and grievance.
She covered her swollen left cheek. The distinct imprint of five fingers remained branded across her skin, while the blood at the corner of her mouth had already dried into a dark crimson scab.
Tears swirled in her eyes, but she stubbornly refused to let them fall.
Watching Qin Shu silently clean up the wreckage, seeing the angry burn on the back of her hand and the blood still seeping from her fingertips, her heart ached until she could barely breathe.
“It’s all this servant’s fault…”
Qin Shu picked up the last, slightly larger shard and paused.
Without looking up, her gaze rested on Floating Cloud’s old cloth shoes stained with mud. The tips of the shoes trembled faintly.
A cold, blood-scented rage churned violently beneath the lifeless surface of her heart like molten lava awakening inside a dormant volcano.
Qin Yan’s smug and venomous face.
Xu Feng’s cold, scrutinizing eyes.
Her father’s words—
“A-Shu is also a daughter of the Qin Family! Let her go!”
Every tearful word Nanny Zhang had spoken.
And now, Floating Cloud’s swollen face and the tears she stubbornly held back.
Every image and every voice intertwined into a massive poisonous web that bound Qin Shu tightly, squeezing until she could scarcely breathe.
She hated them.
She hated the Qin Family’s heartlessness for treating her as a discarded pawn and pushing her into this endless abyss.
She hated Xu Feng’s cruelty—for imprisoning her for five years, humiliating her in every possible way, and treating her as though she were worthless.
She hated Qin Yan’s viciousness—for trampling over her suffering while flaunting her happiness, and still refusing to let her go.
The hatred surged so violently that it nearly burst through her fragile body and burned her to ashes.
She clenched the porcelain shard in her hand.
Its sharp edge dug deeply into her palm, sending a piercing pain through her flesh.
The pain was like a bucket of icy water, temporarily extinguishing the inferno consuming her heart, yet allowing the seed of hatred to root itself even deeper within the ashes.
Slowly, she stood.
She tossed the shard into the broken bamboo basket in the corner.
Her movements were stiff, but her back remained perfectly straight, like a taut string stretched to its very limit, ready to snap at any moment.
She walked over to Floating Cloud.
Without looking at her face, she lowered her gaze to the hand covering her cheek.
“Move your hand.”
Qin Shu’s voice was dry and hoarse, rough like sandpaper, betraying no emotion.
Floating Cloud flinched before slowly lowering her hand.
Half of her face was grotesquely swollen.
The purple bruises left by the slap stood out vividly, and the wound at the corner of her mouth looked especially shocking beneath the dim light.
Qin Shu turned and walked to the old camphorwood chest in the corner.
Opening the lid, she revealed a few worn clothes and, beneath them, an even smaller, equally battered wooden box.
She opened it.
Inside lay half a box of dried, blackened cheap rouge, several copper coins polished smooth with age, and a small, flat ointment container carefully wrapped in oil paper.
It had been secretly sent to her long ago by Jiang Chen for treating frostbite.
Only the last little bit remained, and it had already yellowed with age.
She took out the ointment and returned to Floating Cloud.
Carefully scooping out a little of the pale yellow paste with her fingertip, she gently touched it to Floating Cloud’s swollen, burning cheek.
“Hiss…”
Floating Cloud instinctively shrank back before forcing herself to remain still.
Qin Shu’s movements were gentle and slow.
The cool ointment seeped into the burning skin, bringing a faint trace of relief.
She focused on applying it, her fingertips moving carefully across the purple finger marks.
Floating Cloud gazed at Qin Shu’s face from such close range.
She was pale.
Thin.
Her eyes were filled with exhaustion and lifelessness so profound that it seemed impossible to dissolve.
Yet the hands applying the medicine carried an awkward, careful tenderness.
Floating Cloud could no longer hold back.
Large tears rolled down her cheeks one after another, splashing onto the back of Qin Shu’s hand still smeared with ointment.
“Madam… This servant doesn’t hurt… Really…”
Floating Cloud choked on her sobs, her voice breaking apart.
Qin Shu’s fingers paused almost imperceptibly.
The hot tear landed on the burn on the back of her hand, sending another sharp sting through her skin.
She said nothing.
She simply continued applying the medicine until every last bit of ointment had been spread evenly.
Only then did she withdraw her hand.
She tightly clenched the now-empty ointment container in her palm, its cool, hard shell pressing painfully against her skin.
Outside, the cold wind seemed to grow even fiercer as it drove dead leaves against the doors and windows.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
A light knock sounded at the door.
It was cautious and rhythmic.
Unlike Qin Yan’s arrogant entrance.
Unlike Uncle Li’s rigid manner.
Floating Cloud immediately looked toward the door, instinctively stepping in front of Qin Shu.
“Who is it?”
Qin Shu’s voice remained hoarse, though an almost imperceptible tension had entered it.
“Eldest Young Miss… it’s this old servant… Nanny Zhang.”
Nanny Zhang’s voice came from outside, deliberately lowered and trembling with fear.
“I… I brought some hot water…”
Her voice shook violently, clearly still haunted by what had happened.
Floating Cloud glanced at Qin Shu.
Only after receiving silent permission did she cautiously open the door a crack.
Nanny Zhang squeezed inside with her hunched back bent low, carrying a small old copper kettle that released faint wisps of steam from its spout.
She dared not raise her head.
Her cloudy eyes quickly swept across the room, taking in the wreckage and Floating Cloud’s swollen face.
Her body trembled again, her face filled with fear and self-reproach.
“I… I’ll leave it here…”
Her voice quivered uncontrollably as she placed the copper kettle on the icy floor beside the doorway.
She seemed ready to leave immediately, yet hesitated for a brief moment.
With trembling hands, she hurriedly pulled a small, neatly folded oil-paper packet from inside her clothing.
Without even looking up, she shoved it into Floating Cloud’s hands.
“This… this is… for Eldest Young Miss!”
Nanny Zhang’s voice was thick with tears and desperate resolve.
“This old servant… this old servant can only do this much!”
The moment she finished speaking, she fled as though ghosts were chasing her.
Without another glance back, she hurried out of the Side Courtyard and disappeared into the howling winter wind.
Floating Cloud quietly shut the door again.
She stared blankly at the oil-paper packet still carrying Nanny Zhang’s warmth before looking toward Qin Shu.
Qin Shu’s eyes settled upon the packet.
It was ordinary oil paper, folded tightly and neatly.
She extended her hand.
Floating Cloud immediately passed it over.
Qin Shu carefully unfolded the paper.
There was no note inside.
Only several clean, neatly sliced pieces of aloe vera, cool juice glistening on their surfaces and carrying a faint, fresh herbal scent.
Beside them lay a brand-new tube of burn ointment bearing a foreign-language label, its tin casing cool to the touch.
Aloe vera…
Burn ointment…
Floating Cloud’s eyes lit up at once, relief flooding her face.
“It’s Young Master Jiang! It must have been Young Master Jiang who asked Nanny Zhang to deliver these!”
Qin Shu held one cool slice of aloe vera between her fingers, feeling its soothing chill seep into her skin.
Her gaze rested on the brand-new tube of burn ointment.
The tin reflected a faint cold gleam in the dim room.
Jiang Chen.
His name was like a faint yet stubborn ray of light piercing through the endless darkness and frozen hatred within her heart.
She remembered the anxious, heartbroken eyes beneath the curtain of rain not long ago…
His urgent cry—
“Come with me.”
And now…
These medicines, delivered in silence despite the risks.
An indescribable bitterness suddenly rushed into her nose.
Her eyes instantly grew hot.
Such an insignificant gesture of kindness had become unimaginably precious within this freezing prison.
So precious…
That it broke her heart.
She tightened her grip on the slice of aloe vera, its cool juice seeping between her fingers.
Her other hand closed firmly around the new tube of burn ointment.
The hard edges of the tin pressed into her palm, leaving behind a clear, icy sensation.