Jiang Xingzhou did not remember how he made his way back to the Feng residence.
His steps were slightly unsteady, his complexion pale. Seeing this, the townsfolk simply assumed he was not one to openly show emotion and was slower to react to the loss of a relative. Thinking this, they even felt a measure of sympathy and leniency toward him—at least he was not entirely cold‑hearted.
Indoors, the light was dim, and Feng Yi was still fast asleep. He stood silently by the bed for a long time, then quietly removed his outer robe, shoes, and stockings, carefully lifted the quilt, and drew her gently into his embrace.
Pressing his face to the top of her hair, he nuzzled it softly. His voice came low and hoarse as he murmured, “Forgive me… forgive me… Mian…”
The second syllable of the name hung unspoken in the air, and his voice died away.
Of course—she was not called Mianmian.
From the very beginning, he had known she was not the original girl named Feng Yi.
He had understood perfectly well why his stepmother had brought Feng Yi into the manor: she was nothing more than a plaything intended to be slipped into his inner chambers, not worth wasting thought on.
Out of basic courtesy, he had met this so‑called cousin a few times. She had always kept her head bowed, her shoulders hunched, twisting her fingers nervously whenever she spoke, her voice muffled deep in her throat—so much so that if he had not possessed exceptionally sharp hearing, he would have caught barely a word.
His opinion of the Feng family sank even lower. They were supposed to be a prominent clan of the region, barely ranking as a third‑tier noble house, yet they had raised their daughter into such a timid, shrinking creature.
For two months after her arrival, he had never clearly seen what she actually looked like—until the night of the Ghost Festival, when she lifted her head in terror.
Having fainted in fright just outside his courtyard, it was only proper that he check on her.
The next morning he went to the Pure Lotus Courtyard, only to find not a single servant in sight. A flicker of annoyance crossed his mind—not out of concern for the girl, but because such lack of discipline reflected poorly on the household.
Clearly, Lady Daqin, for all her status, still fell short when it came to managing a household properly, not having been raised in a family of true standing.
He had no intention of trespassing into a young lady’s private quarters, but as he turned to leave, he heard the sound of violent retching. Worried that if something happened to her it would tarnish the reputation of the Marquis’s household, he hurried inside.
And there he saw a very different “Feng Yi.”
She looked disheveled and haggard, her face ashen white, flecks of foam still lingering at the corners of her mouth—yet her eyes shone as if washed clear, suddenly bright and vivid with life.
Jiang Xingzhou raised an eyebrow in surprise. Had the shock simply shaken her out of her meekness, or had something far stranger occurred—like the swapping of souls, as told in old folk tales?
Whatever the cause, he realized things had just become far more interesting.
Three days later, he saw her again in the bamboo grove of the garden, as he played the zither beneath the moon. She stood some distance away, gazing at him in a daze, and he could not help but sneer to himself—perhaps he had been mistaken earlier, for she looked no different from any other ordinary girl.
Then, suddenly, she struck the back of her own hand in frustration, startling him so much he almost fumbled a note. Next she dropped quickly into a crouch, curling herself into a round, compact little ball—exactly like the tabby cat he had raised years ago, or the soft snow‑white pastry rolls sold at the teahouse.
For no clear reason, his fingers itched with the urge to reach out and squeeze her.
His tongue brushed lightly against the tip of his canine teeth, which also tingled—this time with a strange impulse to bite.
From that day on, Jiang Xingzhou began observing her in silence. He noticed she deliberately mimicked the timid mannerisms of the former Feng Yi, yet every so often a spark of lively wit and sharp cleverness slipped through her pretense.
Just what kind of creature was this, anyway?
Curiosity grew into determination, and he began testing her reactions. He soon found that when he called her “Mianmian,” she always took a moment longer to respond, but answered promptly and naturally when addressed as “Feng Yi.” In an instant he understood: the true name of the woman before him was also Feng Yi.
Amused by the discovery, he made a habit of teasing her, repeatedly calling “Mianmian, Mianmian” just to watch her react. She, in turn, replied each time, determined not to give away her secret.
So it came to pass that later on, he himself could no longer be certain whether she had ever truly been called by that childhood name at all.
Feng Yi noticed that Jiang Xingzhou had suddenly become unusually clingy, always staying within a foot of her wherever she went.
When she rose, he helped her dress and put on her shoes. When she sat before her mirror, he held the brush to paint her eyebrows and dab color onto her lips. Since they could not yet let Yangyang see her in this form, they took their meals in the west wing, where he simply lifted her onto his lap and fed her bite by bite. Even when she went to use the chamber pot, he stood guard right outside the door, making her so nervous she almost could not go at all.
At night he slept pressed close against her, not touching her intimately, just holding her tightly. When the heat and closeness grew too much for him to bear, he would grasp the hem of her nightgown and slip off to the bathing room to relieve his own tension.
Is he out of his mind? Feng Yi wondered.
Once Yangyang was sound asleep, Feng Yi spoke with He Yun about distributing the household belongings among their trusted neighbors and asking the old town mayor to take charge of the Feng residence, so it could serve as a temporary schoolhouse for the children. Though small, it would at least give them a proper place to study.
Upon hearing of the plan, Wenche offered to have his own house—right next door—also used for classes. He suggested cutting an arched moon‑shaped opening through the dividing wall, which would give them far more space. He was a practical man; he feared that over time the Feng residence might fall prey to someone’s greed and be seized for private use. As a magistrate, he reasoned, his own property would be far safer, and no one would dare tamper with it.
Jiang Xingzhou raised no objection to any of these arrangements—except one: he refused to let them give away the cured meats and hams Feng Yi had prepared, insisting instead on taking them all with them.
On the fifteenth day of the fourth lunar month, the moon still hung bright in the sky and the sun had not yet risen, when three horse‑drawn carriages pulled up before the gates of the Feng home.
Before dawn fully broke, Feng Yi quietly climbed aboard the first carriage.
As daylight spread across the town, neighbors gathered to see them off, bringing stacks of provisions, eggs, and dried foods. Several women took He Yun’s hands and spoke their farewells:
Aunt Wang said, “As soon as you arrive, send word back so we know you are safe.”
Aunt Zhang added gently, “If you meet a good man worthy of your trust, do not hesitate to marry again. Your husband was a kind soul, and he would only wish for you and your daughter to live well.”
Aunt Li spoke more frankly, “If the folk at Feng Family Fortress prove difficult or unkind, turn right around and come back here.” She knew that if their teacher had chosen to abandon his own clan and take his family away, the place could not possibly offer them true safety and protection.
…
He Yun thanked each of them in turn, said her goodbyes, and climbed into the second carriage with Yangyang. The third was heavily loaded with all their baggage.
The townsfolk stood watching as the carriages rolled slowly away, many wiping tears from their eyes.
Parting was hard indeed—they would truly miss their teacher and worry for the family he left behind. More selfishly, they would also miss He Yun: though there was a physician in town, he was a man, and it was improper for women to discuss private ailments with him. Ever since He Yun had arrived, she had successfully treated many women’s hidden illnesses and complaints.
None knew that their destination was not Feng Family Fortress at all, but the capital city.
Feng Yi herself would never have felt safe leaving the two of them in the grasp of that cold, unfeeling clan. And as for Jiang Xingzhou—he would never permit anything so foolish. The mother and daughter were Feng Yi’s greatest weakness; he could not risk letting them travel so far beyond his watchful eye. If she no longer had them to hold her back, what was to stop her from trying to escape him again?
The wheels turned steadily forward. As they passed the pastry shop, the owner was already standing outside holding a package of fresh treats. Seeing the armed guards on horseback, she swallowed her fear and called out to stop the procession.
She hurried over and pressed the wrapped cakes through the carriage window into He Yun’s hands. “These lotus‑flower pastries are for you to eat on the road. The other is date cake—save that for little Yangyang.”
Hearing her voice, Feng Yi’s eyes instantly welled up. She tilted her head back, trying to blink the tears away, only to feel a pair of warm, firm hands cup her face. His thumbs brushed gently across the corners of her eyes, wiping away the moisture.
“If leaving makes your heart ache,” he said softly, “once I have some free time, I shall bring you back here to visit again.”
“All right,” she whispered in reply.
But how often would a man of his high rank and responsibilities ever truly be free? Even if they did return one day, she would only be known as Feng Yi—not as Feng Qingyang, the beloved teacher they had come to respect.
The rumble of the wheels grew deeper and heavier as they left the cobblestone streets of Ruyi Town behind and turned onto the wide official road leading north.
Feng Yi pushed aside the silk curtain and leaned out to look back. The outline of the town grew smaller and smaller in the distance. Those quiet, peaceful days were finally slipping out of her reach forever.
Suddenly tears spilled like a broken string of pearls, falling one after another, catching the morning sunlight and scattering it into glints of shattered starlight.
She snapped back inside, threw herself against Jiang Xingzhou, and tore open the collar of his right robe before sinking her teeth hard into his shoulder.
Jiang Xingzhou did not flinch or pull away; instead, he turned his head slightly to the left to give her better purchase. His arms closed tightly around her, as if afraid the carriage ride would jolt her off his lap—or perhaps wanting to press her so close she would become part of his very bones and blood.
Hot tears dripped onto his shoulder, rolled down his back, and soaked through his clothes. Each drop burned into him, stinging his heart and making it tremble—yet strangely, for the first time in days, he felt a deep sense of relief and calm settle over him.
Ever since the fire at the schoolhouse, aside from what she had muttered in her feverish sleep, she had shed no tears, raised no voice in anger or complaint, and spoken no harsh words. Worse still, he could no longer feel her feelings toward him—whether affection or hatred, it had all gone cold and distant.
It had left him terrified, desperate, lying awake night after night.
Now she cried, now she bit and fought him—and for that he was grateful.
At least it proved she still held him somewhere in her heart.
She bit harder and harder, only releasing her grip just as his skin was about to break. Voice thick and stuffy from crying, she accused him, “Jiang Xingzhou… how can you be so cruel? How can you be so heartless? You are utterly despicable!”
Jiang Xingzhou tightened his hold, one arm around her waist, the other supporting the back of her head as he pressed her firmly against his chest. Bowing his head to brush his lips against her temple, he answered in a soft, gentle tone, “Yes, I am despicable. I have no conscience. I follow no law and respect no rules.”
He kissed the crown of her hair. “So… do me the justice of punishing me yourself. Keep me close, watch over me, bind me tight, and never leave me.”
Feng Yi cried for a long time—so long that Jiang Xingzhou’s own heart felt torn to pieces watching her.
Only when she finally wept herself into exhaustion and drifted off to sleep in his arms did he lay her carefully upon the padded bench, resting her head on his own thighs, then tuck a light blanket over her.
These carriages had been bought in haste, far less comfortable than the fine coaches from his own manor. He hoped she would rest well enough.
As a powerful and influential minister, Jiang Xingzhou was not permitted to leave the capital for long. This journey had only been possible with a single month’s leave, and he had ridden day and night to reach the town in time.
He brushed away the strands of hair sticking to her tear‑stained cheeks, stroking her swollen face with tender affection.
He sighed quietly. If only there had been more time, he would never have had to resort to such extreme measures to bring her back to the city. Later, he promised himself, he would make it all up to her, in every way he could.
When Feng Yi awoke again, it was already noon. The caravan had stopped for a short rest, and men were lighting fires to prepare their meal.
“Awake?” Jiang Xingzhou set down the book he had been reading and looked down at her with warm eyes.
“Where are we now?” she asked, rubbing her eyes. Truly, Jiang Xingzhou must have been molded by the goddess Nuwa herself—for even from this awkward angle, he looked breathtakingly handsome.
“Nearly out of the boundaries of Xishan County.”
“Already?” She sat up straight and pulled aside the curtain to look outside. Lush trees and thick vines lined the road, while wildflowers bloomed in vibrant colors all around. “Come on, let’s get out and breathe some fresh air.”
Jiang Xingzhou held her back gently. “Wait a moment.”
She turned to look at him, puzzled. “What is it?”
“My leg has gone numb,” he explained with a faint smile.
Feng Yi’s eyes lit up with mischief. She raised her hands like claws and reached toward his left thigh. “Is this one the problem?”
He shifted his leg away, laughing. “Stop teasing.”
“Oh—so it’s this one then,” she said, and dug both hands into his right thigh. The sensation was so sharp and tingling that he gasped aloud.
Seeing his reaction, Feng Yi let out a clear, merry peal of laughter.
Jiang Xingzhou caught her around the waist and hauled her back onto his lap. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Not at all,” she replied, blinking her big innocent eyes. Then she wriggled herself deeper against his legs, pressing firmly. “I am only trying to help. Rubbing it will make the feeling come back faster.”
As the sharp tingling blended with a soft, pleasant warmth, Jiang Xingzhou almost groaned. Leaning close to her ear, his voice turned husky and low. “Stop squirming, or I shall not be able to get out of this carriage at all.”
“You rogue,” she chided, tapping him lightly on the shoulder—right over the bite mark she had left.
He felt no pain, only looked intently at her lips, then slowly leaned forward. Just as he was about to touch them, he paused. “May I?”
Feng Yi froze, half‑convinced she had misheard him. Was this the same domineering man who never asked permission for anything?
She lowered her lashes, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she pouted and turned her head, brushing her mouth lightly against his without fully meeting it. “You may not. I am still angry with you.”
Jiang Xingzhou lifted her chin gently so she had no choice but to look straight into his eyes. “What must I do to make it right?”
“That depends on how well you behave from now on,” she answered.
Feng Yi slid off his lap, but before she could stand fully, he pulled her back again and pressed a firm, lingering kiss upon her lips. Only then did he take her hand and help her down from the carriage.
Out of his sight, the corners of her mouth lifted in the faintest of curves, edged with a touch of cold, unspoken mockery.
As she had expected—could a dog ever truly stop itself from stealing food?
No, that was not quite right. The saying went: a country may change its rulers, but the nature of its people remains forever the same.
Outside, the sun shone bright and warm. Half‑lidded, her eyes were clear as spring water, sharp and bright as polished mirrors.