The white porcelain bowl held steaming plain noodles.
The broth was clear enough to see the bottom, without elaborate seasoning, dotted with a few fine pieces of chopped scallion. It tasted fresh and smooth, without any greasy heaviness.
When stewing the chicken yesterday, Pei Yunheng had deliberately set aside two bowls of chicken broth, originally planning to make chicken noodle soup today. Unfortunately, he had returned a step too late and missed the chance.
Knowing she was in the wrong, Jiang Weiyao kept her head down and ate half the bowl of noodles before daring to look up. "How is Erya?"
Having entered A Touch of Red at age eight and worked as an assassin for so many years, Jiang Weiyao was no stranger to dealing with the Imperial Guard.
When not showing his edge, Pei Yunheng truly didn't seem like an Imperial Guard.
He moved at a leisurely pace, spoke without haste, and even ate his noodles with refinement.
Pei Yunheng replied coolly, "Her life is not in danger, but she has not yet regained consciousness."
"I saw the bloody mess on her forehead—I can't imagine how much it must hurt. Erya is still so young. How pitiful."
Jiang Weiyao let out a sigh.
Pei Yunheng cast a bland glance at her but said nothing.
Jiang Weiyao suddenly stood up, laboriously dragging her round stool closer to him, and lowered her voice to ask, "Husband, are you afraid?"
The fragrance around her crossed the line.
Jiang Weiyao loved crabapple blossoms. In her spare time, she would always break off a few branches to place in the room, naturally picking up a light floral scent on herself.
She had even been proud of this, calling herself refined.
His breathing paused for a brief moment. "Afraid of what?"
Glancing toward the courtyard outside, Jiang Weiyao looked uneasy. "Don't you feel something is off about this village? All that talk about the mountain god's wrath—it makes my heart race just hearing it. And then there's Daya…"
Pei Yunheng stood up.
His figure was tall and imposing, with clean shoulder lines, a firm waist and abdomen, and an air of coldness. Whenever he stood, it always gave people a sense of pressure.
Jiang Weiyao stood up too, not understanding why, and pointed at the dark circles under her eyes. "Last night I tossed and turned and couldn't sleep. Every time I thought carefully about what Erya said, I broke out in chills all over."
Pei Yunheng began clearing the bowls and chopsticks, his face expressionless. At her words, he didn't even spare her a glance.
Tugging at his sleeve, Jiang Weiyao emphasized, "Not only that—today when I went up the mountain to pick wild fruit, someone was sneaking around following me."
Pei Yunheng's movements paused.
Jiang Weiyao glanced outside the courtyard again, frightened. "It was that butcher with the scar on his face, the one who looks very fierce."
With Jiang Weiyao tugging at his sleeve, there was no way to finish clearing the dishes. Pei Yunheng's brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, a trace of faint impatience in his voice. "And then?"
"Then I ran back." Jiang Weiyao's face crumpled. "You have no idea how fast I ran. I hurried back and hid in the room, but I discovered he was still pacing at the door the whole time, two knives tucked at his waist—he circled around for a full quarter of an hour!"
After a moment of silence, Pei Yunheng finally spoke in a low voice. "Understood."
"What good is just understanding!" Jiang Weiyao said urgently. "From now on, you need to stay by my side. If you're not here, I'll be scared."
Pei Yunheng fell silent again.
He rarely bothered to respond to such overstepping words; a furrowed brow was usually his answer.
Just as Jiang Weiyao was about to tug at his sleeve and refuse to let it go, he unexpectedly spoke: "I have to go to the clinic tomorrow."
Jiang Weiyao answered without hesitation, "Then I'll come too!"
His eyelids lifted slightly, and Pei Yunheng looked over at her.
Jiang Weiyao met his gaze, looking pitiful. "Just take me along, I promise I won't cause any trouble. I really don't dare stay alone in this village anymore…"
Pei Yunheng snatched his sleeve back from Jiang Weiyao's grasp, picked up the cleaned dishes, and walked toward the well outside the courtyard. "We depart tomorrow at noon sharp."
Jiang Weiyao followed happily. "I knew it—my husband is the best to me…"
Before Jiang Weiyao could finish her sentence, a piercing scream suddenly rang out, once again shattering the village's tranquility. "Ah! Someone come quick!"
"Someone's dead—!"
The night was cold and heavy, the evening breeze thin, and a chill crept silently through the seams of clothing, clinging cold and clammy to the skin.
It felt nothing like spring—more like the depths of a bitter winter.
The dead man was the old man who had struck Erya with his cane last night. The villagers all called him Uncle Han.
At the eastern edge of the village stood a crooked-necked tree, old but still lush and full, a favorite spot for children to play around.
Just now, a child had climbed up to hide among the branches but kept getting scratched. He dodged and dodged to no avail, so he looked up—that wasn't a branch, it was a foot.
Uncle Han's body hung from the verdant tree, a pair of grayish-white eyes staring dead at him.
But strangely, though he was hanging from the tree, there was no rope, no cord—as if he were suspended in midair.
"Th-the mountain god, it must be the mountain god's wrath!"
The child shrieked in terror and burrowed into his mother's arms, his body trembling violently.
Jiang Weiyao narrowed her eyes slightly, her long lashes drooping low.
Children speak the truth, and their words cut deepest.
That remark was like a lit fuse, and the crowd erupted—
"The mountain god is angry!"
"What are we to do? I said Erya's words would offend the mountain god!"
"Here we go again, here we go again—when will this ever end…"
The men wore numb expressions, while the women looked panicked, covering their faces and wailing…
"Fellow villagers—"
Li Anbo walked over with a pained expression, coughing hard as if about to say something.
As if anticipating what was coming, the crying faltered.
"I don't want this either, but after the two earth tremors last month, and now the mountain god showing his might again…"
"For the sake of the entire Hedong Village," Li Anbo announced with reluctance, "not only will Zhou family's Daya's wedding be moved up, but the village must also select two more Flower Maidens to accompany her as bridal gifts."
"Three days… in three days, we open the ancestral hall and draw the Flower Lots!"
"Choose the Flower Maidens, marry them to the mountain god!"
The wind howled, but it could not drown out the overwhelming cries.
"Hus-husband…"
Back in the courtyard, Jiang Weiyao's figure suddenly stumbled, one hand clutching tightly at his sleeve.
Pei Yunheng's steps were dragged to a halt. He turned to look—Jiang Weiyao's face had turned terrifyingly pale.
Fine beads of cold sweat broke out, and those usually bright, dark eyes were now filled with fear and unease. A gentle breeze passed by, and her whole body gave a violent shudder.
Pei Yunheng's brow furrowed slightly. "What's wrong?"
"I… there's a dead, dead person…"
As if recalling something, Jiang Weiyao's face changed drastically. Before Pei Yunheng could speak, she released his sleeve, covered her mouth, and ran toward the latrine.
Soon, the sound of vomiting came from within.
His lashes casting shadows over his eyes, Pei Yunheng stood frozen in place. A few strands of breeze persistently swept past. After a long moment, he took a step and walked outside.
After throwing up her entire dinner, Jiang Weiyao shuffled out while leaning against the wall, and the candlelight before her stung her eyes for a moment.
A long, bamboo-slender hand held a candlestick up ahead. The firelight illuminated Pei Yunheng's face, as aloof and distant as ever.
He didn't speak. Seeing Jiang Weiyao come out, he walked ahead. But this time, after two steps, he stopped and tilted his head slightly, as if checking whether Jiang Weiyao was following.
Head lowered, Jiang Weiyao followed him to the well.
Two bowls sat on the well. Pei Yunheng handed her a bowl of clear water, his tone still cold: "Rinse your mouth."
Jiang Weiyao took it and obediently rinsed.
Pei Yunheng handed her the other bowl.
The bowl was warm. Jiang Weiyao cradled it and took a tentative sip, then couldn't help but pause.
It was warm sugar water.
She took another sip, without looking at Pei Yunheng, and asked quietly, "Where did the sugar water come from?"
Pei Yunheng answered, "Traded for it."
Malt sugar was precious, especially in this rural backwater.
Jiang Weiyao didn't ask what he had traded.
Pei Yunheng didn't say.
That night, the candle in the room was extinguished early.
The night deepened, a lone moon hung high. Outside the window seemed pasted with a layer of fog; the cold moonlight clung to the branches, gloomy and heavy, unable to seep through no matter what.
Jiang Weiyao turned over.
A faint breeze blew low, stirring the willow branches with a rustling sound.
Jiang Weiyao turned over again.
The wooden bed was flimsy to begin with; even turning over made it creak. In the quiet of the night, it could not be concealed.
Jiang Weiyao knew Pei Yunheng wasn't asleep. She called softly, "Husband."
Silence for a moment, and as expected, no answer.
Jiang Weiyao said no more.
She knew tonight's opportunity was rare. She should keep playing the delicate, pitiable act, perform until Pei Yunheng believed it, perform until her goal was achieved.
But tonight she was tired.
So tired that even though reason urged her on, she had no energy left to put on the pitiful, fragile charade.
The room fell silent again, as if both had gone to sleep.
About the time it takes an incense stick to burn later, Jiang Weiyao spoke again: "Choosing a Flower Maiden, marrying the Mountain God—what does that mean? I don't think I understand."
Her voice was a little hoarse. After speaking, she answered herself: "What's there not to understand? What else could it mean…"
Erya's words echoed over and over in her mind. Jiang Weiyao raised a hand to cover her ears.
But it was no use.
She could only wrap the blanket tightly around herself.
Suddenly, footsteps sounded in the room, and then a faint flame lit up.
Covering her eyes, Jiang Weiyao slowly sat up, thinking Pei Yunheng had something else to ask: "What is it?"
Pei Yunheng didn't speak; the footsteps just drew closer.
The plain white gauze curtain hung lightly, half-veiling the bed, blocking some of the heavy night.
Through the hazy, shadowy bed curtain, Jiang Weiyao's apricot eyes shifted slightly as she quietly watched Pei Yunheng approach with the candlestick in hand.
The candlelight was soft, its glow gentle.
She couldn't make out the expression on Pei Yunheng's face.
He didn't look sideways, placed the candle on the dressing table directly facing the bed, and did not linger.
And so a faint light burned through the long night.
Jiang Weiyao slowly lay back down.
She still couldn't sleep, but she no longer clung to wrapping herself in the blanket.
They say women are made of water, as if they have endless tears to shed.
Jiang Weiyao thought of the sorrowful-faced woman under the tree, the trembling young girl, the ceaseless sobbing.
Yes.
Why is it that there are always endless tears to shed?