That evening, Luo Xinci’s mind was consumed with thoughts of sneaking into Zhaixing Pavilion. Uneasy, she washed up, then stepped out—only to see a delicate box placed upon her dressing table.
Yunxiu said, “The Princess sent this over, saying that the young master acted wrongly, and she offers you her apology on his behalf.”
Luo Xinci had already received compensatory gifts from the palace and Prince Ning’s residence—costly ornaments of gold and silver. Opening the box sent by Princess Shao’an, she found, unsurprisingly, more of the same. She could not quite understand it. Prince Ning’s household sending her such gifts was one thing, but Princess Shao’an doing the same. Could it be that Ming Yuhe had not told her the truth?
At that thought, Luo Xinci suddenly realized that ever since she had entered the estate, everything seemed to have been decided by Ming Yuhe. Like that time when Jiang Liyang tricked her into trespassing in Marquis Wuling’s study.
If the Marquis truly had died, it would make sense for Ming Yuhe to take charge. But if the Marquis had only feigned death, then why had he allowed Ming Yuhe to let her go without punishment or rebuke?
That study was a place even Princess Shao’an was forbidden to enter. And yet “Ming Niansheng”—someone the Marquis regarded as less than an ant—had been allowed to leave unscathed?
Back then, Luo Xinci had been so terrified by the Marquis’s death and resurrection that she hadn’t thought it through. Only now did she begin to sense something amiss.
Seizing the moment, she probed: “Father knew about Liyang and me, and said nothing?”
Yunxiu replied, “The Marquis’s health is poor. He hasn’t concerned himself with such trifles for a long time.”
Luo Xinci considered this, then asked, “Since Father needs rest, has my elder brother taken charge of all affairs in the household?”
“Not entirely.” Yunxiu thought for a moment before continuing, “The young marquis has taken over most matters, but some of the Marquis’s old retainers still obey only his orders. And when there are major discussions at court, the Marquis himself attends.”
“I see.” Luo Xinci sighed. “Father must hold my brother in very high regard.” After all, he was the sole heir to everything. In that light, it was reasonable that Ming Yuhe could decide so much.
Thinking of her own father, and of Marquis Wuling as seen through Ming Niansheng’s eyes, Luo Xinci felt a quiet pang of envy toward Ming Yuhe. She turned her head and noticed Yunxiu’s expression—complicated, as though she had words she dared not speak.
“What is it?” Luo Xinci asked. Her remark about Ming Yuhe’s importance to the Marquis had been casual, but to Yunxiu it sounded laden with bitter, self-effacing envy.
After a pause, Yunxiu said, “In truth, the young marquis and the Marquis have not always been on good terms. At one point, their relationship was so cold they barely interfered in each other’s lives. It was only after the young marquis met with danger a few years ago that things began to thaw…”
“What danger?” Luo Xinci pressed.
But Yunxiu suddenly remembered she should not say too much. She covered with a smile: “Nothing of consequence. Miss, shall I put these gifts away?”
And with that, Yunxiu gathered up Princess Shao’an’s offerings, neatly cutting off the conversation.
Luo Xinci could not press for more answers. Thinking that the grudges within the Marquis’s household had nothing to do with her, she stopped dwelling on it and focused instead on preparing for her midnight venture into Zhaixing Pavilion.
At the hour of Xu, the candles were extinguished, the maids withdrew, leaving only Lianxing to keep watch in the outer room.
By the hour of Hai, all was silent, the night thick with mist. Suddenly—*thunk!*—a pebble struck the pavilion’s shutter and bounced back into the grass. The sound was small, yet in the stillness of night it rang loud.
From behind the rockery, Luo Xinci held her breath, waiting. When no movement stirred, she finally dared to exhale.
“No one’s guarding it.”
“Of course not. Who would keep watch in his own home without cause?”
It made sense.
She readied her tinder-stick, drew a deep breath. “Shall I go up?”
“Go,” Lianxing whispered, steadying her as she slipped out from behind the rockery. “Remember, Miss—if you hear two cat cries, come out at once.”
“Yes!”
There was no moon that night, and all the courtyard lamps had been put out. Luo Xinci could barely see the path beneath her feet. She tiptoed forward, each step a jolt of fear. At last she reached the pavilion door, her heart pounding as though it would leap from her chest. She glanced back toward Lianxing’s shadowy figure. Vaguely, she saw her maid make a hand sign.
Luo Xinci nodded and slipped quickly inside. The courtyard was dim, but at least shapes could be made out. Within the pavilion, however, it was pitch black.
It was her first time entering Zhaixing Pavilion. She had thought of asking the maids about its layout, but feared word might reach Ming Yuhe and arouse suspicion. In the end, she had asked nothing, and now had to grope her way along the walls, step by step, painfully slow. Still, it was worth it.
She found her way upstairs, struck her tinder-stick, and at last saw a stack of documents laid out on the desk. She hurried forward. Afraid of waking servants, she dared not light the lamp. Holding the faint flame in one hand, she flipped through the papers with the other.
The registers were compiled by year. Luo Xinci poured all her focus into them, scanning line after line at speed. But the results were disappointing.
She read the entire roster for that year. There were plenty of officials surnamed Wang, and three or four who had changed their names—but nowhere did the characters “Wang Yinrao” appear. Her hopes collapsed. Staring at the final page, she wondered if she had missed something.
Ming Yuhe would return at midnight. It would be late, and he might not come back to the study—but to be safe, she had to leave before then. She had no time to hesitate and began searching again.
That year’s list of new scholars numbered nearly two hundred. Counting the time, her anxiety mounted. By the third page, sweat was already beading on her brow. When she reached the last name, a chill spread through her heart. Her knees gave way, and she sank heavily into the grand chair.
Nothing.
Ever since hearing of the archives, she had pinned all her hopes on them. She had braved the risk of sneaking into the pavilion, only to find no clue at all. It was as if a bucket of ice water had been poured over her head—she sat stunned, at a loss. At some point, the tinder-stick in her hand had gone out. Darkness swallowed the room. From afar came the occasional cry of a night bird.
And Luo Xinci sat there, alone in the black. Wang Yinrao had indeed passed the provincial exam that year—so why was his name missing?
The court’s records could not possibly contain such an omission. Unless the document had been tampered with, his former name erased. That would mean Wang Yinrao wielded enough power to access the archives of the Bureau of Records, and had anticipated this long ago, preparing his defenses. But if he had done nothing shameful, why conceal his old name?
Luo Xinci pressed a hand to her aching chest, sat dazed for a while, then sniffled, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and began searching again.
Wang Yinrao might change his name, erase the old one—but his birthplace and family registry still had to be recorded. Those could not all be falsified. Yet that meant more information to check, and more time consumed.
Forcing herself to ignore the sting in her heart, Luo Xinci focused on examining the registers of that year’s scholars by place of origin. When she reached the final page once more, the heavy night suddenly split with two sharp cat cries.
Startled, Luo Xinci hastily restored the documents to their place, lit her tinder-stick to find the way, and was about to descend—when flickering candlelight already shone from below. Fear seized her. She backed away several steps, quickly scanned the study with her faint flame, then rushed to hide behind the innermost bookshelf. Her movements were too frantic; as she snuffed out the tinder-stick, the tip of her finger was singed. The wavering glow grew brighter. Luo Xinci had no time to check her injury, crouching in dread behind the shelf, scarcely daring to breathe.
The study grew steadily more illuminated. Footsteps followed, then the lantern’s flicker was replaced by steady candlelight. A chair scraped, and a voice spoke: “Has he said anything?”
“Replying to the young marquis: these days in dealing with Qu Li, he has only brought up trivial old matters. No matter how I tried to lead him, he kept silent on that affair—his guard is strong.”
Two men were speaking. Luo Xinci could not grasp the meaning, but she could tell they were master and servant. And that was what stunned her.
For she recognized both voices: the one asking was Ming Yuhe, and the one answering was Marquis Wuling. Perhaps she was too nervous, mistaking another’s voice for the Marquis’s. After all, he was Ming Yuhe’s father—how could he possibly call himself “your subordinate” before his own son?
From just a few feet away at the desk, another voice spoke: “Since you can’t draw out an answer, why not seize the man and torture it from him?”
Then came Ming Yuhe’s reply: “If we seize Qu Li, Father’s death will be impossible to conceal. I’ve no wish to keep vigil for him.”
Luo Xinci was utterly stunned. Marquis Wuling was dead. In her confusion, she recalled the first time she had met Ming Yuhe—the corpse lying at his feet.
So this Marquis Wuling was an impostor, someone Ming Yuhe had arranged to play the role! This one was false too. No wonder he had said the Marquis could be killed, but only three months later.
Panic seized Luo Xinci. It felt as though she had stumbled upon a tremendous secret. Yet she was not entirely shocked—after all, she had already lived through the same revelation once before. Her panic came from knowing she should never have learned this at all.
After the incident in the study, Ming Yuhe had spun a lie to deceive her, and she should have trusted his words without question. Now she understood why Ming Niansheng had said the Marquis despised her, yet after she entered the household, the Marquis ignored her completely.
She finally understood why all affairs of the estate were decided by Ming Yuhe. But she did not want to know.
Inside, Luo Xinci screamed silently, while outside the men continued their conversation.
“Prince Ning has sent word back, saying…”
Luo Xinci clamped her hands over her ears, shut her eyes, and curled into the corner, wishing she could turn into a block of wood. She wanted no part in the Marquis’s feuds, and even less in whatever business concerned Prince Ning. She pressed her ears tight, shutting out every voice, hearing only the pounding of her own heartbeat. Her mind in chaos, she felt time crawl unbearably slow. She counted her heartbeats again and again. At six hundred, her lashes trembled as she dared to open a narrow slit of her eyes.
The bookshelf and curtain concealed her well, but the light still burned—Ming Yuhe had not left. She dared not lower her hands, waiting in torment. Then, through a gap between the books, she glimpsed a shadow on the floor. Only one person remained in the room.
It must be Ming Yuhe. In the dead of night, why did he not return to bed, but lingered alone in the study? Would he remain here the whole night?
She could not tell how long she had been trapped. Outside, Lianxing must be frantic at her failure to emerge—heaven forbid she act rashly and burst in.
Anxious and restless, Luo Xinci could not resist following the shadow upward. In the candlelight, she saw Ming Yuhe standing with his back to her, facing a hanging painting. He seemed to be admiring it. His shoulders blocked most of the image, but Luo Xinci glimpsed the lower half: the attire suggested a young woman.
She thought little of it at first, only wishing he would finish and leave. But Ming Yuhe stood transfixed before the painting, unmoving. She dared not stir. The more she told herself to stay still, the harder it was to control her trembling limbs.
To distract herself, she began guessing the subject of the portrait. Was it his beloved? She remembered Ming Yuhe saying he had never married because of a taste others could not accept. Yet seeing him so entranced, Luo Xinci thought perhaps he did have someone in his heart, a match that had never come to pass.
The young marquis Wuling—noble birth, fine bearing, with family and means second to none. Even failing that, he could petition the throne for a marriage decree. What woman could he not obtain? She guessed the girl in the painting was most likely deceased, separated from him by death.
And with that thought, she found herself pitying him.
Ming Yuhe had killed the Marquis—patricide, a crime against all moral order. Yet in fairness, he had treated “Ming Niansheng,” the lowly half-sister she impersonated, with surprising kindness. He had not scorned her character, had indulged her whims in choosing among the young men of the capital, had even allowed her to vent her anger against Jiang Liyang despite the trouble it caused.
Luo Xinci suddenly felt a pang of guilt—she had deceived Ming Yuhe far too many times.
Just as the thought arose, Ming Yuhe stepped forward and lifted his hand toward the figure in the painting. This revealed the woman’s cloudlike hair.
Luo Xinci saw him press his palm gently against the painted cheek, stroking it with a tenderness as light as falling snow, as soft as a spring breeze. She could not see his expression, but from his movements she sensed boundless affection and longing. Even the strongest, most ruthless man must have a fragile, tender side.
Luo Xinci felt a trace of sorrow for him.
“The lips should be rosier,” Ming Yuhe murmured suddenly to himself, then withdrew his hand and turned.
Luo Xinci, forgetting when she had lowered her hands from her ears, was startled and quickly shrank back further into hiding. Only when she glimpsed his shadow taking up pigments and turning back to the portrait did she dare look again.
“This is better. But still…” His voice was thick, lonelier than the night outside. “…still, though you are so near, I cannot touch you.” He sighed deeply, stepping back with the paint in hand.
From behind the bookshelf, Luo Xinci caught sight of the lower half of the woman’s face. It seemed faintly familiar, though she could not recall where she had seen it. Ming Yuhe’s skill was remarkable—the freshly tinted lips glowed vivid and alluring, rivaling a blooming peony.
The girl must be beautiful. And Ming Yuhe must love her deeply.
As Luo Xinci thought this, Ming Yuhe shifted aside, revealing the portrait in full. She saw the entire face, blinked hard, thinking her eyes deceived her. She blinked again and heard Ming Yuhe’s heavy sigh. His voice was mournful as he whispered: “Niansheng, when will you understand your brother’s heart?”
Luo Xinci froze. Then she realized he was not speaking to her, but to the painted figure. She looked at the portrait, hesitated—and suddenly shuddered violently, every hair on her body standing on end.
Ming Yuhe had once said he remained unmarried because of a shameful obsession. Now Luo Xinci finally knew what that obsession was. She met the painted woman’s gaze—her own face, unmistakably familiar. The world spun, her vision darkened, and she nearly fainted on the spot.