Everyone said that Jing Hezhou’s mouth was the sweetest in the world. Song Xizhi hadn’t believed it before, but now he had finally experienced it.
Song Xizhi laughed heartily.
Jing Hezhou also broke into a smile, leaning in proudly. “I’ve received word that Divine Physician Luo will arrive in the capital in a few days.”
“He will definitely be able to cure your illness.”
“Oh? So when you went to Jiangnan before the New Year, it was actually to seek him out. But he has a notoriously difficult temper.”
Luo Qingfeng—his medical skills were transcendent, rumored to be able to grow flesh on withered bones; even a dead man would have to climb out of his coffin if he fell into Luo’s hands. His skills were world-renowned, but his eccentric temper was even more famous. He had established a “Three No-Treats” rule: “No treating the living (those not at death’s door), no treating the penniless, and no treating women.”
Beyond these three rules, saving someone depended entirely on his mood. If you were unlucky enough to cross him on a bad day, he wouldn’t lift a finger even for ten thousand taels of gold. Conversely, if his mood was excellent… he still wouldn’t save you without the ten thousand taels.
Ten thousand taels of gold and a terminal illness—neither condition was easy to meet. It was like placing a prime piece of meat before a tiger locked in a cage for days; the tiger can see it but can’t eat it, driving it mad with hunger and eventually breeding hatred. Thus, though Luo Qingfeng was a divine physician, he had more enemies than patients. People nicknamed him “Luo the Enemy-Maker.”
“Where did you get the money?” Song Xizhi looked at him suspiciously. Ten thousand taels of gold weren’t like ten thousand wagonloads of cabbages from the field. Even as a prince, it was impossible for Jing Hezhou to produce that much cash at once.
Jing Hezhou’s hands curled slightly, his thumb grazing his fingertip. “The master has his clever ways.”
“I don’t have ten thousand taels of gold, but I have other methods. A tree stays put and dies; a man moves and lives. One must learn to be flexible.”
“You’ve been smarter than me since we were kids, but this time, I’ve finally won one against you!” He laughed brightly, looking more radiant and pure than the moonlight.
Song Xizhi chuckled softly. “It’s a good thing you don’t have ten thousand taels, otherwise you’d be the world’s greatest spendthrift.” His illness couldn’t be cured even by an immortal; those funds would have simply been tossed into the wind.
“I’m willing to do it!”
A gentleman like the mountain breeze, yet born into the Imperial house.
Song Xizhi’s eyes darkened as he remained silent.
The crescent moon hung high, bright as snow. A wind blew from the north, scattering the plum blossoms into a chaotic flight of petals. Behind them, someone crushed the fallen red blossoms—Snap! A branch broke.
Song Xizhi turned; it was Song Xialan. She held half a broken plum branch in her left hand, while her right palm was open and extended toward him. A smile played on her lips. “Sister, it’s time for us to head back.”
Her smile was as light as a spring breeze, yet it carried the chill of winter.
Song Xizhi coughed. Look, the protective little fox is here.
A pity, really—he wasn’t her “food,” nor did he need her protection. Her good intentions were wasted on him.
Seeing someone had arrived, Jing Hezhou knew it was no longer a good time to talk. He glanced at Song Xialan and took his leave of Song Xizhi.
The weather was truly cold. The wind was heavy and bone-piercing. Jing Hezhou stopped and looked back. The two “sisters” were standing close, seemingly whispering. Whatever Xizhi said to his sister caused her to bloom into a radiant smile, like a lush peach blossom.
Jing Hezhou rubbed his nose, about to continue walking. But the woman in cyan raised her head and stared directly at him. The beauty, usually as faint as a light ink wash painting, had shed her indifferent, gentle mask, revealing bone-chillingly sharp thorns.
This woman wants me dead—the “no-grave-left-behind” kind of dead.
Did I provoke her? I don’t recall doing so.
Ah, what a sin! What a sin!
Jing Hezhou glanced at his brother, the Crown Prince, who was standing on the high tower to the left, and couldn’t help but hold his head and lament: Unlucky! Truly unlucky! He came out for a simple tryst, yet so many people were watching.
It seemed he had truly stumbled into a very troublesome matter—the kind he hated most: Power. He really hadn’t picked a good time to return.
Whatever!
Fanning his white fan, Jing Hezhou floated away. Enjoy today’s joys today; ask not if tomorrow exists! Tomorrow’s troubles could wait until tomorrow!
After Jing Hezhou left, Song Xizhi checked the night sky. It was very dark. “The banquet is ending soon. Let’s head back.”
Song Xialan looked at the person beside her. His face was pale under the moonlight as he spoke softly. His words were like fine silk rain, misty and lingering with a touch of coolness—just like the man himself: silent, desolate, yet somehow finding their way into her heart without a sound.
“Sister seems very familiar with the Fourth Prince?”
“The banquet was too stifling. I came out for some air and happened to run into him.”
Did they really just meet? Why did his eyes seem to light up when talking about that man?
They had grown up together, yet Song Xialan had never seen him so relaxed, laughing so freely. Weren’t they the most inseparable, closest sisters? They were bound by blood and relied on each other; they played the zither and painted together since childhood, facing each other with total honesty. Shouldn’t they be able to talk about anything, the closest existences to each other’s souls?
Yet now, as their skirts brushed and their hands touched, they felt worlds apart despite being inches away. This distance filled Song Xialan with a panic she couldn’t voice. She wanted to cry. But she couldn’t.
Song Xizhi asked, “What’s wrong?”
Song Xialan supported Xizhi carefully and looked up, her gentle oval face hiding a barely perceptible wariness behind a smile. “Nothing. Just some things I want to say to Sister. You rarely go out, so you don’t know the Fourth Prince’s character. He is extremely fond of women; he has more ‘confidantes’ than one can count and is a regular at the brothels.”
“He is practiced in sweet talk. Sister, you are so beautiful; it’s best to stay away from him.”
Song Xizhi’s eyelid twitched. Jing Hezhou’s reputation was indeed “romantic,” but he was never base; there was a fundamental difference between him and those lecherous ghosts who gambled and whored. Why was Song Xialan describing him like some lecherous pervert?
Furthermore, hadn’t she just said she liked Jing Hezhou not long ago? Why did her story change so fast? Was it a case of “love turned to hate” because she couldn’t have him? Song Xizhi guessed, thinking of Jing Hezhou’s handsome face and honeyed tongue.
He nodded. “Mm, I understand.”
Song Xialan’s voice was dry. “It’s enough that Sister understands Lan’er’s heart.”
They walked and talked, unknowingly arriving back at the banquet. It was nearing its end; the Emperor, in poor health and unable to drink much, had already left. The remaining officials and their families were preparing to depart.
Song Ci saw them return and came over to give instructions. “The guards are waiting outside the palace gates. You two return to the manor first; I’ll follow after I finish socializing.” With that, he turned back to the crowd.
As expected, again. Song Xialan sighed and boarded the carriage with Song Xizhi.
Song Xizhi comforted her, “Father is the Prime Minister; he is busy with many affairs. He simply can’t look after us for the moment. Don’t overthink it, Sister.”
Song Xialan gave a brief response, but the gloom between her brows lingered. A flicker of pity passed through Song Xizhi’s eyes; familial harmony—such a simple wish—would never be fulfilled in the Song family.
He closed his eyes, choosing not to shatter her naive hope. The carriage wheels rumbled as the two sat side-by-side, each harbored their own secret thoughts.