Song Xingyue’s heart gave a sudden jolt, but she quickly thought of an excuse. She said, “Back when my grandmother was still alive, she loved reading Buddhist scriptures. This book came to me by chance, from an old abbot at the temple. It was fate, really…”
Xie Linxu cut off her rambling, his thin lips parting as he said, “I don’t want to hear it. I’m tired.”
After all, it was just another lie to cover things up—what was there worth listening to? He had heard too many of her falsehoods already, and he no longer wished to hear more.
Song Xingyue did not press on. She only replied, “Very well. There’s nothing more to say. I’ll stop. You’ve had a long day—go inside, cleanse yourself, and rest.”
Xie Linxu turned away and entered the inner room.
Seeing him leave, Song Xingyue finally let out a breath of relief. She knew that what he said tonight was not out of concern for her. He only feared she might bring shame to the Xie family. And besides, he was a man bound tightly by rules, while the things she had done in the past had been far too improper.
At that time, she had believed wholeheartedly that she would marry Ji Jianyun. She had left herself no retreat, staking her entire body and soul on him. And in the end? The young general who once promised her “a lifetime together, just the two of us” turned around and abandoned her.
After he left, Song Xingyue wept for him for two days, and for herself for another two. Four days in all—and then she let him go, accepting the fact of his departure. From then on, no one would ever treat her as kindly as Ji Jianyun once had. She could only scheme for herself.
Song Xingyue pushed the matter from her mind. When she asked Shouyuan, she learned that Xie Linxu had already taken supper earlier at the Chief Secretary’s residence. She said nothing, only ordered that the cooled dishes be brought out again.
Xie Linxu was particular—normally, if food had cooled in the ice chest, it had to be reheated before serving. But she was famished, her head spinning after a day spent copying Buddhist texts. She had no energy to fuss over whether the dishes were hot or cold. A few bites to fill her stomach would suffice.
After a while, the servants brought the food back out.
From the window crack, Shouyuan could see her sitting alone, cradling a bowl, eating the cold dishes before her. It was plain she was in low spirits—stuffing mouthful after mouthful, her cheeks puffed out, unable to swallow smoothly.
Well, cold rice and cold vegetables are never easy to choke down. This life she was living—it was all too disheartening.
Shouyuan stopped watching, lifted his head to the sky, and let out a sigh.
After Xie Linxu had bathed and changed, he came out of the inner room again. In the main hall, he saw Song Xingyue eating her supper. She still had food in her mouth, but seeing him freshly washed and dressed, she wondered where he was going. Muffled, she asked: “Changzhou, where are you going?”
His expression unreadable, he countered: “Why haven’t you eaten yet?”
Song Xingyue would never admit she had been waiting for him. The last time she had waited, he told her it was pointless. So she offered a casual excuse: “I was copying scriptures and forgot. But you haven’t said—where are you going?”
Xie Linxu did not look at her. “To the study,” he said.
Without waiting for her reply, he left.
Watching his cold, resolute back, the words she wanted to say stuck in her throat. In the end, she could only chew her rice and swallow it down.
When August came, the rains began. Not heavy, but persistent, vexing showers.
Madam Huang used the slippery roads as an excuse to skip her daily greetings. Jingxi, knowing her nature, did not bother to argue.
Song Xingyue still came faithfully to greet Jingxi. But since Emperor Jingning had resumed morning court, Xie Linxu no longer had time to accompany her—he had to be at court by dawn. Xie Linfu, busy preparing for the autumn examinations, also stopped coming. As for Xie Jinfei, she was unreliable and appeared only occasionally.
Thus, in Rongming Hall, only Song Xingyue remained.
On rainy days, Jingxi grew lazier and rose later. Each morning, Song Xingyue waited long before she emerged.
The hall was quiet, lifeless. Jingxi, unwilling to sit staring at her, exchanged only a few words of greeting before dismissing her.
With Xie Linxu indifferent, Song Xingyue had time on her hands. She took the opportunity to deliver the copied scripture to Old Madam.
Toward evening, the rain finally ceased. Song Xingyue carried her handwritten *Lotus Sutra* to the old lady. After days of rain, the air was heavy with dust, the roads half‑dry, still streaked with damp. When she arrived, the Old Madam was kneeling before the altar, rosary beads in hand, chanting.
Song Xingyue knew it was not the right moment, so she waited quietly outside.
After about the time of a cup of tea, the Old Madam rose. Her attendant stepped forward: “Madam, the heir’s wife is here, waiting outside.”
The Old Madam’s brows lifted slightly, then smoothed. “How long has she waited?”
“Not long. She came midway through your chanting.”
The Old Madam came out herself and saw Song Xingyue standing beneath the corridor eaves, dressed in a moon‑white brocade gown. It was a new outfit.
Jade must be carved to become a vessel; people must be adorned to show their worth. Changing out of those rustic clothes, she indeed looked brighter than before. Such a pretty child—wearing those old garments was a waste.
The Old Madam said: “Child, come in.”
Song Xingyue had been lost in thought, not noticing the old lady standing there. Hearing her call, she quickly answered and followed inside.
In the hall, Song Xingyue handed over the scripture she carried. “Grandmother, knowing you love to chant, I copied this Buddhist text in my spare time. Please look at it.”
The Old Madam took it, peering at the characters by candlelight. She studied it for a long while, her expression growing more serious. Then she asked: “This book is rare. Where did you find the original?”
Song Xingyue replied: “My grandmother, when she was alive, also loved to chant. My sister and I grew up at her side. She loved scriptures, and I came across this one by chance. If you like it, that is enough. I only fear you might not.”
The Old Madam chuckled: “Anything done with care is welcome. I’ll accept it. The hour is right—stay and dine with me.”
Song Xingyue did not refuse, and they ate together.
After supper, the Old Madam kept her for conversation.
Being with her reminded Song Xingyue of her own late grandmother. In her company, she felt less restrained. They talked until the hour of the dog, when the night grew late, and Song Xingyue finally returned to Qinghe Courtyard. On the way, she asked the servants and learned that Xie Linxu had already come back.
She asked: “Where is the heir now?”
They answered: “In the study.”
Song Xingyue pressed her lips together, silent. The servant added: “He hasn’t eaten yet. He went straight to the study.”
“He hasn’t eaten?”
“Yes. When he returned, he said he wasn’t hungry, and went directly to the study.”
Song Xingyue’s eyes flickered. At once she thought of a plan. These days, Xie Linxu had been sleeping in the study; whether truly busy or not, she could not tell. She dared not disturb him too much. But if he had not eaten, she had an excuse to go. She ordered fresh dishes prepared, then carried the food box toward the study.
By then, rain had begun again. Droplets gathered on the tiles, streaming down from the eaves, falling to the ground with a muffled drip.
Song Xingyue followed the corridor, making her way toward the study. It was not yet late, though she did not know whether Xie Linxu was still busy.
Danping followed behind, muttering: “When Miss hadn’t eaten, the heir never asked a word. But when the heir hasn’t eaten, Miss hurries to bring food. These days he sleeps in the study, never asking after Miss—where does that leave you…”
That morning, when she went to fetch breakfast, she overheard the kitchen maids gossiping about Song Xingyue. They said the heir despised her, that she had only her looks, could not bear children, and would surely be cast aside. The household was full of opportunists. They had never respected Song Xingyue, and now, seeing discord between the couple, their tongues grew bolder.
Danping had argued with them, but they threatened her—if the matter spread, it would only make her mistress’s life harder. The words were cruel, yet not without reason. Fearing greater harm, Danping had to let it go.
Life in the Duke’s household was hard for Song Xingyue. Only recently had the heir noticed that his wife’s clothes were shabby, like those of an aging woman, and ordered new ones. She was only eighteen—how could she not love beauty? Yet even in new clothes, she seemed joyless.
Danping could not help recalling when the young general Ji Jianyun was by her side. Then, she had never suffered such indignities. He had cherished her, as if he would lift her to the heavens, never treating her with coldness.
Thinking of this, Danping blurted: “They say the young general arrived in the capital two days ago, with a grand procession—so splendid! The streets were lively with his return…”
Ji Jianyun had indeed reached the capital two days earlier, with great pomp. Even within the secluded inner courtyard, Song Xingyue had heard the celebratory sounds outside.
But before Danping could finish, Song Xingyue covered her mouth. “Danping, walls have ears. Whether gossiping about the heir or discussing others, you must not speak of it again.”
Danping’s eyes widened at her stern words. She swallowed the rest of her thoughts, nodded, and promised silence. Only then did Song Xingyue release her hand.
Song Xingyue said: “They say being a wife is hard; being a woman is hard. But do you not know the difference between the Song family and the Xie family? Even if I were neither wife nor woman, I have no dignity here. Without a proper family background, without status, one is always beneath others. If I want to endure, I must appease Xie Linxu. Unless one day life becomes truly unbearable and we part ways—that is another matter.”
They did not continue the argument. Dragging it on would be endless, and the food would grow cold. Then Xie Linxu, with his sharp tongue, would surely complain.
At the study door, a servant stood guard. Seeing Song Xingyue, he bowed and went inside to announce her. Soon he returned, stepping aside to let her pass. “Madam, please.”
The study was bright. A haze of smoke rose from the gilded incense burner, lending the room a misty air. On the huanghuali shelves, books stood neatly in rows. In a porcelain vase by the plum‑shadow window, lotus leaves leaned. A jade screen stood in the spacious room, candlelight flickering, casting Xie Linxu’s shadow upon it.
He was seated at the rosewood desk, handling official documents. Candlelight cast his profile onto the jade screen, his figure in a blue robe and jade belt standing tall as a mountain. Even alone, his back was straight, his bearing still that of an immortal.
At the sound of movement, Xie Linxu merely lifted his eyes toward the doorway, then returned his gaze to the work before him.
Song Xingyue said to Shouyuan, who was waiting nearby: “Shouyuan, you may go. I’ll stay here.”
Shouyuan glanced at Xie Linxu. Seeing no objection, he answered softly and slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Song Xingyue sat at an empty table, unpacked the food box, and set out the dishes. She called gently: “Changzhou, the servants said you hadn’t eaten. I had them prepare fresh dishes. It’s late—you should eat something.”
At last, Xie Linxu responded. He folded back his wide sleeves, set his brush on the rack, and rose to wash his hands. Coming to the table, he looked at the meal and said only: “Next time, sending it with the servants would be the same.” His tone was mild, neither angry nor pleased.
Song Xingyue handed him chopsticks, replying: “I was idle in my room. Knowing you hadn’t eaten, I couldn’t sit still.”
He accepted the chopsticks but did not answer.
She ventured cautiously: “Have you been very busy these days? Must you always sleep in the study?”
She wondered if he was still sulking over what had happened before. Surely not—it had been days already. Besides, had he not once discussed marriage with another? She had never reproached him for that. But she dared not say more. Without her, he and that other woman would already be wed. She was the last person who could speak of it. So she did not mention it again, only watched him carefully, afraid to provoke him.
Her gaze made him inexplicably uneasy. He turned his eyes away, silent.
Seeing him refuse to speak, Song Xingyue was at a loss. Any words she tried would be blocked by his indifference. Yet she was not one to give up easily. After a moment, she found another topic.
Resting her hands on the desk, half-leaning, she looked at him and said: “Changzhou, in a few days it will be Mid‑Autumn. The streets will be lively—lanterns, acrobats, riddles, songs, poetry contests… so festive. If you have time, shall we go out together?”
What kind of words were these? Xie Linxu was no child, yet her tone sounded as if she were coaxing an eight‑year‑old. He was speechless, the corner of his mouth twitching. He was about to tell her, “Don’t be ridiculous,” but when his eyes met hers, the words died.
Perhaps the candlelight in the study was too bright, illuminating her clear, luminous gaze. She truly had a pair of beguiling eyes—those fox‑like eyes that, when smiling, seemed to brim with affection for anyone.
Seeing him look at her without speaking, Song Xingyue thought he was interested. She pressed on, animatedly: “Changzhou, you don’t know. Back at the Song household, my sister and I loved to run out to the lantern fairs. Every Mid‑Autumn, she had to join the crowds. Once, the street was so packed I nearly lost her. When we returned, Grandmother almost scolded me to death…”
The more she spoke, the more frivolous it sounded. Realizing she had strayed, she stopped, then looked at him with pleading eyes: “Changzhou, just accompany me once. You’re busy with work, I know. Let me help you with it, but spare me one evening—just one evening.”
Xie Linxu knew he should not agree. She was adept at reading his moods; if he yielded now, she would only keep coaxing him in the future. What sort of propriety was that? She already lacked decorum—if he indulged her, she would grow even less restrained. Yet he found himself unable to refuse. Her earnestness, even if not wholly sincere, left him without words. He seemed to hear a long sigh within himself. Outwardly, he gave a cold “Mm,” which counted as assent.
She had not expected him to agree. Overjoyed, she asked: “You’re not deceiving me?”
He had finished his meal. Setting down his chopsticks, he frowned at her: “It’s only a small matter. Why be so delighted? You’re no different from a child.”
From youth, Xie Linxu had always kept to rules. The only rule he had broken was marrying Song Xingyue. Born to a noble house, he was heir, bound by propriety. In this dynasty, civil officials were prized above military, and virtue was paramount. He had served three years in the Hanlin Academy, now a Reader, steeped in endless doctrine.
Song Xingyue had heard such lectures for two years, nearly to the point of weariness.
Even as he scolded, her bright eyes did not dim: “You rarely agree with me. How could I not be glad? Children cannot hide their joy—I cannot either. If you say I’m like a child, I admit it.”
Her words turned his rebuke upside down. Rising, he returned to his desk: “Since I’ve agreed, I won’t go back on it. But don’t try to help me—it only adds confusion.”
His words were harsh.
Song Xingyue was not afraid of his scolding. After all, she was used to it. Copying *Admonitions for Women*, or reading the *Three Bonds and Five Constants*, she had already been battered by such phrases many times.
But these words, meant to belittle, stung all the more. What was it she supposedly could not do? Just because he excelled at handling official business—did that mean she could not even grind ink or arrange books?
She kept these resentful thoughts to herself. Outwardly, nothing showed.
After tidying away the food box, she still did not leave. She sat nearby, as if waiting to walk out together with him.
Xie Linxu’s gaze remained fixed on his documents. Yet the *tanhua* scholar, usually capable of attending to two things at once, found himself distracted. His mind refused to settle. Holding the brush, he meant to draft a note. But when the ink touched paper, what he wrote, circling round and round, was only two characters: “Mid‑Autumn.”
Startled, he realized his mistake. He hastily circled the words, blotting them with ink until the characters were drowned, their form no longer visible. Only then did he stop.