In the end, Xie Linxu said: “Stop your nonsense.”
The words were heavy.
Song Xingyue heard a warning in them. It was like when she was a child, refusing to eat, and her mother’s face would turn cold: “Xiao Yue, try your tantrums again.”
Her mother had been a gentle woman—or at least, in memory, she seemed so. But when it came to raising children and household matters, her mother’s temper was strangely short, and young Song Xingyue was often scolded. Her mother had often used such words to warn her. Now, from Xie Linxu’s lips, they sounded even more frightening.
Song Xingyue let go, tossing the quilt to him in a rush of anger. Her hair fell into a messy tangle as she turned her back, curling into herself without a word.
In the end, Xie Linxu ignored her, leaving her silent and alone.
Facing the wall without a quilt, stripped of her last sense of safety, she hugged herself tightly. The night was heavy with sorrow and grievance. Her hand, burned earlier in Rongming Hall, still throbbed faintly. She didn’t even know how she finally drifted off to sleep.
But she did sleep. And in sleep, she dreamed of Ji Jianyun.
In the dream, Xie Linxu had cast her aside. She had no home, no refuge. Ji Jianyun’s eyes blazed with fury as he seized her throat, demanding: Why had she deceived him? Why had she not waited?
Song Xingyue shook her head. She wanted to say—it wasn’t that she hadn’t waited, it wasn’t that she hadn’t…
She truly could not wait for him. For two years she had wondered: if he had not left, if nothing had happened afterward, if she had slowly waited for his return—would everything have been different?
But there was no “if.”
Ji Jianyun hated her; Xie Linxu despised her. With things as they were, she felt she could only drag herself along, barely surviving.
When she woke again, daylight had already come. Xie Linxu had risen, and the quilt he had pushed away the night before was somehow back over her. She did not think much of it—she had likely pulled it back in her sleep, and he, sleeping deeply, had not noticed. She got up, intending to pay respects to Jingxi, but remembered her words from yesterday: not to trouble her for the next few days. With nowhere to go, she sat at the edge of the bed, dazed.
There were still several days before the autumn examination; the trip to Bao’en Temple was not urgent. And she had not returned to the Song household in a long time.
At the Xie estate she was treated with little regard, and at the Song household her situation was no better. The Duke’s family would not esteem her family because of her, nor esteem her because of them.
Especially after the scandal at the banquet with Xie Linxu, her father had been humiliated, and relations with the Xie family soured. Though he had hoped to climb higher through marriage, it had only left him more constrained.
The Song family did not welcome her. And after such disgrace, the Xie family would not want her associating with them either. In two years, she had returned to the Song household only a handful of times. It was not that she could not leave the estate, but if word spread that she had gone back, it would displease many. Yet her younger sister was still there. She wondered if their stepmother had mistreated her during this time. She ought to make time to visit.
Song Xingyue rose, went to the window, and took the watering pot Danping handed her, pouring water over the red roses on the sill. Then she said: “Pack up. We’ll go to the Song household later, to see Ah Miao.”
Song Xingmiao was her younger sister, two years her junior, now sixteen. They shared the same mother. After giving birth to the younger sister, their mother fell ill and died when Xingyue was seven. A year later, their father took a concubine as a wife.
The stepmother’s temper was poor, often harsh with the two sisters. Their father, blind to it, cared only for his favored son. Without the old madam’s protection, the sisters might not have grown up safely under such treatment. But good lives are short—the old madam died before reaching sixty.
Song Xingyue prepared to return to the Song household. She tidied herself, then opened the bottom of her clothing chest to take out some private savings. Though she had no authority in the Xie household, she received a monthly allowance. It was only pocket money, not household funds, and not much.
She rarely needed money—her clothes and food came from the estate, cosmetics were distributed regularly, though what reached her was little and poor. Still, it was something. With no expenses, she saved what she could. Occasionally, when visiting Song Xingmiao, she would bring some along.
Danping, watching, said: “Miss, keep some for yourself.”
Song Xingyue took out most of the money, but replied: “Don’t worry, I’ve kept some for myself.”
At the Xie household, she had food and clothing provided, with little need for money. But Song Xingmiao was different.
Song Xingyue knew life in the Song household well. Her sister lacked money even more than she did. So Song Xingyue gathered some coins and two new dresses she had never worn. These had been made for her recently—six outfits commissioned at once by Xie Linxu. Since she and Song Xingmiao were of similar build, she had asked the tailor to cut two in her sister’s style. They had been stored in her chest, waiting for the right time to be sent.
After collecting everything, she and Danping ate breakfast, then set out. She did not take the Xie family carriage, fearing gossip if people saw it at the Song gates. Better to hire a cart from the stables—less conspicuous.
Arriving at the Song household, she entered through the side gate. The gatekeeper, seeing her return, hurried to report.
Her father was likely still at court, not at home. The servant meant to inform the stepmother, but Song Xingyue stopped him: “I’ve come only to see Xingmiao. No need to disturb Mother.”
The servant dared not argue and let her pass.
The Song estate was small, only two courtyards deep. Song Xingyue walked toward the east wing where Song Xingmiao lived.
When the old madam was alive, the sisters had been raised under her care. After her death, they moved from her hall to the cramped east wing.
Before marriage, Song Xingyue had lived there with Song Xingmiao. Afterward, Song Xingmiao stayed alone.
A single osmanthus tree grew in the courtyard. Past Mid‑Autumn, its blossoms were in full bloom, filling the air with fragrance. The house was small; she soon reached the east wing. It was still morning. The day was fine, the sunlight softer than before, shimmering gold across the garden.
In the little yard stood a girl with cool, delicate features, tending the flowers. From the moment she rose that morning, her heart had beaten faster. Perhaps sisters shared a bond—Song Xingmiao knew her elder sister would return today. Distracted, she watered and trimmed the plants. Then, hearing movement at the gate, she looked up—and saw Song Xingyue enter.
Song Xingyue had not expected to find her sister standing there in the courtyard. She stepped forward, smiling: “Ah Miao, up so early? Tending the flowers?”
Wasn’t it obvious she was tending flowers? What kind of question was that?
Song Xingmiao thought her sister was simply making conversation where none was needed. She glanced at her sister, then lowered her eyes and said softly, “It’s not early anymore.”
Song Xingmiao’s temperament was cold, utterly unlike Song Xingyue’s. But Song Xingyue could endure even Xie Linxu—how much more her own younger sister, raised alongside her?
Before her marriage, Song Xingmiao had not been so withdrawn. Only after Song Xingyue wed did her sister grow increasingly solitary.
Song Xingyue, seeing her aloofness, still smiled brightly. She pulled her close, set aside the watering pot, and clasped her hand: “Enough, stop fussing. Come inside and talk with your sister.”
Dragged along, Song Xingmiao had no choice but to put down the pot and follow her indoors.
Inside, the room was dim, the windows shut tight. Song Xingyue opened them, letting in light: “Why do you still keep the windows closed like before? So dark—it’s suffocating.”
Song Xingmiao watched her back for a long time before speaking: “Why have you come today?”
Song Xingyue paused, then quickly smiled again. She guided her sister to sit and teased, “Can’t I come just to see you?”
Song Xingmiao replied: “There’s nothing worth seeing. I’m fine. You needn’t worry.”
Song Xingyue’s smile faltered. She touched her sister’s face gently: “You’ve grown thin. And you say you’re fine.”
Song Xingmiao turned away, avoiding her hand: “I haven’t.”
Song Xingyue’s face hardened. She frowned: “Ah Miao, what’s this? I finally came back, and you threw a tantrum?”
Song Xingmiao retorted: “I never asked you to come.”
Song Xingyue drew a deep breath and refused to argue. From her sleeve, she pulled a purse, pressing it into her sister’s hand: “Pocket money from your elder sister. Don’t spend your nights copying books anymore. If it’s not enough, write to me at the Xie estate—I’ll send more. Do you understand?”
At the Song household, the stepmother controlled all the money. Likely even monthly stipends were withheld. Both sisters had fine handwriting; before marriage, Song Xingyue often copied texts to sell at bookshops for pocket money.
Song Xingmiao was proud. No matter the hardship, she would never let others see.
Seeing her so thin, Song Xingyue’s heart ached. She blamed herself for not visiting sooner.
But Song Xingmiao pushed the purse back: “I don’t want your money. Take it away.”
Song Xingyue forced it into her hand: “I’m your sister. Giving you money is my duty. Don’t say you don’t want it!”
Though the purse held little, it felt heavy in Song Xingmiao’s palm. She lowered her eyes, refusing to meet her gaze: “The Xie family treats you poorly. I won’t take your money.”
Song Xingyue said firmly: “Don’t think too much. I’m fine.” She made her keep the money, then brought out the two dresses from Danping: “Here are two new outfits. I had them made for you.”
Song Xingmiao lifted her eyes, staring: “Where did these clothes come from? Did Xie Linxu make them for you? Did you coax him into pleasing you?”
From the moment Song Xingyue had entered, she had noticed—her sister’s clothes were not the same as before.
Xie Linxu only ever treated her coldly—Song Xingyue knew well how she had lived these past two years. Had he finally decided to be kind to her?
Song Xingyue avoided the subject, saying only: “He’s your brother‑in‑law. Don’t keep calling him by name.”
Song Xingmiao looked at the two dresses, wanting to say more, but her sister quickly changed the topic.
“Don’t talk about that. You haven’t had new clothes in so long. Don’t keep yourself distant from me. These two are plain, made especially for you. I can’t wear them.”
Song Xingmiao replied coolly: “Can’t wear them? Haven’t you worn ill‑fitting clothes for two years already?”
Song Xingyue understood her meaning, but did not answer. Instead, she began chatting idly about other things. She had finally returned to the Song household, and spoke with Song Xingmiao for quite a while—though mostly she spoke, and her sister listened.
Song Xingmiao soon looked impatient. At last, she urged her several times: “It’s late. You should go back. I haven’t prepared lunch for you.”
Song Xingyue protested: “Do you think I came for a meal? Xingmiao, why are you always driving me away? I rarely come back; can’t I talk with you a little longer? The older you get, the more stubborn you become.”
She had come to see her, yet her sister only wanted her gone.
Song Xingmiao said: “If you dislike me, then leave early. I never asked you to come. Without you, I can still live.”
Hearing this, Song Xingyue grew angry: “Say that again, if you dare.”
Both sisters fell silent, faces tense, the air sharp with hostility.
Just then, chatter rose from the courtyard. Song Xingyue turned—and saw her stepmother and father approaching.
At this hour, her father should have been at the yamen.
Song Cheng still wore his official robes. At forty, he had grown stout, his belly round and straining the fabric. She remembered he had not been so heavy when she was young, but age had made him plumper. He and Madam Xu hurried in together.
At the sight of his daughter, Song Cheng smiled obsequiously: “Ah Yue, you’ve come home? Why didn’t you send word sooner? Your father would have welcomed you properly.”
Song Xingyue’s expression darkened. She frowned: “Shouldn’t Father be at the yamen now?”
He was a Vice Minister of the Court of Imperial Stud, a sixth‑rank official overseeing horse affairs.
Seeing her displeasure, Song Cheng gave a dry laugh: “I heard you were back, so I came to see you.”
Madam Xu, leaning close to him, added with a smile: “Yes, you haven’t returned in so long. When the servants said you were here, why didn’t you tell me? I would have come earlier to greet you. How could we neglect you?”
Song Xingyue guessed what they wanted at once.
In the past, they had never shown such kindness. Now they feigned warmth, pretending at fatherly affection and motherly concern. The display was nauseating.
Song Xingyue forced a smile, her words edged with irony: “Hard on Father, to remember me.”
But she did not spare Madam Xu even a glance.
Song Cheng said: “You rarely come home. Just in time for lunch—I’ll have dishes prepared. Stay and eat with us.”
Song Xingyue replied: “No, I’m leaving.”
Song Cheng and Madam Xu exchanged glances, their smiles stiffening.
He said: “Leaving so soon? It wouldn’t hurt to stay a little longer.”
Song Xingyue, unwilling to waste words, answered: “If Father has nothing to say, I’ll be going.”
She turned to leave.
Song Cheng grew anxious, stepping forward to stop her: “Don’t rush. Your father has something to discuss.”
He continued: “Your younger brother is eighteen now. The trouble is, he spends his days with idle companions and neglects his studies. He fails the exams, and no family will consider him for marriage. The Duke is Minister of Personnel—could you speak to your father‑in‑law, put in a word for your brother?”
Her mother had conceived, but Song Cheng had spent most of his time in Madam Xu’s chambers. Soon after, a concubine bore a son—a half‑brother, younger by only a few months.
Her mother was not from the capital, but the daughter of a provincial governor. She had met Song Cheng while he served outside the city. They married, and when he was promoted to the capital, she followed. Without her family nearby, she suffered neglect.
That younger brother had been spoiled from birth, pampered by Song Cheng. Even as a boy, he was already heavy‑set.
And as Song Cheng admitted, he was useless—uneducated, wasting his days with dissolute friends.
Song Xingyue sneered: “Father, which in‑law are you speaking of? Have you forgotten the disgrace between us and the Xie family? Do you think they still consider you kin?”
Her words darkened his face. “You speak so harshly? That scandal was for your sake! The Xie family’s standing—if the Duke spoke a word, your brother would have a future. All I ask is that you plead for him, and you refuse?”
Song Xingyue dropped all pretense, her voice cold: “I live miserably enough in the Xie household. You want me to beg for him? Why not ask me to die instead! I tell you now—I have no ability. If you have ability, go yourself!”
Her sudden defiance startled him. Recovering, he glared and raised his hand to strike. “You dare defy me!”
Song Xingmiao, silent until now, rushed forward to block him.
Song Xingyue knew her father’s bluster was hollow. She pulled Song Xingmiao behind her, shielding her, and stared him down: “Go on then—try hitting me today!”