The two men did not continue arguing over who was in a hurry. Xie Linxu had to enter the palace for morning court.
The day was strange. At dawn it had been clear and bright, yet by the time court ended, dark clouds gathered overhead, threatening rain.
The Chief Secretary dismissed the court and immediately pulled Xie Linxu aside, leading him toward Wenyuan Pavilion offices before he had even taken a few steps. Looking at the sky, he said: “This cursed weather—clear when I left home, now dark again. These sudden shifts between warmth and chill are hardest to endure. Truly, I was not mistaken.”
Xie Linxu raised his eyes to the sky, brows furrowed, lost in thought. He spent the entire morning working in Wenyuan Pavilion, then returned to the Hanlin Academy. By then, the rain had begun—drizzling at first, then pouring steadily all day, growing heavier without pause.
That afternoon, Xie Linxu left the Academy early and returned to the Xie estate, only to learn from the gatekeeper that Song Xingyue had not yet returned.
Shouyuan, seeing his unease, said: “If you’re worried for the lady, perhaps you should go up the mountain to fetch her.”
Xie Linxu said nothing. Shouyuan sighed repeatedly: “With rain this heavy, the mountain paths must be slick, the soil loose. If she doesn’t return before dark, who knows what might happen…”
Xie Linxu shot him a glance, silencing him. Before Xie Linxu could rebuke him, Shouyuan turned to the driver: “Go—head to Bao’en Temple. The young master will fetch the lady home!”
The driver cracked his whip, and the carriage sped toward Bao’en Temple.
Bao’en Temple lay on the western outskirts, halfway up the mountain.
That morning, Song Xingyue had taken half an hour by carriage to arrive.
When her grandmother was alive, she and Song Xingmiao had sometimes come here together. Now, returning alone, the path was familiar.
Jingxi knew she had no money, so days earlier she had sent a bag of incense offerings to Qinghe Courtyard. After all, offerings to the Buddha could not be withheld.
At the temple gate, Song Xingyue donated the money and entered. The gray‑tiled roofs carried an ancient air, the upturned eaves solemn beneath the sunlight. She walked to the main hall.
Inside, incense smoke curled upward. A golden statue of Maitreya loomed, gazing down through the haze, its features blurred by the rising smoke. Song Xingyue lit three sticks of incense at the eternal lamp, then knelt in devotion.
Her prayers were threefold: For Xie Linfu’s success in the autumn examinations. For peace with Xie Linxu, that they might stop quarreling, that he might not be so quick to anger. And for a child—soon.
She had already made too many wishes—three was the limit. Any more would be greedy, so Song Xingyue stopped herself in time. After offering incense, she went to pay respects to a master who had once been close to her grandmother. Since she had come, it was only proper to greet him. But outside, rain had begun to fall, and she could not leave for the moment. She decided to wait until it stopped, meet the master, and then join the monks in chanting scriptures.
Reading and writing could not compare to praying to the gods. Whenever the autumn examinations approached, temples like this were crowded to the point of being worn thin.
Perhaps deceived by the clear morning, many people had come to offer incense today.
Because of the sudden downpour, quite a few were trapped inside the main hall, sheltering from the rain.
Song Xingyue even ran into members of the Li family.
Li Huaixin had come to Bao’en Temple that day with her mother and younger brother.
The capital was neither too small nor too large—on certain auspicious days, one met those one wished to see, and those one did not.
Xie Linxu was familiar with Li Huaixin, but Song Xingyue was not. When they crossed paths in the temple, they merely nodded in greeting, and said no more.
As evening approached and the rain still did not cease, Song Xingyue feared it would be too late to return. She asked a monk for an umbrella, intending to leave with Danping. But just as she stepped into the rain, someone suddenly shoved her from behind.
Caught off guard, Song Xingyue stumbled down the stone steps and fell hard onto the ground. The fall was brutal—she pitched forward, her knees slamming against the cold stone, her palms scraped raw.
Danping cried out in alarm: “Miss!”
Danping hurried forward to lift her up.
Song Xingyue’s clothes were filthy, soiled beyond recognition. Danping, angry, turned to see the culprit—the Li family’s young son, no more than ten, standing with hands on hips and looking smug.
Li Huaixin pulled him back, frowning: “Can’t you walk properly? How could you bump into someone?”
The boy retorted: “How did I not walk properly? She blocked the way herself—why blame me? What’s it to do with me? Sister, why don’t you say she wasn’t watching where she was going?”
At such a young age, he knew nothing of restraint. He had heard of Song Xingyue, knew she had ruined his sister’s marriage prospects. He disliked her, hated her, and had deliberately knocked into her. But what did it matter? He was a child.
Children were not held accountable for their actions.
Besides, she already owed the Li family.
Li Huaixin said sternly: “Such rude words. What has your tutor taught you? Apologize.”
The boy looked at Song Xingyue, her clothes muddied and wet, and lifted his chin: “I won’t. Why should I apologize?”
Li Huaixin’s brows knit tighter. At that moment, Madam Li spoke. She looked Song Xingyue up and down, her eyes nearly rolling, then withdrew her gaze with cold formality: “It was only an accident. What’s there to apologize for? Enough. It’s getting dark—let’s go home.”
Ignoring her daughter’s protest, Madam Li pulled her away firmly.
Li Huaixin said nothing more. As she passed Song Xingyue, she whispered a quiet “Sorry,” then followed her family out.
Song Xingyue’s palms and knees throbbed painfully. It took her a long time to recover; she looked down at herself—her clothes were ruined, caked with mud and rain. Dust and water had stained the once‑white fabric beyond recognition.
She lifted her head, sensing the stares and whispers of those around her. Turning, she saw the Li family already gone.
Danping held the umbrella over her, eyes red with anger, muttering: “What kind of people are these? They call themselves a noble family, yet have no manners at all!”
Now, in such a state, how could they possibly descend the mountain?
Song Xingyue looked down at her scraped palms and said: “Let’s ask the monks for a room. I’ll tidy myself up before going back.”
Hearing this, Danping had no time to stay angry. She went to ask the monks for an empty room.
Song Xingyue rested inside while Danping went out to find her a clean set of clothes.
Alone in the room, the sky grew darker, the sun sank, and rain still fell. A monk brought her a candle and a basin of water to wash her hands. When he left, she closed the door, removed her filthy outer garments, and set them aside. Only then did she notice the fabric at her knees was torn through. Her heart burned with anger. If not for the crowd watching earlier, she would have shoved that brat back herself. After fuming at the child, she mourned the ruined dress.
It had been Song Xingmiao’s birthday gift to her, bought with hard‑saved money. Now it was destroyed. She was both furious and heartbroken, but in the end could only sigh and lay the garment aside. Rolling up her trousers, she saw blood at her knee. She took a handkerchief to wipe the wound, frowning deeper with each stroke. A fine birthday—why come out to burn incense? And now she was in this state. She wondered if Xie Linxu had returned home yet. Seeing her absent, would he overthink it?
As she thought this, a noise came from the window. If it were Danping, she would knock. What was this sound at the window?
The window opened—someone climbed inside.
Song Xingyue froze, breath held, staring toward it.