Whether from anger or exhaustion on the mountain, Song Xingyue fell ill. Her rage had consumed her, and after a sleepless night, she collapsed with a fever, lying dazed in bed, unable even to rise.
Since leaving that morning, Xie Linxu had not returned and remained in his study.
Danping summoned the household physician, and word quickly reached Xie Linxu—Shouyuan had told him. He could see that Xie Linxu and Song Xingyue had quarreled. But yesterday, Shouyuan hadn’t followed him closely enough to overhear the secrets spoken in that room, so he didn’t know what had caused the discord. And yet—hadn’t Xie Linxu prepared a birthday gift for her? In the end, he had gone to the Li household for the night instead. Of all days, why quarrel on her birthday? Wouldn’t such estrangement only deepen?
That morning, Shouyuan asked what to do with the bracelet that had not been given. Xie Linxu said nothing.
Then word came that the physician had gone to Qinghe Courtyard. Shouyuan rushed to inform Xie Linxu.
“Madam seems ill,” Shouyuan said. “I heard she hasn’t eaten all day—whatever she tries, she vomits. By evening, the physician came again, saying she has a fever and is gravely sick.”
Sick? Xie Linxu did not believe it. His voice was cold: “How could she fall ill so easily? No doubt another act, feigning weakness for pity.”
He knew her nature best. When guilty, she cried and played the innocent. If he ignored her, she feigned illness, even threatened death. All her tricks aimed at him. Did she think everyone else was fools, to be deceived forever?
Shouyuan was stunned. That he could speak so harshly, even now when she was truly ill—what offense could warrant such words?
“Master, you wrong Madam this time,” Shouyuan said. “The physician insists it is fever, and serious.”
At his desk, Xie Linxu’s hand faltered, ink blotting the paper. He set the brush aside, frowning: “How could she suddenly fall so ill? Are you conspiring with her to fool me?”
Shouyuan protested: “Master, how can you say that? You quarrel with Madam, but why suspect me too? And how was she ‘well’? Yesterday she spent nearly the whole day on the mountain, busy from morning until night. At night, she did not sleep or eat a bite. And you—staying at the Li household overnight… Madam’s heart was consumed with grief. How could she not fall sick?”
Shouyuan’s words carried a faint note of reproach.
Xie Linxu heard it and raised his eyes: “So you’re blaming me?”
Shouyuan dared not: “How could I, how could I.”
He would never openly blame him. In truth, he only blamed the fact that when someone is ill, one should feel pity—but instead, Xie Linxu had driven her into sickness. In the end, what satisfaction could he find in that? But Shouyuan kept such thoughts to himself.
Seeing Xie Linxu unmoved, he tried cautiously: “Madam is so gravely ill. Will you truly not go see her?”
Xie Linxu’s face stayed cold: “I will not.”
Shouyuan did not take the words to heart or press further. He calculated silently: now it was nearing dusk. In another hour or two, by the time of Hai (9–11 p.m.), Xie Linxu would surely say he was not going to see her—but he would return to rest.
So Shouyuan waited, counting the time. Sure enough, scarcely past the first quarter of Hai, Xie Linxu rose.
“Master, are you going to rest?” Shouyuan asked knowingly.
Xie Linxu glanced at him: “Weren’t you keeping track of the time for me?”
Shouyuan shrank his neck and said nothing more.
When Xie Linxu returned to the main quarters, he saw the lamps still burning. The room no longer carried its usual fragrance; instead, it smelled thick with medicine. She seemed truly ill. He stepped inside. Danping was at the bedside, while on the low cabinet sat a bowl of medicine, barely touched.
Song Xingyue lay with eyes closed, sleeves limp at her sides, looking half‑dead.
Unaware of Xie Linxu’s silent arrival, Danping continued to plead: “Miss, you must drink the medicine. Without it, how can you recover?”
That afternoon, she had barely coaxed her into eating a little. Now, though, she refused the medicine.
Song Xingyue’s fevered eyes could not open; they brimmed with tears, ready to spill at the slightest blink. The medicine was too bitter. She felt too sick to swallow it.
“I’m so tired, Danping,” she whispered. “Let me sleep a while. Don’t speak.”
Danping protested: “You mustn’t sleep, Miss. With this fever, you’ll burn yourself senseless.”
If her mind were damaged, what then? She must drink the medicine.
Song Xingyue, hearing Danping’s voice drone like a monk’s chant, said faintly: “It won’t kill me. And if it does—then at least I’ll have a shred of dignity left.”
Danping could not let her simply fall asleep. She was about to speak again when suddenly Xie Linxu’s voice came from behind: “If you truly die of illness, who will look at you with respect?”
Half‑conscious, Song Xingyue heard his voice, heard his mockery. But this time she had no strength to open her eyes or argue. The fever had burned away what little resilience she had, leaving her heart pale and weak. She no longer wished to speak—she only turned toward the wall, showing him her back.
Seeing this, Xie Linxu’s face darkened. She ignored him, so he said to Danping: “Leave.”
After yesterday’s events, Danping could hardly bear the sight of him. She wanted to scold him, but knew she could not overstep. Their relationship was already strained—if she offended him, her mistress would suffer more. Swallowing her grievances, she said: “Madam is gravely ill, young master. Please don’t blame her. The physician insisted she must drink the medicine…”
Xie Linxu replied: “I know. Go.”
Danping stepped out. The room sank into eerie silence, heavy with tension. Only the candle crackled now and then.
Xie Linxu spoke first: “Putting on such a show—who are you trying to impress?”
Song Xingyue heard him. The words nearly choked her breath. She refused to answer: “What slander do you heap on me? If I die, it has nothing to do with you.”
He would rather she die.
After speaking, she pulled the quilt over herself, burying her face, unwilling to say another word. Otherwise, she thought, it would not be illness that killed her, but his anger.
Xie Linxu half‑knelt on the bed, trying to pull the quilt away. But she clutched it tightly. He used force, his voice low: “Come out.”
Song Xingyue said: “No.”
He had no patience for her defiance. The quilt was light in his hands; with little effort, he tore it away.
She was burning with fever—how could she resist him?
Unable to win, she resolved to feign death. Turning her back, she said faintly: “If I die here, just bury me. Count it as two years of enduring your coldness. Give me a handful of earth, a place to rest. Even in death, I’ll remember you all my life…”
Xie Linxu had long told her to stop reading so many storybooks—her mind had grown foolish, always speaking of life and death. He seemed irritated, his tone harsh: “Shut up.”
Song Xingyue obeyed, silent.
Then he said: “If you’re ill, take the medicine. Must you always talk of dying?”
Seeing she still ignored him, Xie Linxu no longer bothered with words. He pulled her upright from the bed, stretched out his arm, and took up the medicine. His voice was cold and commanding: “Drink it.”
He was as domineering as ever, blind to how cruel his words had been and how deeply he had wronged her. His treatment of her only made her seem petty, resentful, unable to let go.
At last Song Xingyue opened her eyes and looked at him. Her eyes, once bright and alluring, were now bloodshot, rimmed with red. No trace of charm remained—only sorrow and grief. She was truly ill.
Only now, facing her pale and haggard face, did Xie Linxu realize how far her sickness had gone. In the past, how would she have acted? She would have pouted, complained the medicine was bitter, clung to him, begged him to feed her. But now, her gaze held only weariness, even faint impatience.
Xie Linxu noticed the change. He pressed his lips tighter, silent. Her eyes pierced him, leaving his heart strangely hollow. Unable to think further, he watched as Song Xingyue seized the medicine bowl from his hand—more snatched than received. She said nothing, only tilted her head back and gulped it down. She drank too quickly. The bitter liquid spilled from her lips, sliding down her pale neck. She choked, coughing violently.
Xie Linxu swiftly caught the bowl before it spilled across the bed.
She coughed until breathless. Instinctively, he reached to steady her—but she shoved his hand away.
Barely catching her breath, she grabbed the medicine again and forced it down like self‑punishment.
Xie Linxu frowned, gripping her wrist: “Why are you in such a rush?”
Song Xingyue lifted her head, meeting his eyes: “If I don’t obey you, what will you do? Say more cruel words? Do more to wound me? You won’t be satisfied until you’ve cut me raw, until I bleed.”
Xie Linxu froze.
She said no more. When the medicine was finished, she collapsed back onto the bed. In the past, she would have fussed after drinking medicine, clinging to him, demanding comfort. But now she said nothing, only turned her back.
She was deliberately sulking. Had his words hurt her? But which of his words had wronged her?
Xie Linxu stopped thinking, turned, and left the room. He went to the cleansing chamber to wash.
The candlelight flickered faintly, veiled in smoke. On the bed, she lay still, the quilt curved around her waist.
When he returned, he did not go elsewhere. He lay down beside her.
Song Xingyue, curled in the corner, glistened with sweat. Strands of hair clung damply to her neck.
Xie Linxu reached out and brushed the hair away.
Song Xingyue made no further movement; the medicine seemed to have taken effect, and she slept deeply. Xie Linxu did not stir either. He blew out the lamp and lay down. But her sleep was restless. She kicked off the quilt, turned again and again, and muttered as if trapped in nightmares.
“Mother… Grandmother…”
That night she dreamed of her mother, dreamed of her grandmother. She cried, saying she no longer wished to live. Without them, life was too heavy. No one loved her anymore. No one gave her sweets, no one held her and said, “Xiao Yue, be good,” no one stroked her hair and told her not to cry…
Her mother…
Song Xingyue still remembered her mother’s dying face. Her mother, once strong, lay wasted on the sickbed, reduced to skin and bone. That commanding woman had dwindled to something so small. Her final gaze was unlike before. In life, she had often scolded her, impatient with her disobedience. But at death, her eyes were full of sorrow.
“Xiao Yue, when I die, what will you do?”
What will you do? What will become of you? She had not worried for Miao Miao—her younger sister would always have her elder sister’s protection.
But Xiao Yue? Who would protect her?
Those mournful eyes, even recalled now, brought tears.
In her dream, her grandmother and mother stood at the edge of a cliff, shrouded in mist, reaching out their hands. They could not bear her suffering and wanted to take her with them. If leaping from the cliff meant seeing them again, she would jump at once. But it was like plunging into a bottomless abyss—she never reached them.
Tears seeped from her eyes. The fever’s heat drenched her body as though she had been soaked in water. She kicked off the quilt again and again.
Xie Linxu had not slept at all. He heard her crying. By moonlight filtering through the window, he saw she had thrown off the quilt entirely, even her stomach uncovered, sprawled helplessly. Her sobbing broke the silence of the night, impossible to ignore.
He rose, turned her over, and saw her face streaked with tears. His throat tightened. For a moment, he could not move.
She had always been shameless, never caring what he said. But she had never cried like this in the night. Her body was slick with sweat. He thought no further, took a cloth to wipe her face and neck, and covered her again with the quilt. Yet scarcely had he lain down when she kicked it off once more. He replaced it, and when she tried again, he pressed the quilt firmly, holding it in place so she could not move.
Song Xingyue felt stifled and hot, struggling to throw off the quilt but unable to. The frustration jolted her awake. She sensed someone forcing the quilt over her: “I don’t want it—I’m too hot!”
Xie Linxu ignored her, stubborn as ever. She refused food, refused medicine, and now even refused the quilt. What next—would she ascend to heaven?
He said coldly: “You can’t go without.”
Song Xingyue grew impatient, weary, and overheated. She shoved him hard, snapping: “You’re so annoying.”
The push startled him. When he recovered, he only pressed the quilt down harder, his voice low: “You’re the annoying one.”
Always disobedient. Would a quilt harm her? Why make such a fuss?
Her fevered, muddled mind could not resist his clear strength. At last, drained of energy, she stopped struggling and fell asleep.
By morning, she remembered nothing of the night. She vaguely recalled someone smothering her with a quilt. As for who was so cruel—she didn’t need to guess. When she woke again, daylight filled the room. He was gone. After sweating through the night, the fever had broken, leaving her body lighter. Sticky with sweat, she bathed and felt relief.
But thoughts of Xie Linxu weighed heavily on her chest. She had poured her whole heart and body into him, hoping her warmth could soften his unyielding heart. Yet his words—“If you can’t endure, then divorce”—had struck her like a slap across the face. His coldness made plain: she could not rely on him, must not rely on him. If she dared entrust her future to him, he would only shatter her.
Men—none of them could be relied upon. Yesterday, when he said those words, she had wanted to answer boldly: Fine, then divorce. I’ll no longer suffer this humiliation.
But it was not so easy. Was her situation any better now than it was two years ago? If she truly divorced, where could she go, with nothing to her name?
If her father learned of it, he would likely sell her off again. He was eager for her downfall. And Ji Jianyun? To beg him again? The thought was laughable. He had already cast her aside once—was he not afraid of doing so again?
Song Xingyue resented Xie Linxu deeply. Yet when he spoke of divorce, she truly had no strength to agree outright. Heartless though he was, his words meant: if you cannot endure, then divorce. But he was a man of thin skin and pride. If she did not speak of divorce, he would not necessarily force her out of the Duke’s household. In any case, their days could not go on as they were. Divorce might come—but not now.
For now, they would turn a blind eye, bury this quarrel among the countless past grievances, and let it fade.
Song Xingyue closed her weary eyes, exhausted. To live as she did was bitter indeed. He treated her so cruelly, yet she had no power to walk away.
Enough.
Face and dignity belonged to those with status.
After all these years, had she not learned? Without dignity, clinging to it was useless.
At Rongming Hall, Jingxi had not seen Song Xingyue for many days.
Since the time she burned her hand, Jingxi had told her not to come again. And she truly had not—for nearly ten days.
One who had never failed to pay respects, now absent so long—Jingxi found herself strangely unsettled.
Her headaches still plagued her. That morning, when Song Xingyue did not appear, she complained to the old nurse beside her: “I told her not to get in my way for a few days, and she truly hasn’t come. Do you think she’s using this as an excuse to shirk?”
The nurse replied: “Madam is not that sort. In two years she has never shirked. Why would she now? Yesterday I heard the physician went to Qinghe Courtyard—someone must be ill.”
It could not be Xie Linxu—he had gone out to his duties that morning.
But then again, with his temperament, even if he were ill, he would never miss his post.
Jingxi asked: “Was it Changzhou who was ill, or her?”
The nurse answered: “The physician said it was Madam.”
Jingxi frowned deeper: “How could she fall ill so suddenly?”
“They say she went to Bao’en Temple, and afterward fell sick—likely from exhaustion.”
Jingxi gave a cold snort: “It’s not exhaustion—it’s anger. Her heart is that small. Changzhou stayed one night at the Li household; so what? And she makes herself sick with rage. If he ever takes a concubine, she’ll overturn the heavens with her tantrums.”
She had heard something of Xie Linxu’s night at the Li household, and guessed well enough the source of Song Xingyue’s illness.
She said no more, only vented her resentment at the Xie household: “Not one of them spares me worry. The father only knows his office; the second daughter‑in‑law only shirks, unwilling to attend to me. If my headaches kill me, will anyone even notice?”
Since Song Xingyue was ill, Jingxi could not summon her again. Listless, she waved her hand and let it be.
With the turn of autumn, the weather shifted sharply. Heavy rains had fallen for days, but now the skies cleared, bright and radiant.
The hardest season had passed. By early September, the air was crisp. Yet the court’s atmosphere was far from clear—tense, even fevered.
Recently, the mood at court had soured. Emperor Jingning still pressed to build a palace temple, but none of the ministers supported him. His daily obsession with alchemy already wearied them; now he sought vast sums for a Taoist temple. The Ministry of Revenue cited the empty treasury. But Ji Jianyun had returned from the northern frontier, freeing a large portion of military funds. The emperor was no fool—he would not be deceived again.
For Jingning, the temple was essential. For the ministers, it was folly. Past emperors had lost themselves in Daoist pursuits, plunging the realm into chaos. How could they not worry?
The emperor’s folly would stain them all in the histories. Yet they could not stop him.
By year’s end, when taxes were collected, he would have the money. None could prevent it.
Grand Tutor Li fretted endlessly, even fell ill from the strain.
Ji Jianyun, upon returning to the capital, entered court. After deliberation, the Ministers of War and Personnel placed him in the Central Command of the Five Armies, as a full second‑rank commander. His campaigns in the north had been brilliant—two years spent driving back the Tatars and defending the frontier. He also carried his father’s legacy. His rank could not be low. As a general, his options were few; the Command fit best. He excelled at leading troops and managing military affairs.
His victories had eased the emperor’s crisis. To grant him a low post would offend Jingning. Second rank at twenty‑something? Why not.
Civil officials outweighed military in prestige, but a second‑rank general was no small thing.
At first, the emperor was delighted, even hosted him at Qianqing Palace, showering him with gifts. His fame soared, and many came to the Ji household to congratulate him.
Ji Jianyun did not grow idle. After a few days’ rest in the capital, he began attending morning court.
But the atmosphere was poor—emperor and ministers weary of each other, heavy and repressed.
That day’s court was as dull as ever. None supported the temple. The emperor, listless, spoke a few words and dismissed them.
Afterward, Chief Secretary Ming sought out Xie Linxu, chatting as he pulled him toward the Wen Yuan Pavilion.
Since bringing Xie Linxu there to assist, Chief Secretary Ming had found peace of mind—and now could not bear to let him go.
He tugged him along, sighing as he spoke: “Ah, you know the state of court these days. Memorials advising the emperor pile high on the desk. Drafting those decrees—I cannot manage them well. But you are his nephew; he favors you. If you write them, it will be better than this old body of mine. Endure this period, and the grand secretaries will remember your merit. Later, when honors are reckoned, your service here will be remembered…”
Trailing behind, Xie Xiu heard these words and could not help but sneer inwardly.
What did it mean that Xie Linxu’s writing was better than theirs? In truth, it meant that when Emperor Jingning grew angry, he would scold his nephew instead of the seasoned minister.
They had been colleagues for years—since the Hanlin Academy, then the Six Ministries, and now the cabinet. Xie Xiu knew well enough what the Chief Secretary’s words meant: he wanted Xie Linxu to do his work and take the blame.
But Xie Linxu said nothing, only replied: “It is what a junior ought to do.”
The Chief Secretary laughed more heartily, his words sweeter: “When you were young, I said you would achieve. A good child. When you enter the cabinet, the realm will be secure.”
At last Xie Xiu stepped forward, inserting himself between them, smiling as he clapped the Chief Secretary’s shoulder. He whispered: “Lord, such talk of entering the cabinet—best not say it aloud. If others hear, you’ll harm Changzhou.”
The Chief Secretary was not embarrassed, only laughed: “How so? Is it not plain to all?”
Everyone knew Xie Linxu would one day enter the cabinet.
Xie Xiu said: “But we must not speak it.”
The Chief Secretary laughed again: “So his humility is learned from his father, eh?”
Xie Xiu did not argue further. He said: “I have words for Changzhou. He should have waited for me this morning, but hurried off. I must instruct him.”
The Chief Secretary stroked his beard, smiling: “Very well. I’ll leave you two.”
When he was gone, Xie Xiu lowered his voice: “Why be so earnest? You’ll wear yourself out. You have duties at the Hanlin Academy, and now errands in the cabinet. You never rest. He piles work on you, and you accept it all? Why? Be clever—refuse him. What can he do? I am here to shield you.”
The Hanlin lecturer post was a burden enough. Yet they treated him as half a junior secretary, two posts in one. How could he bear it?
But Xie Linxu only said: “It is what I should do.”
Xie Xiu knew his son was stubborn, bound by rules. But now he grew angry: “What you should do is the Hanlin’s work. Why meddle in what is not yours?”
Xie Linxu’s voice was heavy. Suddenly he asked: “Father, as head of the Ministry of Personnel, how will my post be judged at year’s end?”
“As it should be judged,” Xie Xiu replied.
Xie Linxu lowered his head, gave a muffled laugh: “No matter how it is judged, people will gossip.”
Even if he excelled at the Hanlin Academy, once promoted, many would suspect it was due to his father’s influence. They would say he rose because his father was Minister of Personnel.
Xie Linxu knew only that by working a hundred times harder, he could silence them. Even if the Chief Secretary used him, made him a target, his service in the cabinet would one day quiet many mouths.
Xie Xiu heard this and understood his meaning at once.
Those people will gossip as they please—mostly sour words. Why should he care? Too proud. He was simply too proud.
Xie Xiu said no more, only looked at him with a gaze tinged with complexity, hard to describe. There was pride, yes—but also frustration that he did not cherish himself. Somehow, he had grown into this nature.
Seeing he could not be persuaded, Xie Xiu dropped it, only patting his shoulder and warning: “Keep your wits about you. The cabinet is full of cunning men. Especially that old Ming—he looks genial, gets along with everyone, but his little schemes clatter away in his mind, though no one hears them.”
Xie Linxu replied: “Father, don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
Since he said so, Xie Xiu could not press further. From childhood, Xie Linxu had always had his own mind—no one could sway him. If he sought fame and achievement, his path could never be easy.
Xie Xiu then recalled his visit to Grand Tutor Li: “That day you went to the Li household—did you see the Grand Tutor? How is his health?”
The Grand Tutor had fallen ill not only because of the emperor’s insistence on building a temple, but also because of the crown prince.
The prince was kind and simple. Seeing all ministers oppose the temple, he submitted a memorial himself. Thus he became the lone voice, the “bird with its head above the flock.” Emperor Jingning grew furious, accusing him of disrespect, of defying filial piety, of lacking virtue…
Such words reduced the nineteen‑year‑old prince to tears. He ran to his teacher, the Grand Tutor, sobbing until he nearly fainted at the Li household.
The Grand Tutor, aged and frail, angered by the emperor and pained for the prince, collapsed with illness, bedridden since.
Xie Linxu shook his head: “I stayed half the night. I heard him coughing, choking on phlegm, his words unclear. He looked unwell.”
He sighed: “When I was there, the crown prince was too—crying at his teacher’s bedside. He cried to me as well: ‘Father says I lack virtue, that I don’t honor him… Grand Tutor, don’t be angry, don’t fall ill… Cousin, if Grand Tutor dies, what shall I do?’”
The prince had studied under the Grand Tutor since age seven—twelve years now.
Xie Linxu, overwhelmed by his tears, sent him out of the chamber before peace returned.
Hearing this, Xie Xiu shook his head, sighing: “Nineteen, and still so weak. He should never have spoken out. Now he has angered the emperor and brought the Grand Tutor down.”
Father and son said no more, parting ways—one to the Ministry of Revenue, the other back to the cabinet.
Day rose and fell; another passed.
The sun sank, red light spilling across the windows. After a long day, Chief Secretary Ming set down his brush, stretched, and said to Xie Linxu:
“Come, come, dine at my house. My wife keeps asking when you’ll visit again—she likes you very much.”
Xie Linxu glanced outside. Dusk had fallen. He rose, lips pressed, silent for a moment, then said: “Chief Secretary, go ahead. Dinner at home must be ready. My wife is waiting.”
Chief Secretary Ming did not insist, only laughed: “Ah yes, you have someone waiting at home. I shouldn’t drag you out again. Go, child, don’t keep her waiting.”
Xie Linxu bowed, took his leave, and departed. That day he returned not too late—the sky was not yet fully dark—but compared to his usual hours at the Hanlin Academy, it was later than normal. When he arrived home, the lamps in Qinghe Courtyard were already lit, looking much the same as always.
Yet Xie Linxu immediately sensed something was wrong. Usually, at this hour, the moment he stepped through the gate and the servants announced his arrival, Song Xingyue would run to meet him within seconds, head tilted up, smiling. She would ask if he was tired, if he was hungry, if work at the yamen had delayed him, why he was late…Chattering like a sparrow, clinging to him, never stopping.
But tonight, silence. No sign of her.
Xie Linxu said nothing, pressed his lips together, and went inside—only to find Song Xingyue already seated at the table, eating her supper.
He showed no expression, simply sat beside her, watching her eat without a word. At last, he asked: “Why didn’t you wait for me today?”
Hadn’t she always waited before?
Song Xingyue kept eating, never raising her head. Her reply was cool: “How was I to know when you’d return? Or if you’d return at all?”
Why should she wait? Last time she had waited hours, hungry, while he dined elsewhere, not even sending word. Why should she now wait eagerly again? Did he truly think she had no temper, that after what happened they could go on as before?
She kept her head down, never once looking at him: “I had the servants prepare fresh dishes. I’ve caught a chill—you shouldn’t eat with me. Later I’ll move to another room, so you won’t be infected.”
Her fever had broken, but the next morning her nose was blocked—autumn’s chill had seeped in. And truthfully, she no longer wished to share a bed with him. This illness was a convenient excuse to sleep apart.
Xie Linxu heard her voice thick with congestion—she truly had caught a cold. But… had she ever spoken of separate rooms before? In the past, when ill, she clung to him all the more, saying a man was strong enough to withstand it, that a little sickness was nothing. She had never cared about such things. Yet now she spoke of sleeping apart.
Xie Linxu frowned, scarcely believing his ears. He asked again: “What did you say? Move to another room?”
Song Xingyue held her chopsticks and gave a muffled “Mm” in answer.
Xie Linxu said: “There’s no need for such trouble. It’s only a small illness.”
At last she raised her eyes to him. Beautiful eyes, now shadowed with impatience. Her tone was half‑mocking: “Even a small illness is no good. If it harms your noble body, your mother will blame me.”
Xie Linxu looked at her: “Why weren’t you afraid before?”
It was nothing but an excuse—she was still sulking over what had happened.
Song Xingyue met his gaze, a faint air of defiance between them. Too weary to argue, she muttered: “I’m afraid now, all right?”
Since she said so, Xie Linxu could not press further. To continue would make it seem he cared too much. He only said: “No need. I’ll sleep in the study.”
Song Xingyue replied: “No need. I’ve already prepared another room. I’ll move out.”
She was determined to sleep apart from him. The thought of what he had done sickened her. To lie beside him night after night, remembering it, would only make her gag with rage, unable to sleep. This illness gave her the excuse she needed. From now on, she would sleep separately. Given his temperament, he would not protest much. Later, when she found a way out, she would leave—no need to think of children anymore.
Xie Linxu seemed to grasp her intent, and as if in spite, repeated: “No need. I’ll sleep in the study.”
Song Xingyue grew angry: “Do you not understand plain words? I said I’m moving out!”
“Song Xingyue.” His cold eyes fixed on her. “Who taught you to speak like this?”
His features, usually aloof and noble, now darkened. His black eyes filled with anger, his clear voice pressed down with icy weight.
Under his gaze, she flinched. She wanted to retort, but the words stuck in her throat. If she spoke further, he would scold her. His look made that plain. So she turned her head away, stiff‑necked, silent.
From his angle, he saw only her slender neck and her furious profile.
He drew a deep breath: “Moving rooms is needless trouble. I said it’s only a small illness…”
“You’re always so self‑righteous.” She turned back to him. “I don’t want to sleep with you anymore. Is that clear enough?”
Hadn’t he spoken of divorce before? Wasn’t separate rooms the natural next step? He didn’t like her—so why was he displeased now?
Xie Linxu turned her words over in his mind.
She didn’t want to sleep with him… Did he want to sleep with her? Hadn’t she always been the one who waited eagerly for him? And now she said she didn’t want to. Why? No wonder her stubbornness earlier—she had already decided to separate.
In two years they had quarreled often, but never to the point of separate rooms. Only once, when his anger was great, had he slept in the study for a few nights. But this time was different. She meant it.
His face grew darker: “As the wife of the Xie family, you should know what is proper. Copy *The Admonitions for Women* twice more. See if it teaches you that a wife may sleep apart from her husband.”
The Admonitions again! Always wielding those rules against her. What else could he say, except that?
Song Xingyue dared not truly quarrel—she lived under his roof, and angering him would bring her no good. She said nothing more, only set down her chopsticks and left.
The chopsticks struck the bowl with a sharp sound.
Xie Linxu heard it, startled. Long after, he came back to himself.
She had slammed her chopsticks at him. When had she ever done that before?