By the time the old woman realized someone was behind her, it was already too late. Before she could turn, Qin Manman had looped a strip of cloth around her throat and tightened it hard.
The old woman dropped the things she had been clutching for her granddaughter and fought with the strength she had left—but she was wounded, weak, and could not break free. Her struggles slowed, her hands fell, and she went still in Qin Manman’s grip.
Across town, Wanruo’s sleep was jagged and fevered. The day’s horrors clung to her—images of Zhao Qinglian’s assault and mutilation replayed like a film she could not look away from, as if she were standing at the scene watching it happen again. She woke in a sweat, palms flung out uselessly, whispering apologies into the dark.
“Sorry… I’m so sorry.”
Tears streaked down her face. Bai Chen, who had not left her side, rubbed her forehead with a handkerchief, mopping the sweat, brushing away the wet tracks beneath her eyes. He caught Wanruo’s hand and spoke softly until her breathing slowed and the tremors in her chest calmed.
He stayed with her through the night.
In the gray of morning Wanruo opened her eyes to a weight across her chest. Turning over, she found Bai Chen asleep beside her, one arm draped over her. For a moment panic skittered through her—he must have had no rest at all last night—then a shy curious pleasure replaced it. She studied him in the quiet light. He looked impossibly handsome: calm, composed, the world narrowed to the line of his jaw and the slope of his neck. Her fingers trailed from his cheek to his throat, down to the hollow of his collarbone, mesmerized.
She did not notice when he opened his eyes. He watched her with the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth, amused by how openly she adored him. He reached out and tipped her chin up.
“Enjoying the view?” he murmured. “Fallen for me, have you?”
Wanruo started and flushed as if she’d been caught drunk. She glanced away, embarrassed, and then his hand steadied her—half mockery, half tenderness—and he leaned in to kiss her.
Later that same morning, Wei Qingshan was escorted into the palace; An Yao had invited her to thank her for visiting during her illness. No sooner had she left the chancellor’s residence than the household there erupted into chaos.
After the earlier discovery of those two unexplained deaths, everyone in the manor had been on edge. That morning the gardeners, tidying the rear garden, found something floating in the lotus pond. Curiosity drew a staff member to reach with a stick—and the thing that bobbed up was a body. Then another. Panic ran through them; they yanked both bodies from the water and turned them over.
Someone ran straight to the chancellor with the news, breathless and shaking. “Master, there’s been another—two people dead in the pond!”
The chancellor pushed his bowl aside and hurried with his wife. At the lotus pool the sight stopped them cold. The two bodies had been taken ashore; upon closer inspection, they were revealed to be Qin Manman’s foster parents. One lay with his face up, the other face down—their positions a grim riddle.
Madam Su stepped back, hand to her mouth. The chancellor wrapped an arm around her and shaded her eyes with the other palm. “How could this be?” he said hoarsely.
At that moment Qin Manman arrived with a retinue. She stopped dead when she saw the corpses at the water’s edge. For a flash, her expression flickered—shock, disbelief, then grief. She flung herself onto Madam Zhang’s body, wailing and calling, “Mother… Mother, what happened? Father… how could this be?”
Her sorrow was fierce and convincing. Even Madam Su, who had long resented the family, felt a tug of pity. The chancellor moved forward and pulled Manman into his arms.
“Enough,” he soothed. “Enough, child. Your foster father will see justice done. We will find whoever did this and bring them to account. You have me—do not cry.”
Madam Su hurried to comfort her as well. “Make this your home,” she said in a voice that tried for gentleness. “Don’t grieve yourself sick. There is no reviving the dead. Remember that.”
The chancellor immediately reported the matter to the authorities.
Meanwhile, in the palace, Si Hongxi was leaving court and heading to see An Yao when he ran into Wei Qingshan on the road. The two fell into step together toward Yiru Palace, exchanging polite greetings. Si Hongxi was courteous; Wei Qingshan demurred with a smile.
“What are the chances,” Si Hongxi said, smiling, “that we should both be going to An Yao’s?”
“A happy coincidence,” Wei Qingshan answered, the same smile on her lips. They walked in companionable silence that was charged with an understated, unfamiliar awareness.
Inside Yiru Palace An Yao looked up and blinked at the pair approaching. “You two…” she said teasingly.
“We met on the way,” Si Hongxi explained.
An Yao appraised them and cheekily tugged at Wei Qingshan. “Is that so? Come in, come in. It’s been ages since we sat together.”
Si Hongxi and Wei Qingshan joined her. As the servants poured tea and the women chattered, Si Hongxi watched An Yao’s bright laughter and felt the pleasure of it. He had just raised his cup when a servant burst in, breathless and urgent. The man whispered in Si Hongxi’s ear and the color drained from the prince’s face. He glanced at Wei Qingshan, tightened his jaw, and said, “I’m afraid I must go. Something’s come up.”
“Is everything all right?” An Yao asked, alarmed.
Si Hongxi met Wei Qingshan’s eyes. “There’s been an incident at the chancellor’s residence.”