After the exam, Lu Yinjian was certain of one thing: whatever answers he had written, he would not enter the imperial court.
There was already a Minister Lu in the capital — an arrangement that had long displeased the Regent. How could they possibly welcome another Lu into government? Lu Wenhan had told his eldest son that plainly and repeatedly; the boy had been stubborn, refusing to believe it, chasing the impossible until this year’s provincial exams finally stripped him of illusion.
So before the results were even announced, Lu Yinjian took his leave of the capital under the pretense of further study. On the road a valet-boy — a plant, no doubt, placed by his father — shepherded him to Longxi. Life at his uncle’s house differed little from the capital: reading by day, attending occasional literary gatherings, idle talk at night. His uncle and aunt were kind, his cousins friendly. Still, Lu Yinjian couldn’t shake the unease. There were no blood relatives here; even his closest kin felt an invisible distance. He could call Longxi home if he wanted to, but he didn’t mean it.
Weeks slid by like that until, one day, a letter from his father arrived telling him that Xi’er would soon be coming to Longxi. From then on Lu Yinjian’s days had only two purposes: study, and waiting for his sister. The waiting stretched and frayed. Even the men his uncle sent to scout the roads returned empty-handed — no sign of the Fourth Miss.
Patience ran out. Lu Yinjian left a letter behind and set out to find her himself, heading first to Zhao County.
“Second Young Master!”
The cry lifted him and he straightened before he fully registered it. At once he saw Hongmei, his sister’s maid, and Lu Hu from the household — their appearance here meant only one thing. He didn’t need to think twice.
Joy burst in his chest like fireworks. His feet moved before his mind did; in less than a breath he’d climbed to the second floor.
“Hongmei, Lu Hu — what are you doing here? Is Xi’er here with you?”
His tone forced Lu Hu to swallow the relief that had been about to pour out of him. The man’s whole posture fell back into a weary slump. Lu Yinjian saw it at once; the smile died on his lips.
“What’s happened? Is Xi’er hurt?”
His earlier dramatics had already drawn some curious glances; now worry robbed him of any attempt at a lowered voice. Hongmei scanned the room and, seeing the small crowd downstairs — possibly men from Shang Mozheng’s faction — pulled Lu Yinjian into Shang Luoshu’s chamber without answering at once.
Lu Yinjian followed, questions tumbling out. “Hongmei, you were with Xi’er every day — tell me, what happened in Longxi—”
Hongmei set a cup of tea in his hand and told the story in clipped sentences, sparing no detail of the recent turmoil, but she kept one thing back: Lu Yinx i’s secret of the speech–spirit. It was not for her to reveal. Even to their own blood, without the mistress’s permission, she would say nothing.
Lu Yinjian listened, stunned. So much had occurred in the months he’d been away. It made sense in its way — Longxi was far from the capital; news traveled slowly, and his uncle had wanted to spare him worry. He had not been told everything.
“And Xi’er? How is she now? I should see her myself—”
He rose and moved to the bedside, but motion from the bed stopped him. The man who had been lying with his eyes closed was awake.
Autumn had just begun. Zhou Kou leaned against the carved post, his arm being dressed by attendants; blood still stained his face, and a blade’s cold hunger still lurked behind his eyes. How many times had they been set upon? From the capital to Yangxian they'd been ambushed again and again; in a matter of days Zhou Kou had lost nearly a hundred out of five hundred men.
This was what Shang Mozheng could do.
Anger and grief warred in Zhou Kou’s chest as he watched the ragged soldiers tend to each other. He had avoided contact since leaving the capital to keep their route secret; he wasn’t even one of Prince Jing’s household and had no pigeon couriers to use. All he knew were fragments: Shang Luoshu had been grievously wounded — perhaps trapped in Yangxian, perhaps not. And whatever the truth, the prince had not fallen into Shang Mozheng’s hands, otherwise there would have been no need for those road ambushes. One conclusion remained: he would have to go to Yangxian himself.
“Sir, you should eat,” a servant urged.
“No.” Shang Luoshu didn’t turn his head. He stayed by Lu Yinx i’s side, brushing sweat from her brow. He could not feel her pain; he could only stay with her in this way.
“Master,” Hongmei tried, “the physician said you must rest and let your wounds heal—”
She meant well, but the prince’s gaze chilled her into silence. Regardless of rank, if any of them had been competent, the Fourth Miss would never have needed to use her power.
Watching the scene, Lu Yinjian’s annoyance at the prince eased a little. Now that he knew his sister had been betrothed to Prince Jing, the connection made the prince kin by marriage. He forced a conciliatory tone. “Your Highness, with Hongmei looking after Xi’er, she should be all right. You just woke from grave injuries yourself — you must mind your health.”
Lu Yinjian had no idea of the truth behind his sister’s collapse. He assumed it was a recurring ailment. He turned to Hongmei, anxiety sharpening his voice. “Hongmei, did the doctor give any pain medicine for Xi’er?”
She opened her mouth to reply, but the bed erupted again.
Pain seized Lu Yinx i like a tightening band. Her heart slammed as if struck by a hammer; a current of electricity ran through her and shook the soul itself. Breath hitched, limbs went numb for a second, then the agony returned full force. For a moment darkness brushed at the edge of her mind — the thought of death flared and then was gone.
“Xi’er!”
Shang Luoshu had not left her side; he noticed her collapse the instant it came. But he could hardly do more than watch. There were limits to what anyone could do for the thing that racked her.
The stabbing pains multiplied. Lu Yinx i’s endurance snapped toward its limit. Her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palms again, newly wrapped skin tearing into blood. That injury alone was not enough. She bit down on her lower lip until the salt of her own blood mingled with taste and pain, making it harder to think, harder to fall.
Then something steadied her jaw; someone forced her mouth open and pressed something to her lips.
Dulled by the torment, barely tethered to consciousness, she acted before doubt could form. She bit down.
Her teeth closed on whatever was there.