The next day—
Word of what had happened at the Drunken Moon the night before swept through the capital like a gust of wind.
Those of the Luo family who heard it breathed easy. If Qiao Yan hadn’t been headstrong and reckless, they believed, Luo Ji might well have ended up like Yan Yifan—ruined, disgraced, perhaps worse. But the Shen household, hearing the same rumor, felt anything but relief.
“Where’s the thing Yan Yifan had on him?” Shen Bianhuai hurried forward the moment Shen Zhou stepped into the courtyard.
“It’s been taken,” Shen Zhou said, calm as ever, and without ceremony continued into the hall.
“What!?” Panic flared across Shen Bianhuai’s face and he followed in hot haste. “How could it be taken? Then I’m finished!”
Seeing Shen Zhou walk on coolly, not the slightest flicker of concern for him, Shen Bianhuai’s fear curdled into anger. He seized Shen Zhou’s arm.
“Second brother! Big brother entrusted that to you—this is how you handle things? You can’t even secure a trinket? I’m so disappointed!”
Shen Zhou froze, and for the first time his usually soft, smiling eyes went cold. There was no menace in it, only an indifferent clarity that made Bianhuai’s grip loosen of its own accord.
He smoothed his sleeve idly before speaking. “Third brother, Zai Shuang is an assassin, not a spy. She’s deadly when it comes to killing; when it comes to finding things, she may not be the best choice. If the item has fallen into Prince Yu’an’s hands, it makes sense she failed.”
He paused, and a faint smile lifted his features like sunlight through May leaves. In that easy voice something sharp and cold stirred.
“Now that the thing is with the Prince, instead of scrambling to retrieve proof, why not…”
He let the words hang. Then, voice cool as a blade, he finished, “eliminate the witnesses.”
Bianhuai blinked, then a grin spread over his face. “Exactly. I—” He hurried to apologize for his earlier panic, excitement returning. “Forgive me, second brother. I was a coward for a moment. When will Zai Shuang move?”
Shen Zhou idly picked a withered blossom from a branch. “Don’t be in such a rush. She’s in the Grand Court prison; she’s not going anywhere soon.”
“But…” He shrugged, with a look that was all calculation. “It won’t be long. If anything happens to you, the whole Shen clan will be tainted.”
“All right, then you’ll owe me.” Shen Bianhuai nodded like a man pleased to be made part of a plan and began flattering Shen Zhou. “Lately big brother’s health has been failing. It’s you we’ve relied on. Even grandfather depends on you more and more. Under your lead the Shen family will flourish.”
“Enough.” Shen Zhou’s expression hardened. “Our eldest is in fine health, and the Shen house is full of talents. Don’t say such things again. Go about your affairs.”
Bianhuai bowed and turned away, but as soon as he was out of earshot his face shifted into an ugly sneer. Just a courtesan’s son, showing off as though he were someone! Wait and see—when Shen Lan dies, my grandfather and father won’t hand everything to Shen Zhou. The Shen family will be mine.
“Master?” Saixing frowned and stepped closer once Bianhuai was gone. “But the eldest said Zai Shuang shouldn’t act right now.”
“I know.” Shen Zhou flicked the dead blossom away and clapped his hands together without urgency. “I said we’d act, but I never said Zai Shuang would be the one to do it. Our eldest always plans well; he’ll arrange who handles the rest.”
His gaze slid toward the artificial hill nearby, where a tall, lithe woman had been waiting. He raised his voice a degree. “Yi Xing.”
She stepped out from behind the fake rock in a crisp, practical outfit. She stopped a few paces away, inclined her head in a small, precise bow, and delivered the message without preamble.
“The master’s orders: Third Young Master Shen—dispose.”
That voice was the same woman Ye Xi had accidentally met that night—who’d been there when she read the note and learned someone had been plotting to have her killed.
Having spoken, Yi Xing bowed again and vanished as quickly as she’d come.
—
On Lanpu Street, at the Ye residence—
“No—I won’t go! I’d rather die than go to the Brothel Bureau!” Ye Jueyao tore at her hair and screamed until her voice failed. She clung to the doorjamb with a tenacity that defied the genteel image a minister’s daughter was supposed to present.
From the next room came Qian Fangxue’s helpless cries. “Yao-yao—” Halfway through the name, the younger son began to wail. “Mother! Save me—mother—”
Qian Fangxue stumbled toward him. “Oh, Dong—my Dong—” She had too many children and not enough arms. Her face, once carefully kept, had gone sallow and creased; tears streaked the wrinkles like rivulets down old paper.
Ye Xi, face veiled beneath her hat, stood at the threshold, composed and small against the chaos inside. Her voice, cool and almost amused, cut through the clamor. “What a lively scene.”
They all froze. For a heartbeat they glanced at each other as if by silent agreement, and then lunged for her—only to be held back by the officials who’d come to take her away.
“You wretch!” Ye Jueyao’s voice shrilled, cracked with venom. “All of this is your doing! How dare you show your face here—you ungrateful, heartless devil! You’ve ruined us!”
Both Qian Fangxue and Ye Yudong joined in. “You little tramp! We should’ve left you to starve on the street!” “Ye Xi! You’ll rot—may you have no peace!”
The din swelled until Ling Yan stepped forward and, without ceremony, slapped them into silence until they dared not speak. She handed a prepared purse to the lead officer with a curt, “Autumn’s coming—think of the officers. A little refreshment for their throats. Our lady will say two words and go.”
The man weighed the coin, grinned a fox’s smile, and let her through. Ling Yan then hauled Qian Fangxue forward and planted her before Ye Xi.
“Mother,” Ye Xi said calmly, laying a hand on Qian Fangxue’s arm with a softness that belied what she was about to do. “The woman surnamed Xi who handed you my child—what family in the capital was she from?”
Qian Fangxue started, shocked, then became obstinate. “What Xi? I don’t know names!”
Ye Xi’s expression never lost its gentleness. “Then tell me—what relation did that Xi woman have with the man who said he could spare your eldest sister from that calamity?”
Qian Fangxue’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. How could she know about the calamity? Had Ye Xi found the mysterious man? For ten years they had searched and failed. Or had she found the wet nurse Xi? No—Xi was dead; she had seen the mysterious man act with her own eyes.
Qian Fangxue’s thoughts spun and frayed. Before she could gather herself, Ye Xi’s voice, honey-sweet but cold as the grave, fell into her ear.
“Mother,” she said, smoothing the crumpled sleeves at Qian Fangxue’s wrists, “you’ve been wrong all along.”
She paused, letting the silence tense the room.
“The thing afflicting my eldest sister—it’s not a fated calamity. It’s a gu.”