Not all questions have answers.
Shen Yinning chose silence.
The posthouse.
Night fell, and the rain poured relentlessly.
Everyone braved the rain and moved into the posthouse. The Posthouse Minister hurried to assign them rooms and boiled several pots of hot water.
The damp, cold moisture seeped through the cracks in the windows and floor tiles. The shabby brick-and-tile house was filled with chill. Lu Ying lit a stove in his room, tied a straw rope, and hung his rain-soaked clothes on it to dry.
Shen Yinning was carried in by him, wrapped tightly in a cloak, so not a drop of rain touched her.
Shen Yinning leaned against the bed, twirling a strand of black hair between her fingers, while watching Lu Ying.
Lu Ying sat with his back to her by the stove, flipping through a book of ancient texts.
