At dawn the next morning, Lena Sanders and Jack Golden disguised themselves as a rustic couple from the countryside. Jack pushed a creaky wheelbarrow piled high with ploughshares, shovels, wooden spades—and a brand-new spinning wheel.
After the autumn harvest, mending farm tools was the usual task of thrifty households.
That this young couple had come all the way into Riverford City to do so was odd enough; clearly, they were taking the chance for a small escape, perhaps a day or two of leisure. Newlyweds, by the look of them—their spinning wheel still gleamed with fresh varnish.
They strolled at an unhurried pace, stopping now and then to rest, and by mid-afternoon they reached Fan Village. There, they found a small tavern for a simple meal. By the time they left the village and continued east, the sun was already dipping low in the sky.
The Fan family cemetery stretched down from a low hill, the slopes dense with cypress and locust trees.
Jack parked the barrow to one side, and he and Lena began to search—one left, one right—reading the names on each tombstone, looking for that of Fan Ping'an.
Winter Solstice was only days away. In the Riverford region, it was the custom to repair and tend graves before the solstice—to sweep, patch, and honor the departed.
Every mound in the Fan burial ground had been freshly tended, the soil neatly smoothed, the headstones scrubbed clean. There was no telling which graves were old and which newly filled.
The two searched nearly half the cemetery. Just as the last rim of sunlight sank beneath the horizon, Jack suddenly leapt and waved wildly at Lena.
He had found it—Fan Ping'an's grave.
Lena hurried back to the wheelbarrow, grabbed two spades, and tossed one to Jack, who was already sprinting toward her.
Without a word, they rushed to the grave and began digging.
The soil of a new grave was loose, and within minutes they had leveled the mound and struck wood.
Leaning on her spade, Lena looked down at the coffin, buried directly in earth without even a chamber or lining, and sighed.
Simon Wen had once claimed the man was the deputy envoy of Northrealm's intelligence bureau in Southland—a fourth-rank military officer.
Yet now he lay here, dead and forgotten, buried in a plain box without honor or ceremony. And tonight, she was the one desecrating his rest—digging him up on orders from the very superior who wished to see his body torn apart.
Truly a pitiful end.
"Boss, I've got it open," Jack said.
He wrapped a handkerchief over his nose and mouth, wedged his spade into the coffin seam, and turned back to warn her.
After two months underground, opening the lid would surely unleash a stench to choke the heavens.
Lena tied a cloth over her face, stepped forward, drove her spade beside his, and together they pried the coffin open.
Fan Ping'an lay much as he had been laid to rest—his posture neat, his face stiff, mouth agape, packed with rice grains until his cheeks bulged grotesquely. His hands were folded upon his chest, clutching a small nanmu cylinder engraved all over with scripture.
Pulling on fish-skin gloves, Lena carefully drew the cylinder from his hands and slipped it into the leather pouch Jack held open.
Then she examined the corpse—parting the hair, unfastening the garments, pressing gently along the collapsed ribs, lifting the body to check beneath it.
When she was satisfied, she retrieved the nanmu tube, smooth and seamless save for a thin coat of wax.
She rubbed away the wax, revealing a lacquer seal beneath, twisted it open, and shook out a tightly rolled sheet of fine Xuan paper.
Between two sheets of scripture lay a single page filled with words.
Jack had already lit a thick stick of incense and passed it to her.
By the faint ember at the tip, Lena read two lines, then pinched the incense out and handed it back. She rolled the paper tight again, sealed it, and slid it into the tube.
"Bury him back," she murmured. "We're leaving."
They made quick work of refilling the grave and hurried away, their return swifter than their journey. By midnight they were just outside the city walls, where they found a corner to curl up in and sleep until dawn.
At daybreak, blending in with the first peddlers and porters entering the city, they passed through the gate unnoticed.
When they reached Blind Mi's house, the gate stood wide, the door wide, and the man himself lay inside, snoring loud enough to shake the rafters.
Lena sat down by the doorway, drew out the nanmu tube, and unfolded the page. After reading it through carefully, she sighed softly and gestured to Jack. "Wake him."
Jack slapped the old man square on the head. Blind Mi shot upright, eyes bulging, and spat, "You damned yellow monkey!"
"The boss wants you," Jack said cheerfully.
"You yellow-haired pest!" Blind Mi snapped again, then turned to Lena. "You dug him up? No mistake about the man?"
Lena nodded. "I need you to find someone."
Her tone was brisk, quiet.
"This person arrived in Riverford City around August twelfth—perhaps a day earlier or later. He stayed at the Anfu Inn and left the morning of the thirteenth.
He should have traveled alone. About forty years of age, middle height, neither stout nor thin. Fair-skinned, with deep eye bags. His beard was false—likely a eunuch.
He rode a tall Harris mare, spirited and fine. On the twelfth, he wore a moon-white silk robe with a matching sash, a peace amulet pouch, and a ruby-embroidered purse—all in pale blue. His hair was pinned with a mutton-fat jade hairpin.
When he left on the thirteenth, he wore a fragrant-cloud silk robe, a matching cloak, and a soft dark-gray headscarf.
Find out everything you can—and steal the Anfu Inn's August guest register."
Blind Mi listened intently, nodding as she spoke, his head cocked like a hound catching scent.
Jack, watching from the side, could hardly contain his admiration. His boss—truly formidable.
Grabbing his cane, Blind Mi rose at once and strode off, full of purpose.
Jack curled up for a nap, while Lena went to Fragrance Street for a bath. From there, she made her way to the Tongfu Inn, found an empty corner stall, and slept until afternoon.
When she woke, she fetched a bowl of water, dabbed her eyes and mouth clean with her fingers, poured the rest away, and sat for a while in silence. Then she stood, set the bowl down, and left.
The late Miles Zhao's house stood just across the street from the inn. Lena slipped to the back gate, glanced around, and, seeing no one, used a thin iron pick to lift the lock before slipping inside.
Compared to her last visit, the back garden was now desolate and untended.
It was nearly November—decay was to be expected, she told herself, almost gently.
Keeping to the shadow of the wall, she crept toward the main courtyard.
Under a bare pomegranate tree ahead, the late shopkeeper's eldest son—a boy of sixteen—sat huddled against the trunk, knees drawn to his chest, motionless as a stone.
Lena stopped, listened for movement around her, then stepped forward softly.
The boy lifted his head and stared at her blankly.
She crouched before him, smiled faintly. "My surname is Li. They call me Sister Sang."
His eyes widened. "You…"
She raised a finger to her lips. "It's me. Did your father tell you anything before he passed?"
He shook his head, tears welling. "No. My mother doesn't know either. My uncle says Father was a spy from Northrealm. The soldiers searched our shop, then went straight to the nightsoil works and said you were a spy too. Do you know how my father died? Was he really one of them?"
"Smart boy," Lena murmured, a smile breaking across her face as her heart eased. Such wit—he might yet carry the Zhao family name forward.
"Your father was born in Northrealm. He came to Riverford for your mother's sake—you know that?"
The boy nodded quickly. "Yes. Father was a servant of the Wen family."
"The day he died, the Prince Heir of Northrealm was ambushed and fled into the Tongfu Inn. Your father saved him—and asked me to send him safely to Castleton.
Your father was not a spy. He simply couldn't watch his old master die before his eyes."
"Your uncle accused you again, didn't he? And your mother? Why doesn't she stop him?"
"My mother can't. She loves him too much. When she heard of Father's death, she fell ill. Uncle won't let us call a doctor—says Father betrayed our country, that she should rejoice, not sicken.
Father wasn't even buried yet when Uncle accused me of unfilial conduct—said I made Mother ill on purpose and wanted her dead. He asked the magistrate to have me executed.
I didn't dare tell her. Father always said Mother's heart was fragile—some things are better left unsaid. And even if I told her… it wouldn't change anything."
He broke off, choking on his words.
"I'll kill Yang Xian," Lena said softly. "But you—don't cry again. Stand tall. Hold your family together."
The boy looked up at her, shock giving way to fierce hope.
"There are two things you must remember," Lena said solemnly.
"First—though you've seen cruelty, you must remain kind. To come of age as a man, the first duty is kindness.
But kindness must have thorns. Your father had them; your mother did not—and that was her failing.
Second—by the Sanqing Temple in the southern quarter lives a blind fortune-teller. Go to him when trouble finds you. He reads fate well—especially yours."
"Remembered," the boy said quickly. "Be kind. And when in trouble, find the blind man by the Sanqing Temple. I know him—his eyes have no pupils."
"You have two sisters and a younger brother, don't you? How old are they?"
"The elder's twelve, the younger seven, my brother only two."
"Good. Take care of them. Teach them well. You are brother—and father both.
When your sisters marry, when you and your brother take wives, tell Blind Mi. Let him choose a blessed day for you."
As she spoke, she rose to her feet.
"What you've seen today—keep it to yourself."
"I will, Aunt Sang. But… will you truly kill Uncle—Yang Xian?"
Lena smiled faintly. "I will.
Tomorrow morning, fetch a doctor for your mother. Don't tell her what you shouldn't—let her recover in peace. Tell her the truth only when she's well."
She turned to go.
Smiling still, Lena waved once and walked away without looking back.