After sending off the Second Prince Gu Min and Shen Mingshu, Gavin Shea returned to the back hall, which had already been tidied to perfection in the blink of an eye. He sat beside Gu Jin, whose face showed faint traces of weariness, and frowned.
"It's the same every year—so solemn and lifeless. Honestly, you shouldn't trouble yourself over this anymore. You'll never bring them all together."
"I know," Gu Jin said quietly. "It's not about bringing them together. It's about reminding them—and reminding everyone—that no matter what happens, for now, the Gus and the Shens are one body, one whole."
Leaning back against his cushion, Gu Jin smiled faintly at Gavin.
"In small matters, one sees the measure of greater things. You've always been able to see the larger picture. The Shen family, however, has long been like that Shen Mingshu today—unable to weigh what's light or heavy, to tell truth from falsehood.
You've suffered your calamity, yet at least one good thing came of it: His Majesty likely no longer wishes to divide the Prince Rui estate."
"Only for the moment," Gavin said with a short, mirthless laugh.
"His Majesty grows weaker by the year," Gu Jin replied, gazing steadily at him. "Don't think too far ahead."
Gavin gave a low hum of assent, and their conversation drifted to trivial matters.
––––––––––––––––––
William Chen and Simon Wen exhaled deeply the moment they stepped out of the Sunrise Gate.
"It's the same every year," Simon muttered, wiping at his forehead in exaggerated relief. "I'll tell you the truth—ever since the twelfth month begins, I start having nightmares about this gathering."
William chuckled, watching his companion's theatrical gesture. "It's awkward, sure, but enough to give you nightmares?"
"Why not?" Simon sighed. "I can't stand that kind of awkwardness. If it were someone else's embarrassment, fine—step back and enjoy the spectacle. But this is our master's birthday, not some stranger's awkward affair.
Heavens, I really don't understand why the Lord insists on hosting it every single year, no matter how uncomfortable it gets."
"It's his stance," William said quietly. "And it's the stance of this half of the Prince Rui household, that half of it, and the Marquis of Yongping's manor too.
You can't imagine how many eyes were watching this awkward birthday feast."
Simon sighed again after a moment's silence. "The Lord bears a heavy burden."
They walked in silence for a while, until Simon suddenly slowed and turned to William. "By the way, the Princess was talking to you for half the night. You didn't respond to a single word. Isn't that a bit… much?"
He spread his hands helplessly, unable to find the right word to describe William's utter indifference.
"She was just making conversation. There was no need to answer," William replied in a low voice.
"Even so, you could've said something. At the end there, when you kept turning away, she looked like she was about to cry." Simon's tone carried a trace of reproach.
"The best thing I could do was say nothing. The Princess is still a child—she'll forget it soon enough." William lowered his head, watching the hem of his long robe sweep the ground with each step.
Simon fell silent for a long moment, then only sighed softly.
––––––––––––––––––
After a full day of visiting several establishments, Lena Sanders had finally gained a clear picture of the seventy-two premier taverns in the capital.
After lunch, she divided the work—sending Jack Golden and Harris Ma off in two directions—to check on the remaining sixty or so restaurants: which ones still had vacancies, which could fit them in if they came late, and which were fully booked until the end of the first month. Every detail was neatly recorded in her small notebook.
By the time they finished their rounds, they found that the famed Rulao Zhang's House near the New Cao Gate had a private room available for the following evening—a fortunate last-minute cancellation.
The restaurant was far from their lodging in Fried Rice Alley, so Lena, Harris, and Jack set out early, hiring a carriage straight to the gate.
Yesterday's dinner at Liu Tower had entirely killed Darren Chang's enthusiasm for the capital's high-end establishments. The dishes, no matter their size, contained barely enough for a single bite—utterly pathetic.
Worse still, the prices were outrageous. Each mouthful felt like swallowing a coin.
He had sworn off such pretentious places; better to stay home, stew a great pot of meat and bones, and eat to his heart's content.
The private room at Rulao Zhang's was infinitely more comfortable than a cramped table by the stairs. The restaurant's signature buttered snails and creamy desserts brought Lena the taste of another age, and the rich milk wine suited her perfectly.
It was, without question, a delightful meal.
Leisurely satisfied, Lena purchased ten catties of the milk wine to take home. Harris and Jack each carried a five-catty jar as they left the restaurant, wandering back toward Fried Rice Alley.
During the Lantern Festival season, Castleton was a city that never slept. Lanterns of every color hung from every eave; wherever there was space, there were lighted stages, street performers, storytellers, and singers. The noise and laughter flowed from the theatres into the squares, where cries of delight rose and fell like waves.
Strolling along East Cross Street, the trio watched the vibrant night as they walked. By the time they crossed the Imperial Street, the watchman's third drum had already sounded.
Lena yawned. "Is there a shorter way back?" she asked Jack.
"There is—through that alley ahead. It'll cut the distance in half," Jack replied cheerfully, quickening his pace to lead the way.
The alley was pitch-dark, and they had taken only a few steps in when Lena suddenly smiled and asked, "Harris, what's your childhood nickname again?"
Jack froze instantly, raising the wine jar to his chest, every muscle taut with alertness.
"Bo—" Harris had barely said a syllable before he roared, "—son of a bitch!" and hurled his wine jar forward.
The jar smashed against a gleaming blade that came slashing from above, shattering into fragments as milk wine splattered through the darkness.
Lena shot forward like an arrow loosed from its bow. Before the attacker's sword could recover from the deflection, her slender, dark blade had already pierced through the faint glint of an eye hidden in the shadows.
The black-clad assassin let out a stifled scream. Harris kicked his wrist, wrenching the weapon from his hand.
The moment Lena's thrust struck true, she twisted her sword free and turned sharply toward Jack.
Jack's own wine jar had just flown from his hand. As the second assailant dodged, Jack rolled to the ground and snatched up a shard of roof tile.
The killer ignored him and swung for Lena instead—but she moved with fluid grace, flowing like water. Her sword flashed once across his throat, and the man collapsed without a sound.
"Boss! Jack!" Harris shouted, pulling his blade from the first assassin's chest and spinning toward them.
Jack scrambled to his feet, stomping hard on the fallen man's hand before prying the weapon loose. Panting, he called out, "I'm fine! Boss?"
"Move—forward!" Lena snapped, wiping her face with her sleeve.
"Right!" Jack vaulted over the bodies, gripping his blade as he sprinted ahead.
Lena followed close behind, with Harris covering the rear.
The three of them tore through the black alley like wind through a narrow tunnel of night.