"It looks like it's about to rain," Chún dù murmured, gazing out the window at the heavy, darkening clouds.
Huan nodded quietly. The two sisters sat together, sewing by the dim glow of the lantern.
"Are you preparing embroidery for tomorrow?" Chún dù asked gently.
Huan nodded again.
"Duyi always liked it when I sewed... I thought I'd place this at his grave tomorrow."
"Lan, Bǎihé, Bao, and I will be there with you," Chún dù assured her. "So will Mother and Father, for the consultation."
Huan's lips trembled into a faint smile.
"Thank you, Jiějiě."
"You're my little sister... perhaps even my favorite," Chún dù said, reaching out and drawing her close. "I hate to see you hurt."
Huan rested her head on Chún dù's shoulder. Silent tears slipped down her cheeks, soaking the fabric of her sister's sleeve.
"We'll ride to Mùyún tomorrow. Everything will be fine. Lán will eventually find the ones responsible... there must be justice."
Huan sniffed, pulling back to wipe her nose.
"It's getting late. Let me finish this embroidery."
Chún dù smiled softly. "Alright, Huan."
⸻
The clouds deepened into a storm, and rain began to fall in silvery sheets.
Meanwhile, far from the palace gates, Yí chén struggled to guide Bǎihé through the downpour. She swayed, drunkenly distracted by every lantern, every passing stall, pointing and laughing as they wandered further from their path.
"Princess, please—stay still. We are far from the palace, and the storm is worsening," Yí chén urged, gripping her hands.
"I told you, I'm not drunk!" Bǎihé insisted, her voice light but slurred. "Just a little dizzy... trust me."
Yí chén sighed, rain soaking his shoulders.
"Let me hire a carriage before it's too late."
But at the small city stables, a middle-aged keeper shook his head.
"Sorry, sir. All booked. No carriages, no horses."
Yí chén clenched his jaw in dismay. Bǎihé's head had already slumped against his shoulder, her body heavy in his hold. The rain poured harder, plastering her silk gown to her frame.
The stable master hesitated, then softened.
"I do have a room... for you and your wife. You can wait out the storm there."
"She's not my—"
"Let's go!" Bǎihé mumbled, cutting Yí chén off as she lifted a limp arm to beckon him forward.
"We'll take the room," Yí chén replied quickly, slipping a bag of silver into the man's hand.
"Follow me!" the man said, leading them inside.
⸻
The room was larger than Yí chén expected—tidy, faintly perfumed with dried herbs, candlelight flickering warmly across polished wood. The bed, wide enough for two, was already laid with fresh linen.
"You'd be surprised how many couples find themselves in this very predicament," the man chuckled with a knowing wink.
Yí chén ignored him. Carefully, he lifted Bǎihé and laid her upon the bed, arranging the sheets around her.
"Thank you," he muttered as the man slipped out, closing the door behind him.
⸻
Bǎihé's eyes fluttered half-open, caught between waking and sleep. Her lids quivered rapidly—too rapidly. Yí chén froze. Was she seizing?
"Gōngzhǔ!" he exclaimed, panic struck him. He quickly lifted her upright, shaking her lightly.
Her eyes opened at last. For a heartbeat, in the dim candlelight, they glimmered—flecks of emerald and gold shimmering unnaturally. Then the vision faded.
Bǎihé yawned, drowsy, as though nothing had happened.
"My princess... I thought I lost you," Yí chén breathed, relief flooding his face. His dimple appeared as he smiled weakly.
Bǎihé's gaze lingered on that dimple. Slowly, she raised her hand and touched his cheek.
"You... you have dimples?" she murmured, caressing his face.
Yí chén stiffened, uncertain if she was truly sober. Yet she traced on—her fingers brushing his brows, thick and finely arched, then drifting down to his deep brown eyes, his straight nose... his lips.
Suddenly aware, she looked away, flustered—then slowly reached instead for his hand. It was dry, rough, scarred from years of wielding blades.
"Your hands... they feel like a warrior's, not an advisor's," Bǎihé whispered.
Yí chén remained silent.
"You must have endured so much," she continued softly. "Perhaps...fate brought you back."
He frowned. "Fate?"
Bǎihé blinked in confusion, as though she herself did not know why she had said it. Her hand drifted once more to his lips, thumb brushing them gently.
Then, suddenly, she leaned closer—nose to nose, her breath warm against him. A tear slipped down her cheek.
"Yí... chén," she whispered, and pressed her lips to his.
⸻
Yí chén's eyes widened. His mind spiraled. She said my name... she's kissing me... does she recognize me? Or is this only the wine?
Her kiss was soft, trembling, yet insistent. His heart thundered so loudly he could not tell if it was his own or hers.
He hesitated, tried to pull back—but she wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss.
Should he stop her? Resist? Yet her warmth, her scent, her presence overwhelmed his resolve. His eyes slipped shut, surrendering despite himself.
A sharp sting—she had bitten his lip. He winced, and in that moment her grip loosened. Her head dropped heavily onto his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering again, this time rolling back slightly to reveal the whites beneath.
"Ming!" Yí chén cried, clutching her tightly, panic breaking his composure. "Wake up!"
He shook her gently, fear clawing at his chest as the storm outside raged on.