Yīngtáo sat in the hollowing breeze upon the hill. For three moons she had come faithfully to the cherry tree. In that time, she had learned much. She had nearly mastered the shifting states; she had glimpsed the origin of her bloodline — an ancestral blessing twisted into a curse. She had seen how Jīnhuá suffered in the hands of those she loved, how desperation had driven her to madness in her attempt to mend what could not be mended.
And yet, Yīngtáo could never behold the whole truth. Every past life — even Jīnhuá's — lay incomplete, blurred, like a painting half-washed by rain. The answers felt close, yet always slipping further away. Each ancestor had borne the destiny Jīnhuá was meant to fulfill, and each had failed.
Amid the chaos of drifting between lives and fragmented memories, she had finally come across her own memory. Her fingers clenched tightly around her hanfu before she released her grip, trembling as she touched her lips, a smile forming faintly. Despite everything, she still had hope. Hope to change all.
⸻
Morning sunlight spilled gently through the inn window, a bright contrast to the torrential rain that had drowned the night.
Yí chén had not slept. He had closed his eyes now and then, but no rest came. His thoughts were a restless tide as he sat at the edge of the bed, Bǎihé's hand in his. She had seized it in her descent into sleep and refused to let go. For a moment he had been terrified — she had fallen unconscious before her quiet snores assured him she was simply asleep.
He dared not move, fearful of waking her. Her lips stirred faintly, fumbling with words too quiet to catch, though one reached him like a whisper through storm: curse.
The memory of the kiss replayed mercilessly in his mind, and he looked away, ashamed, as her fingers unconsciously squeezed his hand in sleep. This closeness, this fragility, felt too familiar, reopening wounds in his heart.
By now, Haoyu would be on his way. Yí chén had arranged for a letter to reach him the night before.
Bǎihé stirred at last, blinking into the stream of light. The sleep she had fallen into surpassed any rest she had felt in days, though her head was heavy as she sat up, startling Yí chén. Wide-eyed, she glanced about the unfamiliar chamber and froze when her gaze fell upon him — silent, sitting at her side, still holding her hand.
And then the memories rushed back: the drinks, the rain, the innkeeper's voice, the room — the kiss. The kiss!
Panicked, she snatched her hand from his.
"Gōngzhǔ Fang," Yí chén said softly, bowing.
She stood abruptly, glaring at him with horror. Her hand struck his face in a sharp slap.
"What did you do to me last night, you—"
Yí chén weakly touched the mark of her hand.
"My princess, you misunderstand. I did nothing to you."
Her eyes widened as she yanked the sheets aside — nothing.
"Then why did you kiss me? I was drunk — you took advantage of me!"
"Again, my princess, your memory deceives you. It was you who kissed me," Yí chén said plainly.
Before her retort could rise, a knock came — and the door opened.
"Bǎihé! Are you all right?" Haoyu rushed forward, pulling her into his arms.
Still dazed, she slowly returned the embrace, but her gaze lingered on Yí chén, confused and wavering.
"You know you cannot handle wine. Do you feel ill? A headache? Hungry? Tell me," Haoyu urged, gripping her hands anxiously.
Bǎihé shook her head faintly. "I am fine. I... I want to go home."
"Then home it is," he said, quickly turning to Yí chén.
"Thank you for watching her."
Yí chén only bowed in silence.
⸻
The carriage ride was hushed. Lan, Chún dù, Huan, and little Bao sat together, the emperor and empress following in the carriage behind.
Huan gazed at the sky through the window, grief dimming her eyes. They were bound for Mùyún Town — the resting place of Dù yí.
"Jiějiě, it will be all right," Bao said softly, her voice small with sorrow.
"I will miss big brother Dù yí... he always brought sweets when he sneaked visits." She fidgeted with her hands.
"I promise you, Huan, there will be justice," Lan added firmly.
Huan gave a weak smile. "Thank you... for being here."
"Unlike some people," Chún dù muttered bitterly.
Huan sighed, clutching a red silk square embroidered with a sun and sky — her final gift to her brother.
⸻
The governor's home was modest, far from the grandeur of the palace courts. At the gates stood a stout man with a heavy mustache, dressed in plain black: Zhengdao, Dù yí's father.
"Governor," Lan bowed, the others following. The emperor and empress stood solemnly behind.
"Your Majesties," Zhengdao greeted, his tone stiff, unreadable. "Please, come within."
Inside the hall lay a plaque inscribed with Dù yí's name, incense burning softly at its base. One by one, they lit sticks, offering their condolences. Huan placed her embroidery beside the plaque, her tears betraying her composure.
"You were close to him," Zhengdao murmured, voice heavy with sorrow.
"Yes," Huan whispered, wiping her eyes.
"You will see him again... sooner or later," he said, before stepping away.
Confused, Huan frowned. What did he mean?
⸻
"Zhengdao," Empress Juan called, her voice measured as she approached him outside the hall.
He bowed stiffly. "Huánghòu Juan."
"My condolences for your son's passing."
He was silent.
"You and I share a long history. The Límíng Dynasty and Mùyún Town have always stood together. Allow me to extend whatever aid you require in this time of grief."
"I need nothing," Zhengdao replied flatly. His eyes hardened.
"Yes, there is history between my town and your dynasty — a bond. I intend to keep it so, until it need not be."
Juan's eyes narrowed. "Was that a threat?"
"No. Only this: we all keep secrets. And I helped you keep one. The true threat lies in how long it can remain buried."
She stepped closer. "Your wife is gone — she was a good woman. And now your son—"
"Your daughter loved him," Zhengdao interrupted coldly.
Juan's eyes glinted. "Are you accusing me of murdering your son?"
"See it as you wish, Huánghòu. I only mourn my child."
The hall doors opened then, and Emperor Hou with the princesses emerged.
"Zhengdao!" the emperor greeted warmly, clapping his shoulder. "Once again, my condolences. You know we are old friends."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Anything you need, I will provide. For now, we must return. Forgive our brief stay."
"Thank you for your presence."
"Oh come now, no need for such formality. Straighten up," the emperor said, gesturing kindly.
Zhengdao bowed low, but his eyes held shadows as he rose.