The room was silent, save for the ragged breathing of Liu Zihe and the soft sobbing of Little Cabbage. The trap had snapped shut, but not in the way Zihe had anticipated. The "Judge"—Third Girl, the village idiot—stood over them, her hand outstretched, demanding her "Private Justice."
Zihe, humiliated and terrified, scrambled to empty his pockets. Gold bars clattered onto the dirt floor, followed by a shower of silver dollars. It was a fortune, more money than Peace Alley had seen in a generation.
Third Girl's eyes bulged. She snatched up the gold, biting it to test its softness, a grin splitting her doughy face.
"Pretty rocks," she grunted, shoving the treasure deep into her apron pocket. She turned to Little Cabbage, her expression shifting from greed to a strange, clumsy tenderness. "Don't cry, Sister. Gold buys rice. Gold makes the Dwarf quiet."
Little Cabbage looked at the coins scattered on the floor. She looked at Zihe, who was kneeling in his expensive silk, begging for silence. And she looked at the idiot girl who had just become the most powerful person in the room.
A strange alchemy took place in Little Cabbage's heart. The shame that had been choking her began to recede, replaced by a cold, hard pragmatism. She had been drugged, yes. She had been used. But she was also holding the keys to a kingdom. Zihe was the Magistrate's son. His fear was her leverage. His wealth was her escape hatch.
She wiped her tears. She picked up a heavy gold ingot and weighed it in her hand. It felt like power.
"Get up," she told Zihe, her voice flat.
Zihe scrambled to his feet, adjusting his disheveled robes. "Sister-in-law... I..."
"You will go," she said. "But you will come back. And when you come back, you will bring more than apologies. You will bring protection. If my husband asks, you are a patron. If the neighbors ask, you are a ghost. Do you understand?"
Zihe nodded, relieved and entranced. The drug had worn off, but his obsession had not. Seeing her now—commanding, broken, and beautiful—he wanted her more than ever.
"I understand," he whispered. He pressed a chiming watch into her hand—a Western novelty worth three hundred dollars. "For you. To count the hours until I return."
Third Girl gasped. "It sings! The metal box sings!"
Zihe fled the house, leaving the two women alone in the gathering dusk.
That night, Ge Pinlian did not return. The tofu shop demanded his labor until dawn. The house on Peace Alley became a fortress of secrets.
Zihe returned an hour later, carrying wine and roast duck. He found the door unlatched.
Inside, the dynamic had shifted. Third Girl was drunk on the wine Zihe had brought earlier, snoring loudly in the corner. Little Cabbage sat at the table, the gold hidden away, the chiming watch ticking softly next to her.
She did not resist him this time. The drug was gone, but the reality of her situation was a more potent intoxicant. She was a woman drowning in poverty, and Zihe was a raft made of gold. She let him pour her wine. She let him touch her hand.
When he lifted her into his arms and carried her up the narrow stairs, she closed her eyes and thought of Yang Naiwu. She imagined it was the scholar's hands, the scholar's voice. It was a betrayal of her heart, but a salvation for her body.
Zihe, blinded by lust, did not notice her detachment. He only knew that he had won. He spent the night in a fever of possession, claiming the prize he had bought with poison and gold.
Days turned into weeks. The heat of summer began to fade, replaced by the crisp winds of autumn.
To the outside world, the house on Peace Alley was unchanged. But inside, a rot had set in.
Liu Zihe became the master of the house in all but name. He came and went as he pleased, always when Pinlian was at the shop. He brought gifts—jade hairpins, rolls of silk, bags of high-quality rice. He bribed Third Girl with sweets and coins until she greeted him with the enthusiasm of a pet dog.
Little Cabbage lived in a fugue state. By day, she was the dutiful wife, cooking and cleaning for Pinlian when he stumbled home, exhausted and smelling of sour beans. By night, she was the mistress of the Magistrate's son, draped in silk, drinking wine from porcelain cups.
She told herself it was survival. She told herself she was doing it for the family. But deep down, she knew she was hollowing herself out.
One afternoon, Pinlian came home early. He found Little Cabbage asleep in the middle of the day, her face flushed, a piece of expensive embroidery in her lap that she had not touched in hours.
He looked around the room. There were new curtains on the windows. There was a jar of expensive tea on the shelf. And Little Cabbage herself looked... different. Her hands were softer. Her clothes were new.
"Where does this come from?" Pinlian asked, his voice rough with suspicion.
"Needlework," she lied, not opening her eyes. "The new patron pays well."
Pinlian grunted. He wanted to believe her. He wanted the money. But the Green Hat on his head was growing heavier. He thought of Yang Naiwu. Is it him? he wondered. Is the scholar back?
He didn't suspect the fop in the purple robe he had met once. He didn't suspect the "patron." He was looking for the old enemy, unaware that a new one was sleeping in his bed.
IV. The Shadow in the Alley
But secrets in a small town are like smoke; they cannot be contained.
Liu Zihan, the thief who held the love letter, had not disappeared. He was watching. He saw Zihe entering the house at odd hours. He saw the gifts. He saw the change in Little Cabbage.
He went to Qian Baosheng.
"The price has gone up," Zihan said, leaning on the counter of the pharmacy.
Baosheng, who was busy counting the silver Zihe had "invested" in his shop, sneered. "You have your fifty dollars. Go away."
"Fifty dollars was for the introduction," Zihan said calmly. "Now I want rent. I know about the spring medicine. I know about the rape. And I still have the letter."
Baosheng paled. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me," Zihan said. "Pay me, or I go to the Magistrate. I tell him his son is sleeping with a peasant whore and drugging virtuous women."
Baosheng paid. He gave Zihan another hundred dollars from Zihe's stash.
The web of complicity was widening. Baosheng, Zihan, Third Girl—they were all feeding at the trough, fattened by Zihe's lust and Little Cabbage's shame.
On the twenty-fourth day of the eighth month, Zihe arrived at the house early. Pinlian was away on a delivery to the countryside.
Zihe was in high spirits. He had brought more money—five silver dollars for Third Girl, who snatched them with a cackle and ran downstairs to count her hoard.
Upstairs, in the bedroom, Zihe pulled Little Cabbage onto the bamboo couch by the window.
"You are a goddess," he murmured, kissing her neck. "I have known fifty women, but none like you. You make them look like scullery maids."
Little Cabbage smiled, a sad, practiced smile. "And you are a flatterer, Young Master."
Zihe laughed. He reached for her, his hands eager.
"Wait," she said, pushing him back gently. "Have you eaten? I must cook dinner before... before the night begins."
"Cook?" Zihe scoffed. "Let the idiot cook. I am hungry for something else."
He pulled her close again.
Suddenly, a noise came from downstairs. The front door slammed. Heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.
Zihe froze. "The husband?"
Little Cabbage went pale. "He wasn't supposed to be back until tomorrow."
Zihe scrambled off the couch, looking for a place to hide. But the room was small. There was nowhere to go.
The footsteps stopped outside the door. The handle turned.
But it wasn't Pinlian.
The door swung open to reveal a man in a wide-brimmed straw hat. He was smiling, but his eyes were cold.
It was Liu Zihan.
"Excuse the interruption," Zihan said, stepping into the room. He held up a piece of paper—the love letter Little Cabbage had written to Yang Naiwu months ago.
"I believe," Zihan said, looking from the terrified woman to the half-dressed prince, "that we need to renegotiate the terms of our silence."
Zihe stared at the intruder. "Who are you?"
"I am the man who holds the match," Zihan said. "And you are standing in a room full of gunpowder."
Little Cabbage looked at the letter. She recognized it instantly. The clumsy characters. The weeping willow she had drawn.
"You stole it," she whispered.
"I found it," Zihan corrected. "And now, I am going to sell it. The question is: who will buy it? You, Young Master? Or the husband who is walking down the alley right now?"
Zihe ran to the window. He looked down. Sure enough, Ge Pinlian was trudging up the street, a sack of beans on his shoulder.
Panic, cold and absolute, seized the room.
"How much?" Zihe gasped.
"Five hundred," Zihan said. "And the gold ring on your finger."
Zihe didn't hesitate. He tore the ring off and threw it at Zihan. He fumbled for his purse.
"Take it!" he screamed. "Just get out!"
Zihan caught the ring. He pocketed the purse. He bowed mockingly to Little Cabbage.
"Pleasure doing business," he said.
He slipped out the door and down the stairs, passing Pinlian in the hallway.
"Evening, Brother Ge," Zihan called out cheerfully. "Just delivering medicine."
Pinlian grunted, too tired to care. He walked up the stairs and entered the bedroom.
He found his wife sitting on the bed, pale as a ghost. The window was open. The room smelled of musk and fear.
"Where is the patron?" Pinlian asked, looking around.
"He... he left," Little Cabbage stammered. "By the back way. He was... late."
Pinlian looked at the rumpled bed. He looked at his wife's trembling hands.
The Green Hat was no longer a suspicion. It was a weight that was crushing his neck.
He said nothing. He walked to the corner and picked up his whittling knife. He sat down and began to carve a piece of wood, the sound of the blade shaving the timber filling the silence.
Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.
It sounded like a countdown.
To see how the tension explodes into violence, read the next chapter.