The day was perfect. Late spring, the sky swept clean of clouds, a gentle breeze carrying the warmth of an unclouded sun. He and I walked slowly along the cobbled path that followed the moat. Willows lined the bank—a deep, living green—their branches trailing soft over the water. Two or three ornate pleasure boats drifted past on the moat below, trailing scraps of song and the faint rhythms of a dance.
One boat stood apart from the rest. Its lacquered hull shimmered as though hammered from gold and jade. Through layers of gossamer curtain, the silhouette of a beauty cradling a pipa barely showed. Then someone swept the curtain aside and leaned out over the railing, a folding fan loose between two fingers. He wore a robe the colour of moonlit white, not a speck of dust on it. His eyes were languid and striking—the kind of beautiful that stopped you cold. A few loose strands fell across his forehead. His expression was careless, almost indolent, a smear of rouge catching the light on his cheek. Something must have caught his attention; he glanced toward us. The moment he saw Song Yinmo standing at my side, the elegant lines of his face went flat.
His gaze settled on Song Yinmo. Cold. Still.
Song Yinmo met it with nothing more than a quiet smile.
These two had never been able to stand each other. I felt the current shift the instant their eyes locked—that low hum of something about to go wrong. I reached over and tugged at Song Yinmo's sleeve. "Don't start anything," I said under my breath.
Song Yinmo's mouth curved. His hand found mine and held it. "All right," he said, still smiling. "I won't start anything."
I smiled back and pulled him away from the moat, toward the part of the market district where the noise was loudest.
A vendor on the street was selling candied hawthorn.
My eyes lit up. I broke free from Song Yinmo's hand and ran over, came back with two skewers—bright, lacquered red—one in each hand. I thrust them toward him with all the ceremony of presenting treasure, eyebrows raised, and said, "Call me boss and I might share."
At that moment I sounded exactly like a market hooligan shaking down an honest man.
Song Yinmo, the respectable citizen, went along with it without missing a beat. "Boss," he said.
I stared at him. How did this turn into me getting teased instead?
His mouth curved again. A flicker of amusement in his eyes. He held out one hand, palm up. "I called you. Where's my share?"
I stared at him again.
"Brat," I said. "Lift your foot."
He did, and looked down, then looked back up. "What am I lifting it for?"
I dumped both skewers into his outstretched hand and said, with all the gravity I could muster, "I was worried you'd step on the dignity you just lost."
Song Yinmo said nothing.
We bickered and laughed our way through half the market before we realized the sun was already climbing high. He tugged me along to find lunch, and by the time we stopped walking, Tianxiang Tower was right in front of us.
I looked up—and there were the eaves, identical to the ones in my dream. The tips curved up in delicate upswept angles. Below them, a window stood open. In the dream, when I had tilted my head back and looked up, a young man in white had been standing at that window, looking as though he had come from somewhere outside the world of ordinary people.
Song Yinmo noticed I had gone still and said, smiling, "Shall we eat at Tianxiang Tower?"
I smiled and nodded. He took my hand and led me inside. An attendant came forward and asked where we'd like to sit.
The layout of the restaurant was exactly as I remembered it. I followed a thread of dim memory upward and found the private room in the corner—the one from the dream.
Something seemed to move at the edge of sight. A girl in a green skirt pushing that door open, walking out with anger in every line of her body. I blinked, and the image dissolved, gone without a trace.
Song Yinmo asked, still smiling, where I wanted to sit. My throat felt strangely tight. I raised my hand and pointed at that room upstairs.
The attendant glanced up and hesitated. He looked genuinely pained. "Our proprietor has given orders that this room is not available to guests," he said. "Might you consider another room instead?"
He seemed sincere, not making excuses. I didn't want to make trouble for him. Song Yinmo and I chose a different private room.
* * *
After we ordered, Song Yinmo tilted his head and smiled, reaching over to tuck a loose strand of hair away from my forehead. "What's the matter? You've been uneasy since we sat down."
I propped my chin in my hands and looked at him. "I think I've been to this place before," I said quietly, "in a dream."
Song Yinmo laughed softly. "And in this dream of yours, was I there?"
I shook my head, honest about it. "Only a young man in white. I never saw his face, but I had the feeling he must have been extraordinarily beautiful."
Song Yinmo dropped his gaze. He seemed to be turning something over in his mind. For just a moment, I thought his expression looked almost like guilt. Before I could make sense of it, he let out a quiet sigh and said, with exaggerated aggrievement, "So my Taozi doesn't dream of me. She dreams of some other man instead."
A laugh escaped me. "And has Moge ever dreamed of me?"
At the sound of that name, his eyes came up sharply. I looked away, suddenly self-conscious—then caught the brightness in his face, the easy smile at the corner of his mouth. "Every night," he said.
I raised an eyebrow. "What do you dream?"
Song Yinmo looked down again. His smile turned quiet. "You're wearing a green skirt," he said, "sitting on a swing. Laughing, and very pretty."
He said it with such warmth and certainty—not the vagueness of a dream, but the weight of a memory. Something made me ask, "And where are you in this dream? What are you doing?"
He met my eyes. A softness in them. "Me? I'm a boy crouched against a wall, sneaking glances at a girl in a green skirt. Wanting desperately to know her name. Too shy to say a word."
I considered this. "If I'd spotted you skulking there on that wall," I said, "I'd have taken you for a thief."
He watched me quietly, and at that, his eyes curved. The light came in through the window and caught inside them—bright, scattered, like a whole sky full of stars.
I blinked, and smiled. "Though since you're so good-looking, and I do tend to go easy on beautiful people, there's a chance I might have let you off."
Something moved in his face. He stood, reached out, and tipped my chin up lightly with one hand. My heart stuttered—I looked up at him—and then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to my forehead.
When he pulled back, his eyes were warm and intent. "If I had that moment again," he said, "I wouldn't waste time worrying about propriety. I'd jump straight down from that wall, break off the finest branch of plum blossom I could find, walk up to you, and ask who you were. Then I'd observe every one of the six rites of betrothal and make you my wife."
The certainty in his voice made me laugh, and I poked him in the side. "It was only a dream. Don't be so serious—what, is it that you absolutely must marry me and no one else?"
He smiled softly, watching my teasing with perfect patience, not an edge of annoyance anywhere on his face. "Yes," he said. "No one else."
I smiled too. We looked at each other, and something sweet settled in my chest, thick and quiet as honey.
* * *
As the sun started to sink, Song Yinmo walked me back to the Qin estate. I said goodbye to him—but he didn't leave. He stood at the gate, smiling, watching me. "Why aren't you going?" I asked.
"I won't turn away before you go in," he said. "Once you're inside, I'll leave."
I smiled, went in as he said, then turned to sneak one last look. He was still there, still watching. Something warm moved through me. I smiled and quickened my pace, not wanting to make him wait.
At a flower-gate partway through the grounds, I nearly walked straight into Zhao Jingming coming from the other direction. He wore dark robes and carried a sword in his arms, his handsome face drawn tight with vigilance. I smiled a greeting and stepped aside to pass—and then he called after me.
I turned, puzzled. He was looking at me with rare seriousness, voice low. "Miss Yingzhuang, I'll only say this once, so listen. If there's one person in this world who will never let you down, it's the second son of this estate. Don't hurt him. There will come a day when you'd regret it more than you can imagine."
He said it, then exhaled—a long, weary breath—and added, "Don't tell Second Young Master what I said, or he'll throw rocks at me again." Then he looked away and walked off without another glance.
I stood there, rooted to the spot. Grief hit without warning, huge and nameless. My chest cinched so hard I had to bite down to breathe. Cold sweat ran down my spine. The courtyard blurred; broken images thrashed up inside me, almost in reach, then shattered before I could seize a single one.
I slid down until my back was against the gate and sat on the ground. I don't know how long I stayed there. Only when the night had fully settled—stars spread across the dark above me—did that weight finally begin to ease.