“You suddenly came here just to say these things?”
“Elder Sister could tell you had something on your mind.”
“Even though you’ve already married into Duke Rui’s Mansion, that doesn’t mean you have to swallow your anger there.”
“If there’s anything upsetting you, you don’t need to hold back. Just be like you were in Youzhou.”
She did have something weighing on her mind—a worry rooted deep in her bloodline, stirring with every breath—but she couldn’t, and wouldn’t, confide in anyone.
The tangled emotions she couldn’t cut or unravel pressed down on her heart.
Shaking her head, Yan Yiqing only said she missed the millet cakes from Youzhou.
Hearing this, Yan Yue, who doted on her little sister and was now a noble princess consort, still cooked the millet cakes for her by hand, just like when they were young. They looked fine, but the taste wasn’t great—much like their mother’s.
She walked alone on the road back to Duke Rui’s Mansion.
Her stomach was full, but her heart remained empty.
The crimson hem of her robe brushed lightly over the threshold as Yan Yiqing stepped into Linzhu Courtyard. A flicker of unease rose in her peach-blossom eyes, but it quickly drowned in eager anticipation.
Her first glance went to the study.
The anticipation fell flat, turning into gray raindrops.
“She hasn’t come back yet?” Yan Yiqing frowned and asked.
Zhichun flipped through the book in her hands, eyes fixed ahead, ignoring the question.
“Zhichun.” Yan Yiqing walked up and stood before her, repeating, “Where’s the Heir Apparent? Has she not returned yet?”
The little hedgehog, skilled at reading the room, grew bolder once she realized Yan Yiqing looked fierce but wouldn’t lay a hand on her. Pouting, Zhichun said, “Didn’t Vice Minister ask already?”
“Asked already?”
Nodding, Zhichun looked up. “In the study that time.”
“The Heir Apparent was nearly harmed by you…”
“Madam ordered the Heir Apparent to kneel before the memorial tablets in the ancestral hall every day.”
Her thoughts snapped back. Guessing Zhao Huairen was in the ancestral hall again, Yan Yiqing blurted out, “Why does she obey so readily?”
“Of course. The Heir Apparent is the most filial.”
What did this have to do with filial piety? Yan Yiqing’s brows knitted tightly, the last traces of jealousy swept away by concern and worry.
Seeing her stand there motionless, Zhichun hid her face behind the book and muttered softly, “Our Heir Apparent is the best. You think everyone’s like you…”
Zhichun’s grumbling hadn’t finished when she looked up and found the woman before her gone.
–
Row upon row of dark memorial tablets loomed like heavy storm clouds, suppressing the flickering candle flames. The ancestral hall held no shadows, yet it felt devoid of any light, as if one were trapped in endless night.
Her light brown eyes reflected the candlelight.
In the wavering glow, Zhao Huairen’s gaze held the same cold desolation.
She had gotten the answer she wanted from the coroner and sent Zhuyu with a secret message to Lan Qin. Next was connecting with Meng Shu Ting…
The crisp sound of chess pieces falling echoed in her mind as she played out the game mentally. Zhao Huairen didn’t notice the approaching figure.
The crimson official robe was out of place.
Before entering the ancestral hall, she had changed into plain white clothes and a light robe.
Zhao Huairen knelt on the praying mat, her simple white attire clashing with the hall’s blackness. Her dark hair was loosely bound with a wooden hairpin, and her slender back gradually matched the image from the hot spring.
The official robe’s fabric was thick and structured.
Huairen was tall and didn’t seem frail on ordinary days.
Her striking beauty and elegant aura drew all attention to her every move, leaving little room to notice anything else. But in the thin, plain clothes, her prominent shoulder blades and faintly outlined spine told a story of neglect toward her own body—
“Young Master Yan, what brings you here?”
The raccoon cat startled awake at the voice.
The brilliant red intruded into this black-and-white sanctum.
Hadn’t they agreed to use names? Why revert to the stiff official title? Yan Yiqing approached her side, about to speak.
Zhao Huairen’s sword brows furrowed slightly as she looked up. “Have you been drinking?”
Elder Sister had seen her in low spirits and brought out a jar of Prince Gong’s private stash, Jade Peach Spring. To her, it was just a splash. But Huairen seemed unhappy. Was it because the peach flavor was too strong?
“Why is the Heir Apparent here alone?” Caught between honesty and making excuses, Yan Yiqing chose to change the subject.
“This is the Zhao Family Ancestral Hall.”
“True, but what I mean is,” Yan Yiqing scratched her ear casually and sat cross-legged beside Zhao Huairen. “Why are you here right now?”
“Kneeling before the memorials.”
It was the first time Yan Yiqing heard Zhao Huairen sound so aloof. Pouting aggrievedly, she lifted her sleeve to sniff—sure enough, the soft, sweet peach scent lingered. “Heir Apparent, do you dislike peaches?”
Hearing this, Zhao Huairen’s already tight brows furrowed deeper. “How drunk are you?”
Just that little bit?
She had only rinsed her mouth; she wouldn’t get drunk.
Wrapping her peach-scented robe tighter, Yan Yiqing blinked. “I’m not drunk.”
Drunk people never admit it. Her question had been a waste of time. Lowering her gaze, Zhao Huairen asked coldly, “How much did you drink?”
“One jar?” Yan Yiqing gestured the size of the jar.
Night wind blew in through the open doors and windows.
The room filled with the faint orange peach fragrance.
Seeing Zhao Huairen staring, Yan Yiqing’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. She dropped her arm and wrapped her robe tighter again.
Noticing the gesture from the corner of her eye, Zhao Huairen turned to the flickering candles, lips pressing thin. “It’s late. If you’re drunk, go back and rest.”
“I’m really not drunk.”
Her face was flushed like that, yet she stubbornly denied it? With everything going on—Shi Yun Si’s cause of death unsettled—she was carefree enough to go drinking and fool around.
The more she thought, the angrier she grew.
A nameless fire surged.
Zhao Huairen clenched her fists and turned to her—
The dark peach-blossom eyes held a misty fragrance, the flush spreading like windblown petals, softening the light on her cheeks.
Her long crow-feather lashes trembled lightly.
Her gaze intent, Yan Yiqing’s eyes held only her.
“I say…” The reprimand caught in her throat, the fire dying out. Zhao Huairen looked away, murmuring, “Since you’re drunk, go rest.”
“By myself?”
A hint of helplessness flashed in her eyes. “Are you afraid of the dark?”
It was a moonless, windy night—perfect for murder. Of course she wasn’t afraid of the dark, but—“I came specifically to find you.”
No wonder she came all the way here drunk. Zhao Huairen’s aura cooled. She curved her lips. “What deal does Young Master Yan want this time?”
Another deal? She didn’t have that many deals… Like a student caught off-guard by the tutor, Yan Yiqing scratched her hand, struggling before blurting, “Can’t we… not do a deal?”
“Then why seek me out?” Zhao Huairen asked, puzzled.
Their puzzled gaze met her hesitant one. Her fingertips tightened, nails digging into her palm, the bitter pain snapping her back to reason.
“You’re Duke Rui’s Heir Apparent. Associating with you brings me plenty of benefits.”
Her breath hitched inexplicably.
Finally back on track.
Her long lashes lowered, a flicker of panic in her phoenix eyes that no one would notice. Zhao Huairen couldn’t understand why Qin An’s words suddenly surfaced—“Doesn’t the Heir Apparent feel anything?”
When Zhao Huairen looked up again, her eyes were clear. “What benefits does Young Master Yan want?”
Yan Yiqing stared into Zhao Huairen’s eyes.
Her fingers clenched; she forced her gaze away.
“Your private stores are full of treasures. And as a first-rank duke in the future, there’s so much I can gain from you.”
A gossamer-thin barrier between them.
The two, both feeling guilty, tacitly played their roles.
Her voice cool and gentle, like a wilting white epiphyllum—elegant yet tinged with faint loss: “Young Master Yan is quite frank.”
“I never planned to pretend to be a good person in front of the Heir Apparent.” Her lashes fluttered; Yan Yiqing met her eyes. “So there’s no need to hide what I want.”
“And me?” Zhao Huairen said.
“What?”
Even sacred epiphyllums weren’t purely white; their roots delved deep into the soil, drawing nutrients to sustain their bloom.
“Young Master Yan covets power and wealth.” Zhao Huairen paused, her gaze probing. “I have both, so… what can Young Master Yan give me?”
Her words barely fell.
Silence blanketed the ancestral hall.
Leaves rustled in the wind, candles swayed on their stands, the thick, decaying wood scent lingered slowly at the nose.
Unsurprised by her sudden silence, Zhao Huairen turned back to the gold-lacquered black sandalwood tablets, scanning the familiar or strange names atop them—not expecting an answer.
“You hate kneeling.”
Zhao Huairen frowned at her.
“You hate kneeling. Even now, you want to stand and leave.”
Being seen through was unpleasant for someone used to masks. Her thin lips curved; Zhao Huairen smiled faintly. “Why do you say that, Young Master Yan?”
Even if forced.
Her smile remained radiant.
But—she didn’t like seeing her force a smile.
“Young Master Yan?” Her sword brows furrowed slightly, the tension peeking through her perfect smile.
Her heart felt nibbled by ants.
The broken wound oozed hot spots.
“I can make it so you never kneel again in this lifetime.”
She was a subject.
Never kneel again? Impossible.
Hearing this, the suspended heart settled. Zhao Huairen said softly, “It’s late, Young Master Yan. Head back.”
“I mean, never kneel to anyone.”
Her gentle gaze sharpened. Before Zhao Huairen could stop her, the fearless woman continued:
“Including the Emperor.”
