Chapter 75: Missing The Cat

Inside the carriage sat Wenren Lin, steady as Mount Tai, his dark attire accentuating his flawless, jade-like countenance. Zhao Yan’s heart settled unconsciously. She bowed and sat beside him, catching a faint trace of damp mist lingering in his loosely draped ink-black hair, fresh from a bath.

Her tone lightened. “It’s a rest day today, and the whole city is climbing hills to admire chrysanthemums. I thought you’d return tomorrow.”

Wenren Lin reached out, pinching the nape of her neck before gently rubbing her earlobe, amusing himself for a while before humming, “Wanted to see my little cat.”

Wenren Lin usually called Xue Nu “little beast,” so Zhao Yan knew the “cat” he referred to wasn’t literal. It tickled a bit, and she shrugged, tilting her head. “Can I ask you something?”

“About the Ningyang Marquis Residence?” His voice was low and measured.

Zhao Yan paused, propping her chin with a sigh. “I knew I couldn’t hide it from you.”

Wenren Lin chuckled, leaning forward, one hand resting on his knee. “Your Highness just came from the Ningyang Marquis Residence, and your thoughts are practically written on your face.”

Zhao Yan instinctively touched her face, then asked directly, “Does the Grand Tutor know with which military family Lady Rong Fuyue of the Ningyang Marquis Residence once had dealings?”

Wenren Lin switched to her other ear, rubbing it until it flushed red and warm before replying, “Not only do I know, I’m very familiar with them.”

“Who?”

“My late eldest brother, Wenren Cang.”

Zhao Yan froze.

She couldn’t help but recall the Zhongyuan Festival at Lingyun Temple, where she saw her aunt burning incense and praying under a bodhi tree, threading a needle through her thoughts. Fragmented pieces slowly formed an untold story. Zhao Yan could guess the root of her aunt’s heart ailment and understood who the heart-protecting mirror, hidden in a box, once belonged to.

“Then why did they…”

“My brother was young and hot-headed, arguing with Rong Fuyue. Before he could resolve things, he went north to fight the enemy. I guess he regretted it deeply. Every time a letter arrived from the capital, he was the first to check, only to walk away disappointed, head bowed. The silk handkerchief embroidered with Rong Fuyue’s name—he wore it threadbare but couldn’t bear to throw it away.”

Wenren Lin scoffed. “And then, he just died.”

Zhao Yan looked up. Wenren Lin’s expression remained calm, without a ripple.

Perhaps because autumn breeds melancholy, a wave of sadness surged within her—for herself and the Wenren family. She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but with a thousand thoughts, she didn’t know where to begin.

Zhao Yan lowered her lashes, then quickly looked up, her eyes clear and bright. “Take me back to the palace, Grand Tutor. I also… miss my cat.”

…

After the Double Ninth Festival, the capital’s greenery seemed to wither overnight, leaving only the biting autumn chill.

The final imperial lecture was unparalleled in grandeur. By the hour of Chen, ministers had already gathered in Chongwen Hall, warming themselves by braziers and exchanging pleasantries.

Only the “Crown Prince” had relapsed into old ailments, requesting leave to recuperate in the Eastern Palace, secluded for nearly half a month.

“His Highness’s health always worsens in autumn and winter.”

“Indeed. Last year at this time, it caused quite a stir with rumors flying.”

“Careful, gentlemen. Have you forgotten the fate of Liu Zhong, who slandered the Eastern Palace last year?”

“Shh! His Majesty and Prince Su are here. Silence.”

Someone whispered, and the chatting ministers immediately composed themselves, adjusted their robes, and lined up on both sides to pay respects.

Meanwhile, the “Crown Prince,” rumored to be bedridden, was kneeling behind a desk, wrapped in a cloak, reviewing a draft with a brush in hand.

Liu Ying entered with food, stepping on a fallen sheet of paper. The writing was marred with scratched-out ink blobs, revealing the writer’s unease. She hurriedly set down the tray, carefully picking up the paper. Looking around, she saw the desk and floor strewn with sheets of writing, while Her Highness sat amidst them, like an ascetic monk practicing in a sea of ink and paper, occasionally tapping her temple with the brush handle in deep thought.

Her cloaked, pensive appearance was strikingly reminiscent of the late Crown Prince Zhao Yan.

“Your Highness, the floor is cold. You shouldn’t sit too long.”

Liu Ying fetched a soft cushion, placing it under Zhao Yan, then picked up the discarded boots and helped her put them on. “Hasn’t the matter with Prince Yong been resolved? Why is Your Highness suddenly reviewing it?”

After kneeling so long, Zhao Yan’s legs were numb. She cautiously stretched them, frowning. “Don’t you think it was too smooth? So smooth it feels like someone deliberately pointed the clues toward Prince Yong, orchestrating a play for me.”

Liu Ying didn’t understand. After so many near-death assassinations and schemes, could it still be called “smooth”? But Her Highness was wise, and her instincts were surely correct.

“Any news on the missing maid from Prince Yong’s residence?” Zhao Yan asked.

“Not yet,” Liu Ying replied. “Commander Guxing is still investigating.”

Zhao Yan nodded. She had grown increasingly uneasy lately. Before devising a counterplan, she used her “illness” as an excuse to stay in the Eastern Palace, meticulously reviewing the downfall of Prince Yong, his son, and the Shen Guang Daoist from start to finish. Her scrutiny was so thorough that she filled the room with papers and stained her hands with ink.

From this seemingly perfect victory, she uncovered several doubts.

For instance, during the birthday banquet, a eunuch’s assassination attempt was confessed to be under Prince Yong’s coercion, holding his sister hostage. But after Prince Yong’s conviction and his assets confiscated, no one found the allegedly kidnapped maid.

If Prince Yong was behind the poisoned letter that harmed Zhao Yan, why use such a rare poison there but opt for a eunuch’s blade instead?

Who was the person who delivered the message that “Zhao Yuanyu’s fall from a horse, rendering him impotent, was the Crown Prince’s doing”?

And if the Shen Guang Daoist died under stray imperial guard arrows, as instructed by Prince Yong, why not shoot the “Crown Prince” on the spot to silence her, instead of waiting to ambush her on the road back to the palace with hired thugs?

Zhao Yan marked these doubts in red ink, then asked, “Any major banquets or rituals coming up that require the Crown Prince’s presence?”

Liu Ying thought briefly. “October 14 is an auspicious day. The Emperor leads the nobles and ministers to the suburbs to welcome winter, then returns to the Western Garden for a banquet. By protocol, Your Highness must attend.”

October 14. It’s soon.

After dinner, Zhao Yan was so exhausted she fell asleep at the desk.

In a daze, she felt a wet, itchy coolness on her knuckles. Lifting her eyelids, her blurry vision gradually focused. She sat up abruptly, the oversized dark robe on her shoulders slipping to her waist, a sheet of ink-stained paper stuck to her cheek.

Wenren Lin sat in a chair, wiping the ink from her hands with a damp cloth, his movements slow and gentle.

Seeing her awake, he abandoned the slow wiping, rolled up her sleeve, and plunged her ink-stained hand into a basin of warm water to soak.

“What time is it?”

Zhao Yan raised her other hand, dazedly peeling off the paper stuck to her face. Her delicate cheek, reddened from the pressure, bore ink smudges, looking somewhat comical.

Wenren Lin wiped the ink from her cheek with a cloth, unhurriedly saying, “Hour of Hai. Still early, not yet dawn.”

His tone was neutral, almost soothing, but with each word, Zhao Yan’s head dipped lower.

During her leave from the imperial lectures at Chongwen Hall, Wenren Lin had come every evening at the end of You, selecting one or two books from a chest of “birthday gifts” to lecture her for an hour before leaving. Occasionally, when Zhao Yan was in high spirits, he’d stay past midnight after the lesson, teaching her something else before departing…

Zhao Yan hadn’t expected to nap for a full hour. She pressed her sore neck, murmuring, “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“Your Highness looks lovely asleep—fair skin, red lips, picturesque features. I couldn’t help but watch a little longer.”

Wenren Lin rolled up his sleeves, smiling with hidden meaning. “It’s rare to see Your Highness sleep so deeply, not waking no matter how I touched you.”

“You… touched me how?”

Zhao Yan was stunned, her dry hand discreetly checking her intact robes. “Touched me where?”

Wenren Lin’s gaze lingered on her sleep-flushed lips before settling on the water. His pale hand dipped in, gently rubbing the faded ink from her fingertips.

His knuckles were firm, his bone structure elegant, the veins on his hand subtly prominent as he washed. To clean thoroughly, his long fingers threaded through hers, interlocking and rubbing every corner.

The water splashed, and a tingling sensation spread from her fingertips, making her spine shiver.

It felt strangely familiar. Not long ago, during one of Wenren Lin’s evening lessons, she’d just bathed, her hair loosely tied up, her clothes thin and loose, revealing her damp, fair neck—completely unguarded before him.

Wenren Lin had glanced at her without comment, guiding her brush from behind to correct her writing, his voice low and rich, calm and pleasant.

He was serious, so Zhao Yan didn’t dare act out, listening attentively. Only when she stretched after setting down the brush did she notice he was pressed against her.

She whipped around, incredulous and embarrassed.

Wenren Lin met her gaze with deep, dark eyes, showing no shame, and coolly scolded her for losing focus, his face as serene as a mountain deity.

What followed… best left unsaid.

Zhao Yan shifted uncomfortably. Wenren Lin noticed, looking up. “Why are you fidgeting?”

Before she could explain, he pinched her fingertip as if in punishment. “Your Highness is still on your cycle. Behave.”

“…” Was that what she meant?

Zhao Yan awkwardly clenched her fingers, then relaxed them.

After a long pause, she softly said, “Wenren Lin, why did your father make you take that medicine? You’re blood kin, aren’t you?”

She’d broached a forbidden topic.

“You’re blood kin” seemed less a question for Wenren Lin and more for herself.

Wenren Lin didn’t mind her bold use of his name. His knuckles soothed her unease, and he drawled, “Little Highness.”

“Hm?”

“Deceptions are a game of hearts. Don’t trust too easily.”

He wouldn’t stop her from investigating but couldn’t let her get swept into the chaos. After weighing his words, he offered this gentle warning.

His little Highness was clever. She’d understand.

…

October 14, the start of winter.

At the hour of Yin, the sky was still a deep indigo. The Eastern Palace was ablaze with lights.

Zhao Yan bathed, bound her chest, and let Liu Ying layer on her robes and tie her belt. It felt like last year, when she’d returned to the palace disguised as Zhao Yan.

Fully dressed, she steadied her nerves, wrapped herself in heavy fox fur, and pushed open the hall doors, exhaling a puff of white breath under the eaves.

Stars had sunk, the moon had fallen, and the night was dark as water, impenetrable.

“Let’s go,” she said softly.

Previous

Next