Chapter Sixty-Six: The Handkerchief

Ye Qianran knew well the price she had paid. She had lost Wei Zhuang, she had lost the rights of a daughter of the Ye family, and to avoid the danger of exposure, she now could only reside temporarily in a secluded villa on the outskirts of the capital belonging to the Ye family. Everyone believed Ye Qianran had married Zhang Yu. Despite escaping the shackles of fate, the true feelings in her heart were known only to herself.

Since that night when Wei Zhuang had resolutely parted ways with her, more than three months had passed. During these months, Ye Qianran had indeed not seen him again. She only heard occasional rumors about him in the city. Some said Wei Zhuang eventually married Gu Qingcheng, for during his disappearance from the capital, Gu Qingcheng was also nowhere to be found. The city’s foremost brothel vanished overnight after Gu Qingcheng disappeared, and no one knew where those famed courtesans had gone.

Ye Qianran dreaded hearing these rumors, for she understood his intentions. The Warm Pavilion was a place where all kinds gathered, and every girl there had met Gu Qingcheng. Even if none had revealed her whereabouts, there remained the fear of slipping up. He had exhausted all means to disperse the Pavilion, leaving the world with a mysterious riddle.

All this he did because he had promised her.

Yet she had so easily trampled his feelings, pushing him away with a humiliation of the body.

Whenever the night grew deep and still, she would recall those words: "Do not appear before me again."

Do not appear before me again.

Such decisive, heartless words cast her into hell.

Sometimes, when she remembered, Ye Qianran would feel sorrow—deep, aching sorrow.

Yet she could not seek out Wei Zhuang. Since he had uttered such ruthless words, how could she go to him?

She could not.

Such piercing longing, she found herself a convenient excuse—she claimed she merely felt guilty.

But emotions are never governed by the will.

She was but an ordinary woman of the world—how could she escape the cycles of fate and the corrosion of feeling?

The western hills were heavy, the sun’s shadow dipped behind the mountain. Ye Qianran stood in the villa, gazing upward at a sky dyed in blood-red sunset. A line of wild geese flew southward, the old tree in the courtyard spread its yellowed haze. Somehow, as if struck by madness, she tore the white jade pendant from her waist and hurled it far away. But suddenly she crouched down, unable to restrain herself, and wept. Flowing clouds, flowing clouds... where are you? I miss you. I am weary of this endless waiting. I long to see you, truly long to see you, but where are you?

Juanbi crouched down beside her, gently patting her back. Not a word of comfort could be spoken. In moments like this, when the mistress was so alone, the one most needed was not by her side, and any words were pale and powerless.

Wiping her tears, Ye Qianran slowly retrieved her pendant, carefully cleaning the mud from it with a handkerchief. How could she bear to part with it? She could not bear it.

Sometimes she felt resentment, sometimes hatred, yet in the end she could not let him go. He was the good man in her heart, the one she loved. How could she bear to let him go?

Standing before the phoenix tree, its withered leaves swaying bleakly, her jet-black hair whipped in the wind, scattering fragments of crimson all around.

Flowers bloom and fall, grass and trees struggle for life; longing entwines like time upon her fingertips—endlessly, unyieldingly, impossible to escape or leave behind.

Wei Zhuang bent over his desk, brush in hand, absorbed in painting. The vast room felt desolate, the purple gauze curtains billowed wildly in the wind. His hand paused, as if struck by a memory, and he angrily flung away his brush. The splattered ink fell upon the smiling face in his painting, that bright and beautiful smile now deeply pierced him. He suddenly crumpled up the painting, turning away. Behind him still hung her portrait; in a fit of anger, he tore all the paintings to shreds, as if loathing the woman within, destroying with a malicious force.

It was at this moment Yan Qing entered.

In public, Wei Zhuang was always calm, but this time he had lost his composure.

Yan Qing knew the reason.

There were only two things that could shake him so, and now it must be because of a woman he could not have.

Bending down, Yan Qing picked up the torn painting from the floor, confirming his suspicion. He smiled without revealing his thoughts.

Wei Zhuang had regained his usual demeanor, his voice so indifferent it betrayed no emotion. "Why have you come?"

Yan Qing did not answer, but returned to the sitting room and settled on a chair. "Since you used Gu Qingcheng to exchange for her, yet still failed to win her, your methods this time seem rather messy."

Wei Zhuang gave a low laugh. "Zimu, you didn’t come to discuss this with me, did you?"

The flower maid brought tea. Yan Qing accepted the cup with a smile, skimming the froth. Amidst the drifting aroma, his voice was as calm as water. "Zhuge Liuyun is dead." He took a sip, set the cup down, and saw from the corner of his eye that Wei Zhuang’s hand paused as he wrote, then resumed as if nothing happened. "Why tell me?" His voice was faint, but carried a tremor.

"No reason, just to let you know," Yan Qing smiled carelessly, though within that smile lurked a hint of malice. "I thought you’d be pleased—your rival is dead. No matter how deep her feelings, she cannot withstand the passing of time. Should you not rejoice?"

Wei Zhuang smiled, still writing, but his smile was tinged with sorrow. "So I need another man's death to win this woman. How ironic."

Yan Qing took another sip of tea and set the cup aside. The purple gauze curtains fluttered, dizzying the eye. Yan Qing waved to the flower maid preparing to leave, then took out a handkerchief from his breast. It was old, slightly yellowed, yet the embroidered orchid was still lifelike. "Flower maid, have you ever seen such a handkerchief?"

The flower maid put down her tray and reached for it, glancing once before exclaiming, "Isn’t this Miss Ye’s handkerchief? How is it in Master Yan’s hands?"

Yan Qing abruptly stood, so violently that the chair scraped loudly. Wei Zhuang frowned in displeasure, swept aside the curtains, and strode out.

Yan Qing asked in a startled voice, "What did you say?"

The flower maid glanced at Yan Qing, puzzled by his loss of composure, then looked at Wei Zhuang and said uncertainly, "Three months ago, Miss Ye came to the garden. I saw her carrying this very handkerchief."

Wei Zhuang took the handkerchief from her, stunned for a moment. It was indeed identical to Ye Qianran’s. Yet Yan Qing’s was older—what was going on? Wei Zhuang looked at Yan Qing, whose face had turned ashen.

Yan Qing sat down, steadying himself on the chair, returning to his usual calm. He carefully put away the handkerchief, lowered his head, turning the jade ring on his thumb, his expression unreadable. "You don’t mind if I pay your friend a visit, do you?"

He spoke lightly, but Wei Zhuang heard a deeper meaning. He knew Yan Qing well; this man always acted without scruples. Wei Zhuang did not want him involved with Ye Qianran, but recalling her coldness toward himself, he laughed—what did she have to do with him anyway? Even if she fell from grace, it had nothing to do with him.

Wei Zhuang replied with a forced smile, "She is herself, I am myself. If you seek her out, what concern is it of mine? Our ties have long been severed." Yet his smile was unnatural.

Yan Qing also smiled. "A friend’s wife must not be coveted. If you have nothing to do with her, so much the better—I won’t need to consider your feelings."

Outside, the autumn wind spun golden ginkgo leaves, swirling them elegantly into the lake behind the house, sending ripples across the water. The maple leaves in the garden burned like fire, the Nine Bend Bridge was carpeted with fallen leaves. In this sunset evening, the autumn sun was bleak and dim, the darkening sky pressed down, as if rain were coming.

Yan Qing opened a sixty-four rib oil-paper umbrella, its white surface adorned with pale purple orchids, perfectly matching his snow-white robes. He seemed to favor white by nature—his clothes billowed as he knocked on Ye Qianran’s villa. The autumn wind carried fine rain, lightly flicking his collar, and when he looked up, he saw Ye Qianran leaning against the doorframe, gazing at the drizzle in the autumn sky. Her white dress bloomed with ethereal flowers, so serene that she reminded him of the orchid woman in his father’s memories.

He extended his hand toward her, "Miss Ye." Ye Qianran nodded slightly, "Master Yan."