Chapter Sixty-Nine: Reunion with an Old Friend

Yan Qing stood before the gates of the Ye residence. She gazed at the imposing entrance, smiled softly, and handed her handkerchief to the gatekeeper. “Please announce me,” she said, “tell them I am an old acquaintance of Madam Ye’s, come all the way from Jiangnan to visit. Ah, yes—my surname is Yan.”

When Yan Qing met Wen Qiumei, the lady sat upright beside a table of rosewood. Though she strove for composure, Yan Qing could not help but notice her unease, the faint trembling of her hands betraying her nerves.

Seeing Yan Qing approach, clad all in white, Wen Qiumei unconsciously breathed a sigh of relief. She could not tell if it was from solace or from a sudden emptiness.

The maid served tea, and the room was left to the two of them. Yan Qing lifted her cup. “Do you remember this handkerchief, madam?”

Wen Qiumei’s lips moved, a bitter taste in her mouth. “Is he… well?”

Yan Qing brushed the foam from her tea with the lid. “He is dead.” The curling fragrance of tea hid any trace of emotion on her face.

Wen Qiumei’s fingers clenched the edge of the table, so tightly that the pale veins stood out beneath her skin. Her face drained of color in an instant. “How could that be?”

Yan Qing lowered her gaze and took a sip of tea, her tone detached. “How could that be? Of course you wouldn’t have thought it possible—you haven’t cared for him in a long time.” She paused. “My father set everything aside in his life, save for one thing—he never let go of you. His only wish on his deathbed was to see you once more. By then he was already gaunt and frail. I held his hand and promised I would find you, that I would see you in his stead. That is why I am here today.”

“But he never came, all those years ago.” Wen Qiumei gripped the table edge, fighting to keep her composure. “Since you say he never forgot me, why did he vanish so completely? Why did he leave, never to return?” Even now, Wen Qiumei realized this was what had haunted her most—the fact that he had not come as promised. She could not understand how the man who had sworn eternal love by moonlit blossoms, who had vowed to take her away, could disappear without a word, not even an explanation.

“Because that day, your father sent men to break his legs.”

Wen Qiumei was stunned, disbelief etched in her face. Yan Qing remained calm, as if recounting the story of a stranger. “How could your stubborn, old-fashioned father allow a reckless youth to steal away the cherished daughter of a scholarly household? Meeting you was his life’s calamity. He was a man of extraordinary talent and spirit—you, of all people, should know his gifts, his ambition. Both his career and his love were destroyed because of you. He spent his life confined to a wheelchair, speaking with bitter laughter of the days when he was young and full of promise. He taught me the arts of strategy, the ways of governance, invested all his youthful dreams in me. He said, when he looked at me, he saw his younger self. How pitiable must one be, to place all hope and dreams onto another?”

Wen Qiumei closed her eyes, her body trembling with the effort of control. When she finally spoke, the voice barely seemed her own. “To meet your mother, to have a son like you—that was his good fortune. He never lived in vain.”

Yan Qing smiled again, the expression tinged with bitterness and irony. “He never married. I am only his adopted son.”

Her right hand bore crescent wounds from her nails, blood seeping from the marks. Wen Qiumei looked at the young man before her, clear-eyed and elegant, with a natural grace in his every movement. She suddenly remembered years ago, when she first met him at the foot of Mount Canglan. The sky had been clear; she descended from a hundred stone steps, just as he ascended in white robes. Not a moment too soon, nor a moment too late—her handkerchief had fallen at his feet.

So, the passing years had not faded her memories of him. She had thought it natural to forget—believing he had wronged her, she had hated him so much she would not even recall the past. But now, she understood: he had never wronged her. The memories surged back like a flood, every moment with him still vivid and alive.

Yan Qing was still speaking, but she heard none of it. The words “he never married” echoed in her mind.

Never married.

She remembered those days of deep affection, when he held her amidst a sea of flowers and swore with a low, steady voice to love her until the end of time. She had been a young, innocent girl, thinking a lifetime was so long. But in his arms, happiness seemed simple.

He had kept his promise: if she was not the bride, he would never marry. But she had failed to keep her vow—to marry no one but him.

A lifetime seemed so long, once too distant to see its end.

A lifetime was so short—before their hands could join, they had already grown old apart.

In the end, she had wronged him, and for so many years, had felt justified in doing so.

She had loved only one man in her life, and yet she had failed him.

Yan Qing laughed softly. “Before I found you, I always wondered what kind of woman could haunt my father’s heart for a lifetime. Now that I’ve met you, I understand why he was so devoted. But I almost wish I hadn’t found you—seeing you, remembering him, I feel the urge to ruin you for his sake. Your life is too perfect; it makes me envy you on his behalf.”

Yan Qing stood to leave, his gaze still distant and indifferent. Wen Qiumei suddenly looked up; he said, “You should go and be with him.”

The September sky was a flawless blue, not a shadow to be seen. The clouds drifted soft and serene; maples burned crimson, plane trees turned gold, fallen leaves swirled in the wind. A flock of wild geese soared across the sky. Yan Qing looked up at the drifting clouds, as if he could see the shadow of his father. “Father, I have seen her. She is well—truly well.”

He glanced back one last time, and smiled faintly.

At dusk, Wei Zhuang burst into the secluded garden where Ye Qianran lived. “Burst” was no exaggeration; never before had he been so lacking in manners. He kicked open the door just as Ye Qianran, lounging by the window with a copy of “Flowers in the Mirror” in hand, was lost in boredom. Startled by his abrupt entrance, she dropped her book with a smack. Without a word, he seized her and pulled her toward the door. Juan Bi happened to come in with a tray of tea; he knocked it aside with one hand and said, “Come with me, now,” as if something momentous were at hand.

Ye Qianran tried to wrench her wrist from his grip, but he only tightened his hold. Seeing this, Juan Bi did not ask any questions—she hurried away to pack their things. Ye Qianran still struggled. “What are you doing? Let go!”

Wei Zhuang all but dragged her out, his voice crisp and resolute. “Just come with me; don’t ask why.”

But Ye Qianran would not be taken away so blindly. She resisted, prying at his hand with her free one. “Even if I agreed to marry you, I will not leave like this. Let me go.”

Seeing her so unyielding, Wei Zhuang spun around and pulled her firmly into his arms, pushing her onward, giving her no chance to refuse. “The matter of the substitute bride has been exposed. The emperor is furious—this is treason. If we don’t go now, it will be too late.”

At this, Ye Qianran forgot her struggles and let Wei Zhuang hurry her forward. Not until she was inside the carriage did she suddenly remember—she grabbed his sleeve anxiously. “What about my father and the others?”

“The moment I heard the news, I sent people to the Ye residence. Don’t worry.”

Ye Qianran let out a shaky breath, though her heart was still full of dread.

The carriage rumbled through the city gates. Only when the city wall was far behind did Wei Zhuang finally relax. The noise of the city faded into silence, and Ye Qianran’s heart beat wildly as she watched the bustling world recede. She sensed, with a strange certainty, that from this farewell onward she would never again set foot in this city.

The setting sun slanted low, dried leaves piled thick on the ground. The carriage sped along, wild and free, but Ye Qianran’s heart grew heavier and heavier.

Wei Zhuang watched her quietly. “I will take you to Cloud Garden first, then inquire after Master Ye and the others. Don’t worry, for now we must wait for news.”

Yet at this, Ye Qianran grew calm. “You needn’t comfort me. I know well how grave the crime of deceiving the emperor is. But I will not let my thoughts run wild—at this point, anxiety is useless. Rest assured, I will wait for news quietly.”

Wei Zhuang smiled. “I underestimated you, it seems. That is best.”