Feng Lin threw down those words, rose to his feet, and left.
As the door opened, a gust of cold wind swept in, jolting Han Chang and his son back to their senses.
Han Chang half-stood, wanting to call after Feng Lin, but in the end, the hand he had raised slowly fell.
Disputes over political principle and moral conviction rarely spared personal feeling -friends turned enemies, even fathers and sons came to blows. There was no helping it.
“Lady Cheng, why are you unwilling to leave the capital?”
Han Chang had not yet finished sighing over what had happened when he heard his son speak up.
At such a moment, to bring up this topic again was truly inappropriate. He frowned, about to stop the boy – but Cheng Jiao-niang had already answered, as straightforwardly as she had to Feng Lin earlier.
“Because I don’t want to. Not yet,” she said.
Han Yuanchao was not unfamiliar with that sort of answer. Though he had little experience with women, he had heard that tone before – that teasing “I won’t tell you; guess if you can; I just want it this way” – so common in letters exchanged between betrothed couples.
Sometimes it sounded charming; other times, it could be maddening.
Like now.
“My aunt has searched for you many times,” Han Yuanchao said, steering the conversation elsewhere. “She even bought the house you once rented and had your name written on the deed.”
“Your aunt’s way of doing things is much like mine,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied, looking at him.
His aunt remembered a kindness and gifted a house in return; this Lady Cheng remembered a kindness and gave him shares in the Tai Ping Residence.
“My aunt is merely a woman who tends to her household and raises her children. She wouldn’t dare compare herself to you,” Han Yuanchao said.
At those words, Han Chang’s expression changed sharply.
“Yuanchao!” he barked.
Ban Qin, startled by the shout, glanced at him in confusion.
“Is this what the sages have taught you?” Han Chang demanded angrily. Then, turning to Cheng Jiao-niang, he bowed deeply. “I am ashamed – my son has been discourteous.”
Beside him, Han Yuanchao also bent low in a bow, following his father’s lead.
Cheng Jiao-niang smiled.
“And what brings you here today, Master Han?” she asked.
At that, Han Chang shot another sharp glare at his son.
“I came to express my gratitude,” he said. “To thank you for saving my sister; for your courage in slaying the monk and relieving the crisis at Panjiang; and for the care you have shown my son.”
Cheng Jiao-niang nodded.
“Very well,” she said. “I accept your thanks.” Then she turned her gaze to Han Yuanchao. “And you?”
Her question had been addressed to Han Chang, and the thanks she accepted were his; but now, as she turned to look at Han Yuanchao, it was clear she did not see father and son as one.
A son’s thoughts – a father could always read them.
And this young lady clearly could as well.
Han Chang sighed again in his heart.
“Are you here to drive me out of the capital as well?”
The question was hardly polite.
“No,” Han Yuanchao said, shaking his head. “I merely disagree with your way of doing things. As for whether you stay or leave, I have no wish to interfere.”
Cheng Jiao-niang nodded.
“All right. I understand,” she said. “Then, do you have anything else?”
And just like that, they were shown out – or, to put it less kindly, driven out.
The sound of the door sliding open brought Han Chang back to his senses. A gust of cold wind swept in, making him shiver – and he realized he was already back at the posthouse.
“Master,” a young servant said nervously, holding several visiting cards in his hands.
“More visiting cards?” Han Chang asked.
The servant nodded. In just this short while, the number of cards he had received was already equal to what they would get in Panjiang County over the course of a month.
He had thought that once they reached the capital – where high officials and nobles were everywhere – his master would be as insignificant as a speck of dust. But who could have expected that the Emperor would summon him three times in a single day, and that so soon after, so many visiting cards would arrive?
Just by looking at the names inscribed and the fine materials of the cards, the servant could feel their weight trembling in his hands.
“Put them down,” Han Chang said, watching as the servant carefully placed the stack onto the desk.
“Master, the visitors are still waiting outside,” the servant reminded him.
Han Chang could only pick up his brush and begin writing replies, already regretting that he hadn’t brought along an extra secretary.
After finishing the reply letters, Han Chang sent the servant to deliver them, then rose and stepped out of the room. He stood under the corridor on the second floor, gazing at the churning snow outside.
The snow, which had stopped in the morning, had begun falling again by noon.
Watching the wintry scene, Han Chang drifted into thought once more.
It was easy to imagine that at this very moment, many households across the capital were just as stirred up as this swirling snow – buzzing with talk about the recent meeting between the “Ghost Judge” Feng Lin and Lady Cheng.
“Father, more visiting cards?” came Han Yuanchao’s voice from behind.
“There are too many people wanting to find out what exactly Feng Lin said,” Han Chang replied.
“What’s there to find out?” Han Yuanchao said. “By tomorrow, everyone will know anyway.”
The two fell silent, both recalling that moment when Feng Lin had thrown down his final words and risen to leave.
“Lady Cheng must be feeling very upset,” Han Chang said suddenly.
“Father, no one would feel at ease after this,” Han Yuanchao replied.
Feng Lin had repaid kindness with enmity – could his heart truly be at peace?
And they, standing by as their benefactor faced calamity – could theirs be any lighter?
How had things come to this?
Father and son fell into silence. The wind swept the snow toward them, breaking Han Yuanchao’s thoughts. He quickly reached out to steady Han Chang.
“Father, it’s cold out here. Let’s go back inside,” he said.
Before the words had even fallen, they saw several people arriving below the building.
“Master Han – Master Han of Su-zhou!”
One of the men below waved up at Han Chang.
Having entered the palace three times just yesterday, Han Chang already recognized this eunuch. He exchanged a glance with Han Yuanchao – so, it seemed His Majesty also wished to know what had happened.
He personally helped his father onto the carriage, watching as it sped off through the wind and snow with the palace attendant. Standing outside the posthouse, Han Yuanchao could feel the faint, watchful eyes around him. He couldn’t help but glance in a certain direction.
Of course – he was not like his aunt.
“Young Master Han.”
Someone nearby greeted him. Han Yuanchao quickly gathered himself and looked over to see three or four men standing there. He raised his hand politely and smiled, but said nothing, turning back toward the posthouse.
At a time like this, neither father nor son dared to form new acquaintances. Even if they were to, it would have to wait – until this matter had passed.
Surely, it would all be over soon.
Only… what kind of ending would it be?
Han Yuanchao pulled his cloak tighter around himself and crossed the snowy courtyard, heading upstairs.
A carriage sped down the street, heading straight for the city gates.
Eight armed escorts surrounded it – front, back, and on both sides – all dressed uniformly in fine black hooded cloaks that spoke of wealth and status.
In contrast, the carriage they guarded seemed rather plain.
“I recognize that – that’s Lady Cheng’s carriage,” someone by the roadside pointed out.
“Lady Cheng usually rents carriages from Wang Si’s stable,” another added.
At that, more people gathered around, all watching the carriage clearly bound for the outskirts of the city.
“Going out of the city in weather like this?”
“Maybe she’s upset by Feng Lin and wants to clear her mind?”
“Wasn’t it Feng Lin who was upset by her?”
“Or perhaps she’s finally leaving the capital?”
The chatter and speculation in the streets were soon muffled by the wind and snow, and Cheng Jiao-niang’s carriage had already passed beyond the city gates.
“Miss,” Ban Qin said, taking out another hand warmer and tucking it into Cheng Jiao-niang’s hands.
“It’s not that cold,” Cheng Jiao-niang said. “Snowy days aren’t cold.”
Even so, Ban Qin pushed the warmer under her cloak.
“I know you are wise and always right in what she says,” she replied softly, “but I still want to do it this way.”
Cheng Jiao-niang smiled.
“Yes,” she said. “People are all creatures of attachment. Knowing something is one thing – acting on it is another.”
The carriage swayed gently – it was clear the road was no longer as smooth as the official highway.
Unable to resist, Ban Qin lifted the curtain. Through the wind and snow, her view blurred into a white haze.
Where were they going?
Inside the carriage, Cheng Jiaoniang was also gazing out.
“I used to dislike snowy days,” she said suddenly.
Ban Qin quickly lowered the curtain and turned toward her.
“Now I think… snowy days aren’t so bad after all,” Cheng Jiao-niang said.
Ban Qin nodded. Whatever her lady said was always right.
“It’s just a bit cold,” she murmured.
“A little cold is fine,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied. “There are fewer people – everyone hides away from the cold. It’s quiet, peaceful.”
As she spoke, her eyes remained on the drifting snow outside.
Quiet and peaceful…
So Miss really had been angered – by that damned Feng Lin and Han Yuanchao – and that’s why she’d gone out in this heavy snow to clear her mind.
Ban Qin cursed the two men fiercely in her heart, then lifted her head to speak – but Cheng Jiaoniang raised a hand to her lips and hushed her softly.
“Listen,” she said.
Listen?
Ban Qin tilted her head.
There wasn’t much to hear – only the steady rhythm of hooves and wheels…
Then suddenly – boom! – a thunderous crash erupted nearby.
The carriage jolted violently, the horses neighed in panic.
Ban Qin screamed, clutching her ears, and threw herself into Cheng Jiao-niang’s arms.
The sound faded quickly, and the carriage soon returned to its rough, swaying rhythm. With the driver’s shouts, the horses gradually calmed.
Still shaken, Ban Qin lifted her head.
“Miss… what was that noise just now?” she asked in a trembling voice. “There was a sound, wasn’t there? It wasn’t my imagination – was it thunder?”
Cheng Jiao-niang smiled.
“No,” she said softly.
“Then what was it?” Ban Qin asked, sitting up.
“It was laughter,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied with a faint smile.
Laughter?
Cheng Jiao-niang lifted her hand and pointed toward the sky.
“The laughter of heaven.”
That still sounded like thunder to me, though – she muttered inwardly. But as long as her lady was smiling, that was all that mattered.
“Heaven’s laughter sounds beautiful,” she said earnestly, tilting her face upward.
Cheng Jiao-niang shook her head.
“Heaven’s laughter is not beautiful,” she said quietly. “When heaven laughs, ten thousand people weep.”
“Ten thousand people weep?” Ban Qin looked at her, puzzled.
“But what can one do?” Cheng Jiao-niang murmured, gazing at the snow swirling chaotically outside the window. “In this world, it’s always like that – either you cry, or I do. Someone must weep.”
…
After a night of wind and snow, the storm finally stopped by morning.
When Ban Qin stepped outside, the courtyard had already been swept clean.
“Ban Qin, the straw target’s been set up!” a young servant came running to report.
“Miss won’t be practicing archery today,” Ban Qin said. Then her expression darkened with irritation. “That damned Feng Lin and Han Yuanchao!”
Behind her, Madam Cao and the maids all laughed.
“Miss isn’t skipping archery because of Master Feng or Young Master Han,” the maid said with a smile. “It’s because the master took her crossbow to be repaired. You’ve been cursing them all night and day – still not done yet?”
“I’ll never be done cursing them in this lifetime,” Ban Qin pouted.
Just then, Cheng Jiao-niang came out of the house.
Seeing what she was wearing, all three women looked at her in surprise.
“Miss, are you going out?” the maid asked.
“I’m waiting – to go out,” Cheng Jiao-niang replied.
Waiting?
Today’s morning court assembly felt different from usual.
There were far fewer officials presenting memorials, and those who did kept exchanging glances. Even the emperor, seated on the throne, seemed distracted.
Everyone appeared to be waiting for something.
At last, after one official finished his hollow, perfunctory report, the Imperial Censorate Deputy seated among them slowly rose to his feet.
It’s begun!
The thought flashed through everyone’s mind, and expressions across the hall shifted -some faces lit with barely concealed delight, others clouded with unease, while a few remained unreadable and still. But whatever their thoughts, all eyes turned at once toward the man in the green robe, who was now stepping forward one measured pace at a time.
“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing low, “this minister, Feng Lin, has a memorial to present.”
“I request that the Grand Court of Revision investigate the lady of the Cheng family from Jiang-zhou – cunning and deceitful, a great blight upon the realm – and that she be executed.”
