Since Qian Jiaoniang had stopped taking her medicine and once again lived in harmony with Xing Muzheng, entwined day and night, it was indeed no surprise that she now bore a joyful pulse. Yet at the sudden news, both husband and wife were stunned.
“Congratulations to the Marquis, congratulations to Madam!” The servants standing by were all delighted and gave their blessings.
Xing Muzheng had long yearned for this child. Once he came back to himself, he could not help but rejoice madly. This was Jiaoniang fully accepting his bloodline—how could he not be overjoyed? Blood surged through him; he thought, whoever dared lay a hand on his wife and child, he would slay ghosts if they met, and gods if they blocked his way.
Qian Jiaoniang too was filled with joy. She caressed her still-flat belly, casting a shy glance toward Xing Muzheng. Their eyes met, and Xing Muzheng could not help but press a kiss against her cheek.
The maids had long grown used to such sights, but Doctor Bai, unaccustomed, flushed and quickly averted her gaze.
“Jiaoniang, our daughter is coming,” Xing Muzheng murmured huskily.
Qian Jiaoniang smiled and nodded, then asked Doctor Bai, “Doctor Bai, how far along is this child?”
Doctor Bai replied with a smile, “More than a month.”
Xing Muzheng pressed his hand over hers on her belly, tightening his hold. His smile could not be hidden, but suddenly recalling how just recently they had made fierce love, he sobered and asked anxiously, “Will intimacy harm her?”
Qian Jiaoniang’s cheeks burned, but for the sake of the child she feigned calm. Doctor Bai coughed lightly, “This old physician was just about to say—Madam’s pregnancy is not yet stable. For the first three months, you must not share a bed.”
Xing Muzheng’s heart chilled with lingering fear, afraid his own recklessness might cause him to lose the daughter he had long prayed for.
The two gave thanks to Doctor Bai. Xing Muzheng ordered Hongjuan to deliver a red envelope. Hongjuan, smiling, escorted Doctor Bai out. The other attendants were dismissed by Xing Muzheng as well. Husband and wife leaned together on the couch, whispering softly, their joy unspeakable.
But after the long sweetness, Qian Jiaoniang grew clear-headed again. Thinking of their current situation, her heart inevitably dimmed.
“This child may have come at the wrong time.”
Xing Muzheng tapped her hand in admonishment. “Nonsense. Our daughter comes at whatever time is best. Don’t let her hear you speak otherwise and be unhappy.”
Qian Jiaoniang laughed lightly. “Are you being foolish? She’s still so small—how could she hear us?”
“In any case, don’t speak nonsense.” Xing Muzheng cradled her like a treasure in his arms.
Feeling his cherishing, Qian Jiaoniang’s nose stung with sourness. After so much hardship, she had thought her second child would no longer suffer—but now, they faced such troubling times.
Xing Muzheng knew what she was thinking, and though he said little, in his heart he had already made a decision.
***
Xing Pingchun, after school, first learned that he was to go to Yongan as study companion to princes he did not know. Then he learned his mother was pregnant with another child—brother or sister, he did not know. For a time, he could not tell if he ought to feel fear or joy, and stood there blankly, at a loss.
Qian Jiaoniang came forward, drew him into her arms, and stroked his face. “Chou’er, you needn’t be afraid. Mother will go with you to Yongan.”
At her words, Xing Pingchun instantly felt relieved—but almost as quickly, worry returned. He was no longer a child ignorant of everything. He understood going to Yongan was not a good thing. His mother accompanying him was certainly good, but she now bore a little one, and would have to endure the hardships of travel, be parted from Father, and face toil and worry in Yongan.
“Mother, will you truly go with me?”
“Of course. Mother cannot bear to be parted from you so long.” Qian Jiaoniang smiled, glancing at Xing Muzheng. “As for your father, let him stay in Yuzhou to rest and recover.”
Xing Pingchun seemed about to protest again, but Xing Muzheng gave him a look, and he held his tongue.
That night, after Qian Jiaoniang had gone to sleep, Xing Muzheng rose silently and went to Xing Pingchun’s courtyard. Xing Pingchun, knowing his father must have something to say, had stayed up reading in the study. When he saw Xing Muzheng enter, he quickly rose and saluted. “Father.”
Xing Muzheng nodded, went over, and glanced at the book his son was reading—a Shiji. He picked it up, then set it down again. “Have you understood anything from it?”
Xing Pingchun said, “I see only dynasties rising and falling.”
Xing Muzheng smiled faintly. “Then you have understood something.”
Xing Pingchun poured him tea, but Xing Muzheng waved it away. “Come with me.”
Xing Pingchun did not know where his father meant to take him at such a late hour, but simply followed obediently. Xing Muzheng led him out a side gate, where Li Qingquan and Wang Yong already waited with horses prepared. At this hour the city was under curfew, but only the Marquis of Dingxi’s household could ride abroad. Xing Muzheng brought Xing Pingchun all the way to the Yuzhou yamen. Once inside the gate, Xie Zhang was waiting, and upon seeing them enter, bowed and led them toward the dungeons.
Li Qingquan and Wang Yong remained at the dungeon entrance. Ahead, yamen runners carried torches to light the way. Xing Pingchun followed closely behind his father down into the damp prison.
The wails of ghosts seemed to echo faintly. It was Xing Pingchun’s first time in such a place, and his heart pounded. But Xie Zhang did not lead them deep into the cells; instead, he turned a corner and entered a small chamber hung with torture instruments. Torches flared all around, the air thick with the reek of blood, making it hard to breathe.
Suppressing the nausea rising within him, Xing Pingchun focused his eyes—and saw kneeling there a man with his head covered in a black hood. His prison clothes were ragged, and the weeds tangled with his matted hair made it hard to distinguish one from the other. Xing Pingchun did not know who this man was, nor why he had been taken by the authorities.
“This is a death row prisoner.” Xing Muzheng explained to Xing Pingchun, but said no more. He only gave a cold order: “Kill him.”
Xing Pingchun was greatly startled. Before him suddenly appeared a long sword—upon closer look, it was precisely the treasured sword his father had once gifted him. He wanted him to feed the sword with blood today!
“Father…” Xing Pingchun accepted the sword, but instinctively stepped back. He disliked killing, all the more so when it was a living man.
“Kill him.” Xing Muzheng repeated.
The kneeling prisoner, hearing his end had come, began muffled cries, as if his mouth was stuffed with cloth.
But the sound only made one’s heart more agitated. Xing Pingchun gripped the sword tightly.
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