They stumbled out of the Qingzhou prison in a daze. The sunlight no longer felt warm.
Bihua held Layne's hand and stood before the gates for a long time. The boy stared at his toes; the light made a thin golden halo around his head.
"Mother," he rasped, voice scorched like coals. "What do we do now?"
She didn't answer. She pulled her veil tighter and squinted up at the westering sun.
A guard by the door glanced at her, as if to speak, then turned away.
It was late. Dusk crept down the high walls, and the shadows at the gate stretched long.
She knelt and kissed Layne's brow. Looking into his eyes, she felt as if her heart had been left behind inside the prison—dead with the man within.
"We'll go back to the inn," she said. "Tomorrow… we decide."
By the time they returned to the Cloudrest Inn, the sky wore a mantle of afterglow. The hostess looked up, parted her lips to ask, then only lifted the rear curtain and told the kitchen to prepare a meal.
Soon a runner knocked softly and set down the dishes, then slipped away.
Bihua brought the food in but didn't eat. She picked a few bites for Layne and urged him to try. He chewed mechanically, then set his chopsticks aside and curled up on the bed.
After a while, Bihua poured herself a cup of wine and sipped slowly.
A bath? she thought vaguely. I should ask them to heat water.
And the silver he mentioned—at the bottom of the bundle. We'll need it to live. I must look…
Her thoughts drifted; her hand did not. She finished the pot of wine, then stood and went to the bed.
"Layne, tomorrow we'll go back to Youzhen. We should return Uncle Yan Jiu's horse—it's been days…"
He didn't answer at once. At length he lifted his head. "Will we come back tomorrow night?"
Bihua paused, then forced a smile. "We will."
"Good." He sat up. "I want to fetch Father's favorite drawing—the one I made of the three of us."
A drawing? She remembered: the crooked picture—his father with mismatched brows, her eyes like two black beans.
She nodded. The lamplight trembled in her eyes.
How could he know what 'confiscated' means? That home could not be returned to.
"All right. We'll go home once," she said gently, steel hidden under her breath. "Even if only to look one last time."
Wind stirred outside. Mother and son could not change a thing.
Before dawn, they left the inn. Dew slicked the stones; Qingzhou's mornings were colder than Youzhen's, the misted wind stinging their cheeks.
They headed east to Zhengyang Gate. Soldiers and laborers were already raising the execution platform. Iron stakes rang into soil; carpenters hauled racks and frames. Lime dust lay white; planks were stacked in neat, grim piles.
"Mother… this is…?" Layne's voice was barely sound.
"Mm." She held his hand and watched from afar.
Only when the last stake was driven flush did she turn and lead him to the posting station.
There they reclaimed the chestnut horse Yan Jiu had lent them. The stablehand recognized the anxious pair from days before and reached to ruffle Layne's hair; the boy brushed the hand away.
Bihua paid with two copper leaves, thanked him softly, mounted, and took Layne up.
Sunlight finally burned through the fog, gilding the high walls. They set off. Hooves drummed the road; dust blossomed behind them.
They had scarcely passed through Youzhen's south gate when the street voices rose:
"Well now—if it isn't Bihua, back already?"
"Ha! The pair of them dare come back!"
"Probably here to claim property, eh?"
"Claim what? Ill-gotten goods aren't hers!"
One shrill voice cut the rest—Auntie Wang, who had quarreled with Bihua before the festival. Leaning on her doorframe, shelling seeds, she crowed:
"Famous now, aren't you! Ten years under a false name—turns out our town hid a corrupt official's wife! Imagine—harboring a Crown criminal!"
She was gleeful, as if washing away her earlier defeat. "A corrupt official and a courtesan—what a perfect match!"
Layne flushed scarlet and gripped his mother's hand—half fury, half wounded pride.
Bihua's face showed nothing. One hand held Layne; the other gripped the rein. She walked faster.
The crowd thickened; the road clogged.
Then Yan Jiu strode up, shouldering people aside to shield them. "Break it up! What spectacle are you watching? When you ate their rice and borrowed their scales, where was this righteous fury?"
For a heartbeat, silence. Someone muttered, "We paid for the rice…"
"Did you? Strange you never said so before," Yan Jiu said coldly.
People drifted away, sullen. From a distance, Auntie Wang kept yapping: "I never said she wasn't a good woman—I only pity her… such times, aiya—"
Yan Jiu guided them through the back gate of the yamen, where Wang Cheng awaited with fresh tea.
"You came back? These days must have been hard," he said softly, face tight.
"We tried to trace Lai Su's kin," Wang Cheng added, "but found nothing. The higher-ups say if no relatives are found, he'll be treated as an unclaimed body."
Yan Jiu frowned. "But his wife and child are right here."
"The registry is blank," Wang Cheng said with a bitter smile. "We may know who they are, but the law doesn't."
He sighed. "I asked a cousin who serves as clerk in Qingzhou. He's decent and has some pull. He can arrange for a 'clean stroke' at the execution… and afterward, try to have the body returned."
"But where to bury him?" Yan Jiu asked. "What ground?"
Wang Cheng traced a circle on the table. "That's the trouble. His property is confiscated. There's no land in his name. If we bury him in secret and it's found later… sigh."
After a long silence, Bihua said, "The mulberry grove north of town. It's waste ground. Few pass there."
They both nodded. A plan, however fragile.
As they were leaving, Bihua said suddenly, "I want to see the rice shop."
All three stepped out.
Small knots of people lingered, dispersing only when Yan Jiu barked at them, though they kept peering from afar.
The shop's wooden door was sealed with strips of paper; a corner of the window paper had been torn away. Dust filmed the room within.
Bihua stood before the signboard. Wind fluttered the seals—mockery, or lament. She held Layne's hand and said nothing.
She turned down the alley behind the shop. The rear door was sealed; boards nailed across the windows.
Here she had hung laundry, simmered porridge, grown flowers, taught her child to write. Now she could not take a single step inside.
"Mother," Layne whispered, "do we… not have a home anymore?"
She smoothed his hair. "Where you are is home."
From behind came a cautious voice. "Layne?"
He turned. Two familiar figures peered around the corner—Lin Ji and Bao Silang.
Lin Ji held a basket of steamed buns, clearly stolen from home. He looked at Layne and froze, at a loss.
Bao Silang was quicker. He ran up with arms wide, then stopped a step short, hands hanging awkwardly. "Is it true?" he blurted, face reddening. "Is your dad really going to be… beheaded?"
The words struck the air like a stone in a pond.
Lin Ji tugged him back. "Bao Silang, you—"
"I didn't mean it bad!" Bao Silang threw up his hands, flushing deeper. "My mom said you came back and told me not to go near—said it's bad luck."
He scuffed his toe, mumbling to Layne, "But I wanted to see you. Feels like it's been forever."
Layne didn't speak. His nose twitched; he kicked a pebble. Trying to be brave, and failing. "Mm. I missed you too."
Lin Ji came to Bihua and offered the basket. "My mom steamed these. They're still hot. I… I had to steal them out."
Bihua blinked, took it, and whispered, "Thank you."
Lin Ji tilted his head. "Do you have plans? Will you move somewhere?"
Bao Silang looked up at Bihua, hesitant. "Auntie Bihua, if you move away… will we not see Layne again?"
Bihua nodded gently, a mist rising in her eyes. "There will be chances. The world is wide. We'll meet again."
She looked at the two half-grown boys—one standing straight with reddened eyes, the other all bluster and soft heart. Only eight or nine, and yet they understood more than many adults.
The setting sun stretched their shadows long. Mother and son stood before the shop for a long time, then went to the south gate to board a carriage back to Qingzhou.
The wagon rolled away from Youzhen into the darkening dusk.
"Layne!"
He leaned out the window. Lin Ji cupped his hands to shout:
"Wang Rou was locked in at home! She wanted to come!"
Layne sniffed and drew back inside.
A cool breath of night slipped through the cracks. Bihua pulled him into her arms and sighed softly.