The wind kept blowing.
The mulberry grove at Youzhen's north gate was always remote. Now, as the sun slanted west, light sifted through the high branches and fell across a newly heaped mound, making the earth glimmer faintly gold.
The four of them stood in silence for a long time.
Yan Jiu, hands tucked in his sleeves, stared down at the unmarked rise as if counting its inches. Wang Cheng turned his back to the grave and looked toward the clouds beyond the trees—thin shreds that the wind pulled apart, impossible to hold.
Bihua stood straight, her right hand resting on Layne's shoulder.
The boy kept his head down, eyes on the ground, poking at the soil with his toe as if searching for something that might remain.
"The wind's up," Wang Cheng said first, quietly. "Spring isn't summer—dark comes early. We should go."
Bihua nodded, drew her collar close, and reached for Layne's hand.
Yan Jiu glanced at her, then at Wang Cheng. "You can't stay at the inn, and there's nowhere in town. If we linger and cross paths with the wrong people, we'll waste breath explaining."
Wang Cheng answered, "Let's leave now while it's still light. We can catch a cart at the south gate to Muyun Town. It's under Lizhou—still in Xixia's jurisdiction, but farther from Qingzhou. Fewer familiar faces."
"I brought travel permits," he added, offering a small oil-paper packet, the seal wrinkled with sweat. "There's also a calling card from an old acquaintance—good for the first three checkpoints."
Bihua didn't take it at once.
She looked down at the shallow track the coffin had left: a long, faint scar in the grass. The crushed blades were slowly lifting again.
After a while she said, "I'll remember today."
Wang Cheng opened his mouth, closed it, and finally said, "If you live in peace, then we didn't see him off in vain."
Yan Jiu gave a short grunt and turned away, rubbing at his eyes—against the wind, or to hide something.
Sunlight slanted deeper into the grove.
With Bihua steadying Layne, the four stepped out, their feet making a new path. Behind them, the fresh grave made its silent farewell.
Before heading to Muyun Town, Bihua checked their bundle on a stone block outside the grove.
It was the pack she'd kept close the whole way—old cloth wrapped around coins and clothes, creased and flattened. The cakes were crushed beyond eating. The wicker basket they'd taken out of town had been lost somewhere; only the bundle remained.
She crouched and laid things out layer by layer—clothes, pouches, copper strings, a medicine roll. Her fingers touched something small and hard at the bottom, wrapped carefully in silk.
She thought it a sachet.
But when she unwrapped it, a fragment of a pendant lay in her palm—a broken link from a girdle ornament.
Not a full piece—just one section.
White jade for the body, silver filigree at the edge, and hair-thin scarlet lines circling the jade. But for the sun, the carving would be nearly invisible.
A corner was nicked, yet the piece was still warm with softness. The stringing clasp was gone, but the sheen remained.
Bihua froze.
She had never owned such a thing—least of all a woman's pendant. After she left the House of Fragrant Shadows, she wore no jade at all.
More importantly—at a glance she knew it was not hers.
No name, no note, nothing she had seen before. Yet it had been hidden deep in the bundle she carried, wrapped with care, as if someone had placed it there very gently.
She stared at it a long time, then slipped it into her inner pouch.
"Mother?" Layne edged close, voice low.
"It's nothing," she said evenly. "Something your father left."
She went on sorting.
"…Less than three silver ingots left. Six strings of coppers. Three sets of clothes. Some medicines. No grain—we'll buy in Muyun." Her voice was unhurried, crisp, cool. "Once we reach Muyun, we need to rent a room quickly. You must resume your studies. We'll need winter clothes. If I can borrow a letter to place you in a school, all the better…"
It sounded less like she was speaking than tallying a survival ledger.
Wang Cheng listened and found himself wordless, filled with a sudden respect.
She lifted her eyes to the westering light beyond the trees. "I remember what you've done for my husband. If my son and I ever make something of ourselves, we will return to Youzhen and thank you at your door."
In that moment, her eyes held not water, but a sheathed blade.
The road to Muyun Town was not long.
Outside the south gate, a freight wagon bound for Lizhou was about to depart. Bihua asked the driver for a half-ride to Muyun.
It was a small cart loaded with lacquered cloth and spices. The carter was a quiet man with a sack of dry rations at his belt. Seeing a mother with a child, he nodded and asked no more.
"Let them off before Muyun," Wang Cheng said, slipping him money and murmuring instructions.
"I know," the driver said.
Mother and son sat near the back atop hay, surrounded by wrapped bundles and baskets of scented leaves. The air was faintly sweet.
Bihua never let Layne out of reach; she held his hand the whole way. He was quieter than ever.
The lowering sun stretched the wagon's shadow long. He leaned against his mother's shoulder, watching birds skim the treetops without a word.
Wheels rattled. Soon Yan Jiu and Wang Cheng were only small figures, then gone.
"What are you thinking?" Bihua asked.
"Nothing," Layne said, shaking his head.
But he was thinking.
He thought of that day in the city lord's manor, when he lunged at Xuanhu and bit down—how a hand had pinched the back of his neck.
A feeling both sour and numb—and oddly warm.
Heat had flowed from that grip down his spine. His jaw went slack; he couldn't bite again; drool spilled helplessly. It didn't hurt, but it was strange. He hadn't felt right again for the length of a stick of incense.
He hadn't told anyone.
He wasn't sure it wasn't his imagination. But when his father's head fell and his mother fainted, he felt… something again, stirring inside him.
He'd thought it was fear. The more he thought on it, the less it felt like that.
"Mother."
"Mm?"
"That Lord Xuanhu…"
Bihua started and glanced at him.
"It's nothing."
He chose not to say more. She wondered why he'd raised Xuanhu at all. He, too, must be carrying secrets in that small head.
The sun struggled, then was pulled beneath the horizon. The last light faded.
Muyun Town appeared.
A small market town near Lizhou's outer polders, modest in scale yet seemingly more crowded than Youzhen. Old wooden paifang gates stood at the entrance, their beams carved with cloud patterns—worn, but elegant.
The street was narrow, gravel underfoot whispering with each step. Most lamps were out; a few shops kept half a door of light. Children carried lanterns home; a porter pushed his cart into an alley.
With a pack on her back and Layne by the hand, Bihua found an inn by the gate—Mist-and-Wave Inn—and pushed the door open.
Two paper lanterns hung at the eaves, nodding in the wind. The innkeeper, a gray-templed elder, sat behind the counter with his tea.
"Lodging?"
"Two nights," Bihua said. "Master, would you know of any long-term rooms? My son and I are new to town—we'd be grateful for help settling."
"There's an old room in the back court—narrow bed, but quiet. Tomorrow I'll ask around for vacant houses."
"Thank you."
He gave the pair a measuring look—surprise flickered and passed. He called a boy to bring a key.
The back room sat in a side wing—low eaves, small window, threshold polished smooth. Inside, the stove still held a little warmth. A narrow table and a small cabinet stood by the pallet; a bundle of old kindling lay in the corner.
Bihua set the bundle down. "Wash your hands first," she told Layne. "I'll ask for hot water."
"Okay." He slipped off his shoes and socks, bare feet cool on blue brick, as if shrugging off a long dream.
Water murmured in the courtyard—the boy drawing and heating it.
Bihua sat on the bed alone, untying the bundle. She took the broken pendant from her inner pouch.
Cold and quiet, it lay in her palm.
She frowned faintly. No thread of an answer.
"Whose is this? Why is it in my hand…" she whispered. "You left me something—but you left me a riddle."
The lamp burned soft; the room warmed.
Layne, washed, sprawled over the bed edge to write. With the short stump of a pencil from Youzhen, he scrawled "Muyun Town," circled it, thought a moment, and drew a circle for "Youzhen" nearby.
"Bed," Bihua urged gently, snuffing the wick and lying down without undressing.
That night, both slept deep.
Moonlight filtered through cloud, spilling pale on the paper window. Wind brushed the eaves and branches, like a muffled sob.
Muyun Town, just so, caught them as they fell.