Wind howled beyond the canvas; snow slapped the hood, piling up in a crust. Meltwater, cold as knives, beaded through the seams and dripped—tap, tap—onto the wagon floor.
Inside the cramped, shuttered carriage, a single lantern swung on the wall. With every jolt—hooves punching into snow, axles groaning—the light rocked and shivered.
Qingshui huddled in a corner, the contents of the bundle scattered before her.
Blood on her clothes had frozen to a dark crust; the wound, numbed by the cold while they fled, had begun to seep again now that they were still.
She stared down at the pages in her hands—sweat-stained, snow-soaked—as if turned to stone.
Bihua watched her, then carefully reached forward to the items laid out in front.
As the wagon swayed, Qingshui saw her pick up salves and styptics. Seeing Qingshui make no move to stop her, she nudged Layne and crawled over to sit beside Qingshui.
Her fingers trembled as they found Qingshui's shoulder, her cheek, the damp tangles of her hair.
"Does it hurt?"
Qingshui's tears spilled.
Layne stared, dumbstruck, as his mother tended Qingshui like last time—cleaning the wound with care, dusting the powder, winding the bandage slow and tight.
"When you can… explain it to me. All of it," Bihua said softly.
A rut bucked the wheels; the axle shrieked. Qingshui grunted—fresh fire lanced through the newly bound gash, like a blade lifted and teased.
She exhaled a plume of white, tore her gaze from the letters, and finally met Bihua's eyes.
The carriage was so quiet it hurt. Only the crunch of wheels through snow.
Qingshui opened her mouth. In Bihua's gaze she found little anger—more pity; the ache of being lied to.
"My name," Qingshui said at last, "is Shuili."
She spoke of the day she first met Bihua—of the assignment, the town's warding artifact, the Water Envoy, the injuries, the return home—and stopped at tonight.
Bihua listened in silence—no interruptions, no questions. Layne's jaw only dropped wider and wider. The quarrelsome, food-snatching "aunt" at his side was a maze of secrets.
"So the order tonight was to kill me—and my son, too? Should I call you Shuili… or Qingshui?"
Her voice was gentle; to Qingshui it sounded like a bell of iron.
Outside, the hush of snow seemed to slow and thicken.
Qingshui lowered her head, her voice wool-stuffed. "Yes. But… I changed my mind."
Bihua slid a hand to her waist and drew out a piece of jade.
"Because of this, wasn't it? Tell me why."
It was the missing segment from a ring-pendant—something Lai Su had left in a bundle. Bihua had never known what it was; Layne had once guessed it was some talisman.
Qingshui lifted her eyes to the shard, then drew from her breast the string of linked jade hoops. They chimed softly.
Bihua saw the grain and polish match exactly and understood; she placed the shard in Qingshui's palm.
"It's yours, then. How did you know Lai Su?"
Qingshui stroked the piece, then threaded it back where it belonged—the ring whole as if it had never broken. Quietly, she told of her youth, of the alley, of Lai Su's rescue, and the lost shard…
Bihua wept, hearing her husband's old story. She gathered Qingshui in, stroking her hair, murmuring comfort.
Qingshui pressed her face into Bihua's breast, sobbing apologies—whether for tonight, or for knowing nothing when Lai Su was beheaded, not even his name until now, she herself could not tell.
Layne watched them hold each other, eyes dropping to the silver, gold, and short blade strewn on the floor. He asked, almost in a whisper:
"Mother… Aunt Qingshui… where do we go now?"
They both started. This was no time for warm reunions. Danger hadn't moved an inch.
Qingshui forced herself from that sheltering warmth, snatched up the papers, and handed them to Bihua.
"Read them. Your lineage. Why the Grand Chancellor wants you dead. It looks like Xuánhǔ has turned—but whether in shadow or in the open, I can't say. He wore a mask tonight, so likely the former."
Bihua scanned the pages—Xuánhǔ's surveillance orders, the Water Envoy placing Qingshui at her side, the Chancellor's kill order executed through Shuili's hand.
But most of all—her name.
"Mu Wanhua… I wasn't an orphan. My parents loved me…"
"In this world, there's someone trying to find me. The Chancellor fears him—that's why he keeps him chasing in circles…"
"Qiyuan… who are you?"
Bihua's mind drifted; Qingshui gave her a sharp nudge.
"I know it's too much, all at once. But for Layne's sake you have to stand. You only beat them by staying alive—Bihua—no, Mu Wanhua."
Bihua jolted, as if waking. She was Mu Wanhua now: last living blood of the Mu clan—one of the kingdom's Six Ministries—wiped out to a man.
The wheel plunged into a hollow; the whole carriage lurched. Qingshui hissed. The rear canvas kicked loose; wind and snow knifed in, the lantern fluttered and dimmed.
Wanhua yanked Layne deeper inboard, crawled to tie the flap fast, then sat squarely before Qingshui.
She gathered the scattered coin—counted once, again—one ingot of gold, six of silver. Enough to last a while, and yet the driver had warned: never stay long in one place.
"We go to Yuntai first," Wanhua said briskly, sorting as she spoke. "Then we figure it out. As for making the man the Chancellor fears find us—I've no idea. But if the Chancellor fears him, he's no ordinary soul."
She looked up at Qingshui. "I once told you: leave your masters."
Qingshui blinked, then nodded.
"Tonight you came to kill me and Layne. At least you didn't strike. Instead, you've bled to shield us all the way here."
"Qingshui—you and my husband shared a bond. He saved you. In your world he's gone now… which means your life is mine, isn't it?"
Qingshui could only nod, dazed.
"Good. Then live—properly. For yourself. Not for anyone else. Do what you want to do. Be how you wish to be."
"You have a home. You're older than me; that makes me your younger sister. You are Layne's teacher—and his aunt."
Qingshui broke again—tears and snot all at once. She flung herself into Wanhua's arms, smearing her chest and mumbling between sniffles:
"Th-then… about the tuition… c-can we not cut my allowance?"