Shen Fu hadn’t finished speaking when Shi Lingyi walked past him.
Her back was ramrod straight as she crossed the main courtyard, the long corridor, and the vermilion gate she had passed through countless times.
A maid hurried after her, trying to help, but she shoved her away.
A crowd had already gathered outside the Shen residence. Curious onlookers, nosy neighbors, and several expressionless constables in official uniforms stood at the gate, watching the people come and go.
Shi Lingyi stood on the steps, her gaze sweeping over the faces—some curious, some gleeful. The corner of her mouth twitched faintly.
She said nothing. Turning, she walked back inside, and the gate slowly closed behind her.
When the news reached the Yongning Marquis’s residence, Shi Yuanzhi was writing a letter in his study.
He set down his brush, leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and drew a deep breath.
Outside the window, the maids whispered among themselves. They kept their voices low, but he still caught a few words:
“The Shen family.” “Confiscation.” “Execution.”
Shi Yuanzhi remembered the day Shi Lingyi had married. He had stood at the gate, watching the bridal sedan disappear into the distance.
Back then, he had thought he was entrusting his daughter to a reliable man, that the Shen family would treat her well.
But within a few years, that “reliable man” had shown his true colors: a parasite who used his influence to force unfair deals in Huaibei, colluded with bandits, and evaded taxes.
Shi Youlan stood outside the entrance to Qingzhi Court, a handkerchief clenched in her fist, twisted into a crumpled mess.
Through the door, she told Madam Liu what had happened to the Shen family. Her voice was quiet, but loud enough for the people inside to hear.
When no one answered, Shi Youlan stood in silence for a long while, then turned and left.
As she walked away, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand several times.
Shi Huai received the news from the capital in Liugou.
That evening, he was sitting in the courtyard. The setting sun cast an orange glow over everything.
Li Chengze walked in from outside, a letter in his hand. He sat down across from Shi Huai and placed it on the stone table.
“News from the capital. Shen Zhixing’s case has been decided.”
Shi Huai picked up the letter and opened it.
“Shen Zhixing is guilty of multiple offenses, including forcing unfair deals, colluding with bandits, and evading taxes. He is sentenced to execution, suspended pending review. His property is to be confiscated.”
“Vice Minister Shen, for concealing his knowledge of the crimes and shielding his son from the law, is stripped of his post and exiled three thousand li.”
“Liu Youcai, for abetting the crimes and acting as an intermediary, is sentenced to immediate execution.”
“Shi Lingyi, as a member of the Shen family, was not directly involved but knew of the crimes and failed to report them. She is sentenced to fifty strokes of the cane and exile two thousand li.”
Shi Huai’s gaze stopped at the final line.
“Exile two thousand li.” The characters were neat, each stroke written without hesitation.
When Shi Yuanping had written those words, he probably hadn’t considered that he was sentencing his own niece.
Or perhaps he had, but thought she deserved it.
Shi Huai folded the letter, slipped it back into its envelope, and looked up at Li Chengze.
“Shen Zhixing’s case has been decided. He’s been sentenced to execution, suspended pending review.”
Li Chengze’s brows drew together slightly, then relaxed.
He didn’t ask what Shi Huai was thinking. The answer was obvious.
Shi Huai was thinking of Shi Lingyi—the elder sister who had tried to harm him for as long as he could remember, only to bring ruin upon herself and end up on the road to exile.
The journey from Liugou to the capital took Shi Huai more than ten days.
Along the way, he received a steady stream of news.
Shen Zhixing had been thrown into the death row prison. Shi Lingyi had fallen ill on the way to exile. When the Shen residence was searched, several million taels of silver had been dug out of a cellar.
He read every report, folded each one, and tucked it into his sleeve. His face betrayed nothing.
Qinghe sometimes sneaked glances at him. She wanted to ask what was on his mind, but didn’t dare, so she swallowed her words.
It was raining lightly the day Shi Huai returned to the marquis’s residence.
He jumped down from the carriage and looked up at the plaque above the gate: “Yongning Marquis’s Residence.”
Rain dripped from the ribs of his umbrella onto the flagstones, splashing in tiny droplets.
Old Liu hurried out of the gatehouse with an umbrella. His face was a mixture of excitement and heartache. His lips trembled several times before he finally managed to say, “Young Master is home.”
Shi Huai nodded to him and stepped through the gate.
He crossed the front courtyard and walked down the long corridor. Rainwater streamed from the eaves, gathering into rivulets on the ground.
Qinghe followed behind him, holding Tangerine. The cat poked its head out, looking around as if trying to find its bearings.
The gate to Qingzhi Court was still shut. Two matrons were dozing beneath the veranda. At the sound of footsteps, they looked up—and froze when they saw Shi Huai standing at the entrance.
“Open the gate.”
His voice was quiet, but there was no mistaking the authority in it. The two matrons sprang to their feet. One fumbled for the keys while the other hurried inside to announce his arrival.
The gate opened.
Shi Huai stepped over the threshold and entered Qingzhi Court.
The pomegranate tree in the courtyard had shed its leaves. Its bare branches stretched toward the gray sky.
Several of the goldfish were gone from the stone basin, and a few withered leaves floated on the water.
The parrot beneath the veranda huddled on its perch, feathers puffed up. It didn’t call out when it saw him.
Madam Liu sat in the Buddhist shrine, prayer beads in hand, murmuring prayers.
At the sound of footsteps, she opened her eyes and saw Shi Huai standing in the courtyard through the half-open door.
The rain drifted in from beneath the eaves, falling on his shoulders and hair. He seemed not to notice.
“You’re back?” Madam Liu’s voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible.
“I’m back.”
Shi Huai stood at the doorway, looking at the woman who had once wanted him dead and had now grown so old he could hardly recognize her.
Her hair was completely white. Wrinkles etched her face like knife marks, her eyes were sunken, and she was so thin she seemed little more than skin and bones.
Madam Liu’s gaze lingered on his face for a moment.
She lowered her eyes and continued to roll the prayer beads between her fingers. Her voice was as faint as a breeze.
“What happened to Lingyi… Was it your doing?”
“The court acted according to the law. It has nothing to do with me.”
Madam Liu’s fingers paused. She looked up at him, and an unreadable emotion flickered in her cloudy old eyes.
Her lips moved several times before she finally managed to ask, “Do you hate her?”
Shi Huai was silent for a moment. “No.”
Madam Liu stared at him for a long while. Her eyes reddened slightly, but she didn’t cry.
She lowered her gaze to the prayer beads, polished smooth and gleaming from years of handling. Her voice came out muffled.
“She was such a sweet child. She used to wear her hair in two little buns and smile at everyone she met.”
Shi Huai said nothing.
Madam Liu spoke again, her voice even softer now, as though she were talking only to herself.
“When did she change? Was it after you came along? Or after she married into the Shen family? I can’t tell anymore.”
The rain grew heavier, pounding against the roof tiles.
Shi Huai stood beneath the eaves as water leaked through a gap in the roof and dripped onto his shoulder.
He didn’t move. He simply stood there, looking at the white-haired woman in the shrine.
For the first time, he thought Madam Liu looked old.
Old enough to be pitied, old enough to be hated—and old enough to leave him unsure how to face her.
“Madam, take care of your health. Second Sister still needs you.”
Shi Huai turned and left.
Madam Liu sat in the Buddhist shrine, watching his figure disappear into the curtain of rain. At last, the prayer beads slipped from between her fingers, rolled several times across the floor, and came to rest beside the threshold.
She stared at the beads for a long while. Then she bent down to pick them up, but stopped halfway, remaining there, bent over and utterly motionless.
