Chapter 88#

He only let himself watch a moment longer before the wind slipped through his collar, and Wen Zhuo was chilled into a sneeze.

The three people in the courtyard heard the sound and turned around in unison.

Liu Qiying was sharp-eyed and immediately spotted that the collar of his fur robe wasn’t properly fastened, revealing the edge of his underclothes. She grew instantly exasperated: “My lord! Are you deliberately wearing so little to come out and catch the wind? Even if the old physician misses you dearly, today is New Year’s Eve—he has his own family to accompany. He can’t just come over to celebrate your birthday.”

Shen Zheng’s eyes lit up the moment he saw Wen Zhuo. He strode straight toward the door, tossing back to Liu Qiying, “Don’t worry, I’ll educate your lord.”

With that, he had already slipped through the crack in the door, his long arm reaching out to scoop Wen Zhuo steadily into a horizontal carry. With his free hand, he latched the door behind him, sealing the biting wind firmly outside.

Shen Zheng had just ridden over, his body coated in cold. The leather belt at his waist felt like a layer of ice, and when it brushed Wen Zhuo’s ankle, he shivered.

Before Wen Zhuo could speak, Shen Zheng lowered his head and caught his lips, kissing him insistently, moving step by step, pressing forward: “Why were you out in the wind again, hmm?”

“Is the teacher no longer afraid of the pain?”

“Not afraid of acupuncture anymore?”

He didn’t stop until he reached the bedside, where he briskly threw back the covers and tucked Wen Zhuo securely inside.

In the past, at times like this, Wen Zhuo would usually blush and turn away, hiding, refusing to admit his joy and arousal. But today, the moment Shen Zheng set him down, he tightly hooked his arms around Shen Zheng’s neck, even leaning forward to offer his lips for a kiss.

This sudden enthusiasm caught Shen Zheng slightly off guard, but he accepted the initiative with relish, bending down to kiss Wen Zhuo for a long while before pinching his slightly cold wrist. “It seems you really missed me.”

“Mm.” Wen Zhuo replied in a low voice, but his arms tightened around him as if still shaken.

He urgently needed an embrace to confirm that seeing the person he wanted to see the moment his birthday began was real, that the joy and delight surging in his heart were real.

It was only when Shen Zheng’s palm pressed against his back that he noticed something was wrong. His underclothes were damp, chilled stiff by the wind.

“How did you sweat so much?” Shen Zheng’s heart tightened. He quickly reached up to feel his forehead. “Are you sick?”

Wen Zhuo closed his eyes and murmured, “I went to bed early last night, but had a nightmare of strange monsters.”

Shen Zheng finally relaxed. He stroked Wen Zhuo’s loose, cascading hair again and again. “So it was monsters causing trouble. Frightened the teacher?”

“A little.” Wen Zhuo paused, then slowly opened his eyes, a faint, barely perceptible mist still in them. “I didn’t expect Your Highness could come. On New Year’s Eve, the palace would be busy all day.”

“Mm. At the si hour, I have to go to Fengxian Hall for ancestral rites and perform the three offerings—I had to be there,” Shen Zheng replied, brushing aside the stray strands of hair on Wen Zhuo’s forehead.

Wen Zhuo’s eyes dropped, reining in his emotions. “Every word and action of Your Highness is bound by ancestral teachings and ritual law—it is not merely a matter of your own conduct. You shouldn’t have come.”

In truth, he wanted very much for Shen Zheng to stay with him through his birthday, even to share the New Year’s vigil, nestled together. But these words—he could never bring himself to say them. So he uttered insincere words instead, even as his arms tightened around Shen Zheng’s neck.

Shen Zheng’s peripheral vision caught the effort in his arms and couldn’t help but smile. He warmed his own hands by rubbing them together, then gently cupped Wen Zhuo’s face, making him look at him. “When the teacher saw me just now, were you very happy?”

“I am happy, naturally, but—”

“Then don’t say those things.” Shen Zheng cut him off, his gaze turning serious. “Wanting to spend your birthday with you—I made that decision after careful consideration. I can bear any consequences. The teacher just needs to be happy. If you are always so magnanimous and understanding, after a while, I will grow accustomed to your forbearance and won’t be able to sense your grievances anymore.”

These words were both blunt and sincere. Wen Zhuo was momentarily struck speechless.

“Still sleepy?”

Wen Zhuo shook his head.

“Then change clothes and get up. Make wax flowers with me.” As he spoke, Shen Zheng reached out to untie the fastenings of Wen Zhuo’s underclothes, not giving him a chance to argue. “I was planning to surprise you by covering a tree with them while you slept, but having you join me actually makes me happier.”

For once, Wen Zhuo didn’t stop him. He let Shen Zheng undo the ties, and only when the last one was loose did he finally relent, blushing as he burrowed into the covers, leaving only his eyes visible. “Your Highness, my clothes are in the third shelf of the wardrobe.”

His damp underclothes were hung on a rack to air. Shen Zheng went to the wardrobe and retrieved clean, dry ones.

Wen Zhuo reached out an arm to take them, but Shen Zheng pushed aside the quilt and climbed in beside him, ignoring his shyness, insisting on dressing him himself.

Once all the ties from collarbone to waist were pulled tight and smoothed, Shen Zheng said in a low voice, “Didn’t I say before? From now on, whenever I’m here, I’ll dress the teacher myself.”

Wen Zhuo’s cheeks burned. It took him a long moment to squeeze out, “…But Your Highness’s hands are very cold.”

Shen Zheng laughed. “Now you know they’re cold. Then why were you standing behind the door just now, secretly watching me?”

Wen Zhuo thought to himself: I didn’t watch for very long—just that the scene was so beautiful, he couldn’t bear to look away.

He let Shen Zheng wrap him up in the robe, even tucking his ears snugly under the hood, bundling him into a perfect little dumpling before they stepped outside again.

The servant had already melted the red wax. The bowl of crimson liquid steamed in the cold air, only for the wind to snatch the warmth away in an instant.

“Whoa, that’s hot!” The servant had barely set the bowl on the stone table before he was hopping back, clutching his ear to cool it.

“Hurry, before the wax hardens,” Shen Zheng said. He took a pinch of soap beans, dissolving them in a bowl of warm water. Dipping his fingertips in the solution to moisten them, he then plunged them into the wax, submerging only about one knuckle before quickly lifting his wrist and gently pinching the pear branch.

The wax met the cold and instantly solidified. As he pulled his fingers away, a delicate, translucent red plum blossom bloomed on the bare branch.

“Oh! So that’s what you call a wax flower! I’ve seen someone make those before!” Jiang Mannü’s eyes lit up. Without a second thought, she stuck her finger into the wax—and immediately yelped from the heat.

But she refused to pull back, gritting her teeth and pressing her finger onto a branch. Only then did she find the wax stuck fast to her fingertip, refusing to come off. Frantic, she stomped her foot. “What’s going on? Why is it stuck?”

Liu Qiying chuckled beside her. Following Shen Zheng’s method, she quickly dipped her fingers in the soap-bean water, then into the wax, twirling and pulling smoothly—a smaller, more delicate wax blossom settled neatly onto a branch.

“You have to use the soap-bean water first. Otherwise, your fingers aren’t slick, and the wax won’t come off.”

“Fun, fun! Big sisters, let me try too!” The servant, itching to join in, mimicked the motion—dipping, then pinching onto a higher branch.

His technique was clumsy, and the petals he formed were crooked.

Jiang Mannü shot him a look of disdain. “Your fingers are too thick. That looks terrible.”

The servant didn’t back down. “Sister Jiang, you’ve got some nerve talking. You haven’t even managed to make a single flower yet!”

Snow fell in a flurry, and red blossoms adorned the branches, as if a sweet fragrance drifted on the wind, conjuring a hint of spring.

Wen Zhuo stood on the steps, watching them play and bicker, occasionally scooping up handfuls of snow to toss at each other. A smile crept into his eyes.

He was usually one to stay indoors, rarely joining in on such frivolity. But now, drawn by the lively atmosphere, he found himself rolling up his sleeves and reaching out his fingertips, dipping them into the soap-bean water.

“Hiss! Jiang Mannü wasn’t lying—it really is hot.” The heat of the wax made Wen Zhuo pull back abruptly, but he still pressed the wax onto the nearest branch. Moments later, a tiny four-petaled plum blossom remained in the snowy scene.

Shen Zheng was instantly at his side, taking his hand and gently rubbing his fingers. “Let me see. Mm, it’s red from the heat.”

He wrapped Wen Zhuo’s fingers in his palm. “But the teacher’s flower is prettier than everyone else’s.”

Perplexed, Wen Zhuo looked up at him. “It’s exactly the same as everyone else’s.”

Shen Zheng studied the trembling little blossom closely. In his heart, he thought: Not at all. It’s clearly a soft, round little cat’s paw print.

The small courtyard of the Wen residence was filled with joy, while on the eastern side of the imperial city, the high-walled Xie Minister ’s residence lay shrouded in gloom.

Xie Langyang had lain fully dressed for half the night, but his eyes opened at the usual court time, and sleep would not return.

He fumbled to pour himself a cup of overnight cold tea, but at the first sip, he choked, coughing violently.

He was alone in the dim light. Stepping over the cold floor tiles, he made his way to the study. From between the pages of the deepest shelf’s ancient book, he retrieved the carefully preserved Ode to the Evening Mountain.

He knew the words by heart, yet still, by the faint light seeping through the window, he read them line by line, wanting to see every turn of every brushstroke, as if that could let him touch the figure of that brilliant, startlingly talented man from years ago.

Decades stretched between them like another lifetime. Suddenly turning back, Xie Langyang’s heart began to ache uncontrollably.

He doubled over, one hand braced on the desk, his shoulders shaking slightly as a few scalding tears splashed into the cold, dim light.

He knew today was Wen Zhuo’s birthday. He remembered the last time—New Year’s Eve, the final meeting before the execution.

He had not received Wen Zhuo’s forgiveness. He had plunged a blade into the heart of the one he loved, but in doing so, he had cut himself to pieces.

For the honor of his clan, for his official career and reputation, he had always tread carefully, as if on thin ice, never daring to indulge his desires, never relaxing his restraint.

But in the end, he had lost the one person he most wanted to possess, step by step.

This sea of suffering was unbearable. New Year’s Eve was like a hammer and pestle, piercing sharply through his usual facade of composure. Right now, he only wanted to throw caution to the wind, rush to Wen Zhuo’s side, and pour out all these years of pain and longing—just as during the hunting expedition at Qingping Mountain, to earn a little of his leniency.

He jerked his head up, eyes fixed straight on the window paper, a rare, desperate resolve burning in his gaze.

It was still dark. It wasn’t yet time for rules and conformity. Today, he would step out of this cage that had confined him for ten years. He would indulge himself, just this once.

With that thought, Xie Langyang strode out of the study and headed straight for the mansion’s gate.

But no sooner had he dismissed the servants and taken hold of the horse hitched to the post than a hurried female voice called out from behind him—

“Xie-lang, so early—where are you going?”

Gong Yuwen had clearly thrown on a robe in haste and rushed over. Her hair was disheveled, her face still carrying the remnants of sleep.

“I have something to do. You go back first.” Xie Langyang glanced at her, but continued to unbar the gate.

The wind suddenly grew fierce, pushing against his forehead, pulling at his robes, making every step feel arduous. Yet in his heart, a long-lost emotion stirred—the feeling of finally being able to fight against all obstacles.

“We have to go pay respects to Father at the si hour,” Gong Yuwen reminded him from behind, shivering in the cold.

“I know.” Xie Langyang didn’t look back. One foot was already out of the gate.

Gong Yuwen was silent for a moment, then suddenly called out urgently, “Xie-lang, go ahead and do whatever you want. Don’t worry about me, and don’t worry about Father—I’ll find a way to handle it!”

Xie Langyang’s steps faltered. He whipped around to see Gong Yuwen standing in the wind and snow, her small face red with cold, her hair a mess, yet still forcing a smile for him.

Xie Langyang’s heart softened with guilt, and suddenly the thought of forget it crossed his mind.

But today was Wen Zhuo’s birthday. It was the first day in ten years he had dared to muster such courage.

He closed his eyes, steeled his heart, and waved a hand at Gong Yuwen, signaling her to go back inside. Then, with no further hesitation, he mounted his horse and galloped away.

Only after his figure had completely disappeared did the fake smile on Gong Yuwen’s face vanish. She stared coldly at the closed gate.

What should have been a half-hour journey, Xie Langyang cut down to a quarter-hour.

His horse’s hooves crushed the snow, slipping several times and nearly throwing him off, but he refused to slow.

For the first time, he felt that the distance between the Wen residence and the Xie residence was so vast—far enough to drain a man’s life.

The heartbeat in his chest was frantic, pounding so hard it hurt his eardrums. By the time he reached Wen Zhuo’s gate, he practically tumbled off the horse.

His hands were already numb, too stiff to grip the reins.

But ignoring the frostbite, he hastily brushed the snow from his robes, wiped the frost from his brows, and glanced down at the white jade camellia ornament in his palm. A sudden, unsettling nervousness welled up in him, like a traveler approaching a familiar village.

He took a deep breath, stepped onto the stone steps, and knocked on the door ring.

Dong dong dong!

The wooden door remained still. No one answered from within.

Xie Langyang knitted his brow. He waited patiently for a moment, then knocked harder, producing a louder sound.

Still no answer.

On New Year’s Eve, the residence shouldn’t be empty. Could the entire household be asleep?

He distinctly remembered that Wen Zhuo was from Mianzhou, where customs differed from the north. The Wen household followed the habits of the Jiang and Liu siblings, lighting the stove before New Year’s Eve for warmth and good luck.

Unable to contain his impatience, Xie Langyang tightened his grip on the jade ornament, remounted, and turned toward the back gate of the residence.

The snow was deeper behind the back gate. He dismounted, his boot soles trampling the fresh, thin snow. Before he could even reach the eaves, he heard a burst of cheerful laughter from inside the courtyard.

“What about those high branches? Are we going to have to bring a ladder?” Jiang Mannü asked bluntly.

“You’re such a brute. Just carry someone up there to pinch them!” Liu Qiying teased.

“That’s right!” Jiang Mannü slapped her thigh. “Xiao Dong, hold the bowl steady. Ah Liu, you sit on my shoulders—I’ll carry you!”

“Can one person handle it?” the servant’s voice cut in.

“Why not let His Highness carry the lord!” Liu Qiying’s voice turned sly. “You and I are the lightest here.”

“Nonsense. How can I sit astride His Highness’s shoulders?” Wen Zhuo said sternly.

Liu Qiying ignored him and called out, “Your Highness, is that okay?”

Shen Zheng’s voice came through with a smile. “Of course. Good idea.”

Then came Wen Zhuo’s short yelp: “Your Highness… slowly! Don’t lift your teacher too high!”

“Don’t be afraid. I’ll protect you,” Shen Zheng coaxed.

Xie Langyang felt as if the blood in his veins had frozen in that moment. His palm went slack, and the camellia ornament fell with a soft thud into the snow.

The noise and laughter from the courtyard hit his face like a willow branch soaked in water—stinging and scalding.

He was an outsider, an extra, standing awkwardly under the eaves, utterly unable to enter their joy.

He had lain awake all night, rushed over in a fever of impulse, only to find that no one had been waiting for him.

Without him, Wen Zhuo could still be so happy—just like in the early days when they first met.

Only now, Xie Langyang couldn’t understand it. Wen Zhuo and Shen Zheng had known each other for barely a year—how could they have become so close, as if teacher-student propriety and ruler-subject etiquette meant nothing to them?

Even if Wen Zhuo was strong-willed, Shen Zheng was a prince of the dynasty. How could he abandon court rules to fool around with Wen Zhuo in a small yard? How could he allow a subject to sit on his shoulders?

Xie Langyang staggered back, his face as pale as paper. A nameless unease surged in his heart.

“Dawn has broken!”

The fine snow abruptly stopped. A long rift split the sky, and the morning light poured down like the Milky Way, flooding the entire courtyard.

Wen Zhuo’s eyes widened slightly. He gazed at the tree full of golden-red blossoms, unable to stop looking.

A slightly rough palm quietly took his hand. “Xia Fu, ever the jade-carver. Evening Mountain—happy birthday, and a happy New Year.”

Wen Zhuo’s fingers curled, pressing tightly against the thin calluses in Shen Zheng’s palm. He truly felt happy.

“Thank you, Your Highness.”