Chapter 54#

Pei Dan returned to the East Warm Pavilion of the residence and did not go out for a long time. Night had grown deep. Wu Zhiheng peeked outside the door several times, and finally couldn’t hold back—he went and fetched a fresh basin of charcoal himself, then carefully pushed open the pavilion door.#

The moment the door opened, the heat inside was like a steamer basket. Wu Zhiheng then remembered that the pavilion had underfloor heating. He hastily tossed the charcoal basin outside, rubbed his hands together, and asked with a bow, “Master… have you eaten?”

No one was on the first floor. The master’s voice drifted down from the bedroom on the second floor. “I’ve eaten!”

Wu Zhiheng turned and closed the door properly, then leaned close to the foot of the stairs. “Where did you eat, Master?”

For a long while there was no response. Wu Zhiheng’s eyes were practically glued to the half-open bedroom door. The old man scratched his head, grabbed the banister, and climbed up the stairs. He pretended to organize the books strewn along the corridor—tidying them up here, dusting them off there—when a snort of laughter came from behind.

Starlight filtered through the glazed-glass window in the ceiling after the rain. Pei Dan stood beside a curtain painted with flowing, shimmering light, his expression entirely different from when he had just emerged from the Dali Temple. He even teased Wu Zhiheng: “Old fellow, what exactly do you want to know?”

Since he’d been called an old fellow, Wu Zhiheng put on a wobbly, trembling demeanor. “Master seems quite happy?”

“Not bad.” Pei Dan raised an eyebrow. “I need to study, then I’ll sleep after I’m done. Go rest.”

Wu Zhiheng glanced past him and saw quite a few memorials spread open on the desk, along with stacks of official registers on the floor that had been brought from the Policy Hall—his master seemed to be going through official business. However, standing beside the bed was a soft red umbrella, with faint drops of rainwater pattering down along its ribs, which immediately made Wu Zhiheng’s heart ache for the carpet. Pei Dan then took a step forward, blocking his line of sight. His expression was tense, but his voice was gentle. “You know, Master Li is staying in Chang’an.”

“Hm?” Wu Zhihedong blinked in surprise.

Pei Dan’s expression was faintly obscure in a way Wu Zhiheng couldn’t decipher. “I’m just making some preparations. You don’t need to worry about so much.”

Wu Zhiheng thought to himself, Little beast, I’m not worrying at all. He steadied himself on the banister and slowly walked back down, then truly went to rest.

The old man had always slept early. Wu Zhiheng blew out the lamp in his little partitioned room and fell asleep soon after. In a hazy dream, it seemed he saw the young master from childhood, with a head of hair like a bird’s nest, standing reciting poetry in the autumn wind—but before he had finished even one poem, Wu Zhiheng was suddenly shoved.

Wu Zhiheng mumbled something, rolled over, and curled inward to sleep. The person was persistent and shoved him again.

He finally opened his eyes and identified the figure in the darkness. It was no one else. “What is it?”

Pei Dan was squatting beside his bed, one hand holding up a candlestick, the other cradling a rabbit. When Wu Zhiheng turned toward him, the candlelight stung his eyes. “Master, you’re still not sleeping? In the middle of the night, are you playing at being a ghost?”

If one were to say ghost, no ghost was as red-faced as Pei Dan. The dark circles under his eyes had deepened further—he looked both exhausted and worried, a completely different person from during the day. A few scattered lights glimmered in his dark eyes. He said softly to Uncle Wu, “Get up. Help me think of a way.”

“A way for what?”

“I… I…” Pei Dan’s voice grew even quieter. “Today, I… got close to him.”

Wu Zhiheng was slowly sitting up, one hand braced against his lower back. Hearing this, he nearly twisted his neck.

Pei Dan hastily set down the candlestick and reached out to steady Uncle Wu. The little wild hare leapt from his arms of its own accord, nestled onto Wu Zhiheng’s quilt, and licked its paws.

“I—” Pei Dan sat back down on the low stool by the bed, head bowed, and scratched his hair again. “I didn’t know he… I couldn’t hold back. This really isn’t good of me. He might… not have wanted it.”

Wu Zhiheng sat up against the headboard and said, “No wonder you’re so happy.”

“Me…?” Pei Dan murmured. “Of course I’m happy.”

Some possibility of lingering passion, to him, was like finding life in the jaws of the void.

Wu Zhiheng thought to himself: in the dead of night, he, a man past fifty, had to counsel this lonely young master—and that in itself was already a strange tale. But the young master in question was none other than the current Prime Minister Pei. If word got out, who would believe it?

But for five years, Wu Zhiheng had never seen his master wear such a vivid expression.

Those long eyelashes, that rigid nose bridge, that tightly pressed pair of lips—all of them betrayed the emotions of their owner. Beneath the lashes, clear pools of light shone with a gentle luster, as if they knew spring was approaching and were secretly gathering wind and blossoms.

Wu Zhiheng found himself unwilling to part with such a master, and even wanted to find some pleasant words to comfort him.

“But he invited you to stay for dinner, didn’t he?” Wu Zhiheng said gently. “If he still hated you like a sworn enemy, he would never have eaten with you.”

“I used to be most afraid that he would forget me. Back then, I thought, even if he hated me, that would be fine.” Pei Dan said gloomily. “But he turned out to be even better than I imagined. He was willing to let me stay for dinner, to listen to me talk. Uncle Wu, how can he be so good?”

Wu Zhiheng thought helplessly, why is your wife so good—you should know better than anyone, shouldn’t you? But faced with a child, he could only humor him. “Perhaps he understands that you have many things you have no choice about.”

Hearing this, it was unclear where Pei Dan’s thoughts went, but his expression grew darker and darker.

“But in this old servant’s opinion,” Wu Zhiheng paused, then continued, “Master Li is not the sort of kind-hearted philanthropist who distributes charity indiscriminately. If he truly became ‘close’ with you…” His own old face reddened. “It can’t be out of pity.”

Pei Dan said nothing.

Wu Zhiheng recalled that he had come to ask for advice. In truth, he had no experience in this matter either. After wracking his brain for a long time, he suddenly slapped his forehead. “Here it is! The Lantern Festival is right around the corner, isn’t it? On the fifteenth, the night curfew will be lifted. Temples will light lanterns and pray for blessings, and there will be wrestling and acrobatics in the streets—quite a sight. Why not invite Master Li to go see it together?”

Pei Dan lifted his eyelids, his eyes brightening for a moment, but then he hesitated. “That’s too shameless…”

“Young man,” Wu Zhiheng sighed, “if you still want to win his favor, the first thing is to throw away this thing called face.”

Pei Dan blinked, seemingly taking the words to heart, but still said, “The Lantern Festival—there will likely be an edict from the palace—”

“That’s no matter.” Wu Zhiheng pushed him confidently. “Go, go, go! Go send him an invitation card!”

The next afternoon, Feng Bing received a gold-flecked stationery card, delivered by Chun Shi through the back door as he pretended to receive nothing.

On the card was painted a branch of white plum blossoms by the water—petals in full bloom, shadows swaying softly. Beside the shadow, a line of verse was inscribed: “When the golden watch no longer forbids the night, with you I shall freely view the lanterns.”

Feng Bing burst out laughing. Chun Shi came over to look, unable to see anything funny. Feng Bing then explained: “‘The golden watch no longer forbids the night’ is from Su Weidao’s poem, and ‘freely view the lanterns’ is from Chen Zi’ang’s poem. He did well to glue them together—thoroughly incongruous…”

“Is he inviting you to the Lantern Festival?” How would Chun Shi know anything about Su Weidao or Chen Zi’ang, but this line of verse was easy enough to understand. “Prime Minister Pei says, when that night comes, he wants to view the lanterns with you!”

Feng Bing blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thought that far into it. He looked at the verse again, and his expression grew a little unnatural. He set it down on the desk and first took a sip of his medicine—since the New Year, the weather had grown warmer, and his cough had improved considerably.

Chun Shi asked, “Master, won’t you reply to him?”

“…” Feng Bing said, “Let me think about it first.”

Chun Shi was a little disappointed. “Oh.”

Chun Shi had barely walked a few steps outside the door when suddenly he ran back in a panic. “Master! Over there—the Pei residence—they’re burning something!”

Feng Bing found it quite strange and went outside to look. Indeed, within the grand courtyard of the Pei residence, several columns of smoke were spiraling faintly up into the clouds.

Feng Bing stared at the smoke for a long time, silent, his expression grave.

On the morning of the fourteenth of the first month, news came from the Dali Temple: former Hexiang Governor Chen Qiu had caught a chill while imprisoned, and had died of sudden illness.

The title of this chapter is taken from Li Shangyin’s “Four Poems of the Swallow Terrace · Summer”: “So as to let the Silver River fall into my breast, not sending the Star Maiden to come and go year upon year.” The Star Maiden refers to the Weaving Maid. The poem’s meaning is that “I” am determined to make the Milky Way fall into my embrace, so that the Weaving Maid need no longer come and go once a year, but can instead stay with “I” forever.

Thank you all from yesterday—everyone has been so warm, I’m cryingggg, the author has nothing to repay you with, wuuuuu