The night after the snowfall shimmered with an intoxicating radiance, as if a maiden's vanity mirror had been shattered on the ground—luminous and translucent, reflecting the entire expanse of the starry heavens. Qingfeng was already weary with sleep, yet he dared not doze before his lord. His Highness was composing a letter. The paper lay spread across the chopping board, a brush fashioned from horsehair in hand; initially intending to burn pine soot for ink, they instead found an ink stick on an accompanying official from the Ministry of Revenue. His Highness was unwilling to wait a moment longer—tonight, the letter must be finished. Yet several sheets, deemed unsatisfactory, had already been cast into the fire. Li Ce's brows knitted tightly, vexed by the task. Qingfeng himself was troubled.
"Your Highness," he rubbed his sleepy eyes, "a lady like Lady Ye Wuhou cannot possibly be appeased by a mere letter."
"Indeed," Li Ce fixed his gaze on the paper, resolute, "which is why I shall write one letter each day."
Qingfeng forced a stiff smile; he sensed this was no matter of quantity. Li Ce coughed softly, his fingers stiff from the chill. Though his heart brimmed with countless words, once pen touched paper, his mind drew a blank. The campfire crackled, flames dwindling; solemnly, he dipped the scant remaining ink and inscribed two characters: "Jiao Jiao..."
Yin Shicai, the newly appointed magistrate of Ganzhou, could not fathom why other superiors coveted food, drink, gold, jewels, or beauties, yet this Crown Prince demanded only life itself. Upon receiving the letter, Yin hastened to meet the disaster victims, riding hard for three hundred miles beyond the city limits before intercepting the messenger. According to Tang law, officials may not leave their jurisdiction without imperial permission—this was as far as he dared go. Gasping for breath, he was summoned immediately into the prince's carriage. Without a sip of water, Li Ce began outlining plans to settle the displaced populace. Yin spoke, while Li Ce listened; after hearing the proposal, the prince shook his head in refusal, urging Yin to reconsider. From dawn to dusk, Yin felt as though his very mind had been laid bare, exhausting all his expertise to satisfy the prince before earning a moment's respite and a hot bowl of soup.
"Yet..." Li Ce spoke again, "how to effectively supervise the peasants' spring plowing, preventing squandering of relief funds, remains a puzzle for Magistrate Yin."
More to ponder, indeed... Yin set down his half-drunk porridge and replied, "Yes, Your Highness." Starving and dizzy, he fully grasped the former magistrate's hardships. Without ensuring these refugees could settle and prosper, preventing further desertion and flight, he himself could never succeed in office.
Having at last reached the hardest-hit villages around Ganzhou and pacified the people, Yin, alongside the city's officials, prepared to escort the relief envoy to rest. In officialdom, proper hospitality is crucial. Even a flawlessly executed mission can be undone by failing to properly accommodate visiting superiors. Yin bowed, saying, "Your Highness, worn from travel, I have prepared a private courtyard for your repose."
Officials from the Ministry of Revenue, trailing Li Ce, rubbed their shoulders and longed for rest themselves.
"No need," Li Ce replied, "After supper, I shall return immediately."
Such haste? The ministry men stiffened, straightening their posture, not daring to slacken. They exchanged glances with Yin, silently urging him to press further.
Yin performed another bow: "Forgive my poor hospitality, but Ganzhou boasts a hot spring. Though snow falls thick outside, the waters within boil like a celestial realm—a natural remedy, the earth's own medicine. Since Your Highness has journeyed here, it would be fitting to behold such a sight."
The sightseeing was mere pretense; the real delight lay in bathing, accompanied by several beauties sure to enchant the prince utterly. The ministry officials again felt yearning—not for indulgence, but to inspire verses of exquisite poetry.
Fearing rejection, Yin added, "During the disaster, a great benefactor commissioned a temple near the spring to distribute porridge. Perhaps Your Highness might pay it a visit?"
Li Ce, puzzled, turned to Yin: "Magistrate, did you not hear? I am returning."
The ministry officials froze, thinking of the stone-hard carriage, a chill running down their spines. Only after Li Ce's departure did Yin realize the true reason for summoning him to the border: the prince was eager to return to the capital. What wonders could the capital hold? Yin mused bitterly: "A grand bed? Hot springs? Peerless beauties?"
Inside a warm pavilion, steam billowing from the bath, Ye Jiao bathed. She lifted her smooth arm, holding an unopened letter, waving it over the water, poised to discard it. Her maid, Shui Wen, swiftly intercepted it.
"Miss, won't you read it?"
Looking at the seal bearing the Crown Prince's mark, Shui Wen's eyes sparkled with curiosity and hope.
"Toss it in!" Ye Jiao tapped the water's surface. "How dare he write to me? I want to see it reduced to pulp."
Water Wen blocked the letter, stepping back with a smile, "If the ink dissolves, the water will turn dirty and stain your skin."
Reluctantly, Ye Jiao gave in but then said, "Burn it."
"All right, burn it," Shui Wen agreed, retreating. Just as she vanished, Ye Jiao muttered, "No, I dislike the smell of smoke. Put it on the dressing table. When I have time, I'll tear it up."
In the end, she never did. Sitting before her vanity, her hair dried and scented with gardenia and crimson peony petals, Ye Jiao stared at the letter, lifting it now and then before finally irritatedly tossing it into a drawer and slamming it shut. For days afterward, letters from Li Ce arrived relentlessly. The swift couriers barely rested, yet Ye Jiao never glanced at them. The drawer soon overflowed, and Shui Wen could no longer restrain herself:
"Miss, at least take a look."
"No," Ye Jiao said, "When he returns, I will bind these letters to bricks and throw them into the Zhao Prince's mansion."
Why not the Crown Prince's residence? Because Li Ce's palace was yet unfinished; he still lodged with Li Jing. Shui Wen nodded nervously, fearing Li Ce might be struck by flying bricks.
Chang'an's bustling streets were the heart of the Tang dynasty—an endless feast of delicacies, music refined or popular, envoys from foreign realms paying homage, erudite scholars, chivalrous poets, officials, merchants, laborers—and of course, thieves. These thieves slept by day and emerged at dusk to procure food, barely making a living. "Stealing food doesn't fatten you; stealing goods doesn't make you rich."
Feng Ming lounged lazily against an alley wall, waiting until a man passed by.
"Sang Qing," Feng called, tilting his head.
Sang Qing turned, instinctively touching the dagger at his belt. Once friends, they had long since parted ways—Feng now aligned with high officials to sever ties, while Feng was no thief but a ruthless assassin. Sang Qing believed killing was a far graver sin than theft.
"Lord Feng," Sang said with a hollow smile, "With your bright future, you still remember me?"
Though unaware Feng had joined Bai Lixi, he knew Feng's patron was a powerful official.
Feng pressed his hand against the wall, sharpening his nails on a stone. "What's the use of being a mere messenger?" he squinted, trying to disarm Sang's suspicion. "I have a big job; do it well, and you'll never want for food or clothes again."
"What big job?" Sang asked warily.
Feng stepped away from the wall, placing a hand on Sang's shoulder: "Is your lookout, the young Wu Hou Lin Jing, still reliable?"
"He's quit," Sang replied, teeth clenched in hatred.
"Perfect," Feng smiled. "This time, I'll watch the lookout for you."
"What are we stealing?"
If Feng desired it, it must be of great value. Sang rubbed his hands eagerly, eyes gleaming.
"Patience," Feng said firmly, "First, I need to find out where the goods are."
He tossed Sang a silver ingot. Sang bit to test it, hesitated, then laughed in disbelief. "So generous?"
Feng patted his shoulder. "Stick with me, brother, and you won't suffer losses."
They parted at the street corner; Feng stood watching Sang's retreating figure, hands clasped behind his back. Who could have guessed that a thief would determine the fate of the Duke of Anguo's household?