Xie Yan said nothing.
The Third Prince was no fool. Once the initial rage had ebbed, he understood at once that his mother had been pawned by someone else. After the Rou Consort affair, he couldn't believe Xie Yan would let Lady Li walk away so easily.
At first he had entertained himself—he had wanted to watch this self‑righteous man and see how his hypocrisy would crack. When Xie Yan remained motionless he felt disappointed, bored even. Then, in a single instant, he found himself the laughingstock on the stage.
His mother—innocent—had been buried by this absurd calamity.
"There must be other hands behind this," Xie Yan said, looking at him. "Before poisoning my mother, Lady Li kept provoking the Empress. I only meant to use the Empress to get rid of Lady Li. I never meant to harm your mother."
The Third Prince scoffed. The scoff turned into a laugh, then into a wild, choking sound; he laughed so hard he could barely breathe, pointing a shaking finger at Xie Yan. "Fool!" he spat. "You are nothing but a fool!"
"What is the Empress? She has sat in the inner palace for so many years—how many concubines have come and gone here, and have you ever seen her strike openly? She keeps the façade of a saint, just like you—wearing false piety while working from the shadows. You say you wanted to use the Empress to remove Lady Li—why didn't you think the Empress might use other people's hands?"
His eyes went cold, cruel. "Or maybe," he said, fixing Xie Yan with a stare like a blade, "you did foresee it. Maybe you saw she would point at my mother to take the blame, and you didn't care. After all, sacrificing a lowly consort to snuff out the real murderer—and killing two birds with one stone by removing a prince who might stand in your way of the throne—what a bargain. Isn't that convenient, my dear second brother?"
"I never thought—" Xie Yan cut in, and kicked the floor of the cell. His chest heaved; his right hand curled so tightly that the skin went white and blood threatened to appear. He met the Third Prince's red‑rimmed eyes head on, as if refusing to yield.
Chen Tingfeng stood behind them, silent. He did not intervene; his fingers toyed casually with the scented pouch at his waist.
After a long beat the Third Prince let his gaze fall away. The strength seemed to leave him as he turned his back on them. "It's no use talking now," he said, a weary smile creasing his features. "I was born crippled, scorned my whole life. I thought—if my mother stayed with me, I could drag myself through. Live long enough to leave the palace, wait for the old emperor to pass, then take her out. Then my life would finally begin."
"But now—everything's gone."
"All of it."
He sat down cross‑legged with his back to them and closed his eyes. Through a hole in the roof a thin shaft of sunlight slanted in and fell across his cracked, pale lips. He lay still, as if his spirit had slipped away and left an empty shell behind. Then, utterly, he was gone.
Xie Yan felt a sudden, sharp grief. He watched the Third Prince's back until his shoulders stilled, then slowly, reluctantly, turned and walked away.
At dusk, the sky flushed like blood. A eunuch burst into the palace, tumbling across the stone as he called out, "The Third Prince—he's dead!"
The old emperor, in the hall, was holding a bowl of medicine when the cry reached him. His hand trembled; the bowl slipped and smashed on the floor with a loud crash.
By the time the news reached the marquis's residence it was past midnight.
Fu Zhen had been tossing and turning, unable to sleep. She had lit a lamp and was leafing through a book of poems when she heard soft footsteps outside. Cui Huan pushed the door open, her expression weighed down.
"What's wrong?" Fu Zhen asked.
Cui Huan pressed her lips tight, then leaned close. "The Third Prince... he's dead."
Fu Zhen gripped the book so hard the pages bent. Her heart thundered. "How—so suddenly?" she asked, voice small.
Cui Huan shook her head; she didn't know. This was the first person she'd dreamed of whose dream had turned to death. Fu Zhen stood for a long moment, then told Cui Huan to leave. She wrapped a shawl around her and went to the window, staring up at the clear, windless night. The moon was bright, the stars few.
At least—she thought—a calm night to die in.
Because the Third Prince's end was politically messy, the emperor ordered that the matter not be discussed in the palace; any who disobeyed would be executed. To the public they said only that the prince had been frail and succumbed to a sudden illness.
Even an unfavored prince's death made people uneasy. For a while the capital felt subdued; the streets thinned. After the funeral, Chen Xuan had called Chen Tingfeng to his study and shut the door for the entire afternoon. No one knew what had been said behind that closed wood, only that when it opened again, something had quietly shifted between the two of them.
Life went on regardless: old trees sent forth new buds, the river warmed and ran again. The sharp cold of earlier days eased. Like the pages of a book, the world never stayed long on one scene.
Street vendors took up their cries once more.
"With the spring imperial exam coming, are you ready?" Lady Bai asked, standing beside a waiting carriage as Chen Tingfeng prepared to return to the academy.
Chen Tingfeng inclined his head slightly. "You have no cause for worry, Mother."
Fu Zhen lingered behind Lady Bai, glancing around. In years past, when Chen Tingfeng returned to school, the Second Prince's carriage would be waiting at the marquis's gate—always. Today, though, it was not there. Since the Third Prince's affair, Xie Yan had hardly come to the residence.
Fu Zhen's eyes flicked up and met Chen Tingfeng's dark ones. Her heart leapt. She tried to look away as if nothing had happened, but Chen Tingfeng's voice, low and pleasant, reached her: "Cousin, what are you searching for?"
Lady Bai turned, concerned. "Zhenzhen, did you lose something?"
Fu Zhen bit her lip; Chen Tingfeng knew exactly who she was thinking of and had chosen that moment to tease her in front of Lady Bai. It left her trapped for once, too embarrassed to answer.
"Nothing," she lied with a soft smile. "I thought I'd misplaced a handkerchief—turned out Cui Huan had it."
Lady Bai nodded and let it drop. Fu Zhen shot Chen Tingfeng a sharp look, and saw him return it with a slow, inscrutable smile. The sight flushed her cheeks; she turned away.
Everything was bundled and ready. Chen Tingfeng was about to step into the carriage when the sound of approaching hooves made him turn. A rider in black hauled up nearby; over his shoulders he wore a silver‑grey mouse‑fur cloak.
Who else could it be but Xie Yan?
He drew his reins and his horse pawed, then halted. From above, Xie Yan looked down at Chen Tingfeng and snorted. "What—going to leave me behind for the academy?"
Chen Tingfeng gave him a light, measured glance. "Wasn't it you who said you would break ties with me?"