"Just hand it to us," the gatekeeper said, trying to avoid another errand.
Xiaoxi shook her head. "This is important. I must deliver it to Master Pei myself."
The man on duty fell silent at that and hurried off to find Pei Zhiyan.
He returned quickly. Pei stepped out, eyes scanning the courtyard before taking the small parcel from Xiaoxi. As she turned to leave, he called after her, "She didn't come?"
Xiaoxi's face fell into a look of helplessness without a word. Pei understood—Song Ruotang was here.
He lifted his gaze and immediately picked her out of the dim corner she’d chosen. She stood with an umbrella tilted over her back, preparing to walk toward the carriage when a hand caught her and tugged her backward. Snow scattered from the umbrella and revealed his face.
"Why are you hiding here, spying?" Pei asked quietly, his eyes steady on her.
Song felt the question as an awkward exposure. She looked down, unable to meet him, and bit her lip. "My station makes it improper for me to appear openly," she said, the words heavy with practiced modesty.
Pei said nothing for a long moment. He reached out and brushed the tiny flakes from her shoulder. The movement was casual but his chest felt oddly tight, as if something had settled there that didn’t belong.
Seeing his silence, Song forced a small, bright smile. "You are busy with your duties, Master. Go—please attend to them. I am all right. I only wanted to see where you stand on your rounds."
Her voice was breezy, almost teasing, meant to put him at ease. Pei's fingers tightened for a heartbeat around the box of pastries Xiaoxi had handed him. Song turned to go. "Then I will take my leave."
She walked a few paces, then paused and called back, lifting the box slightly. "These are homemade. Do try one, Master."
Pei nodded once. "I will."
Song moved away again, the snow crunching under her boots. Just as she reached the carriage, a soft voice drifted across the courtyard—so gentle it might have been the wind. "Thank you for your trouble…"
She stopped, the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth despite herself. When she turned, she kept her expression composed. "I should be the one to thank you, Master. I am not complaining—I would be content simply to catch a glimpse of you."
The words were small, a confession folded neatly into a courtesy. Seeing her like that—so reduced by custom, so careful not to burden him—something in Pei's chest contracted painfully. He thought of the stories that must have preceded her coming here: the hardships she’d known, the shame and quiet endurance. Now she was here under his roof, and still she could not stand openly; she had to hide in corners just to see him. The thought pricked him with guilt.
He exhaled. "You've had a hard time."
Song shook her head. "You must go tend to your work. If anyone sees us together, gossip will start—and that would be worse for you."
He pursed his lips. She moved quickly, almost running, as if afraid of being seen.
He watched her go, weighing things in the silence. If he had decided to keep Song, then one day he would have to bring her into the house openly. But the two in his household who would stand in the way—he knew them well enough—would not make it easy. He worried they would make her life miserable.
Song reached the carriage and slipped inside. From behind the curtain she peered out once more at Pei. He still stood there, watching—not stepping forward but not leaving either. She lowered the curtain when she was sure he had seen her, satisfied her mission.
Xiaoxi climbed in a moment later and poured a cup of hot tea for her mistress. When the carriage started, the tea sloshed gently. Xiaoxi peered through the gap and laughed softly. "Master is still watching you, madam. I think he hates to see you go."
Song gave her a mock glare. "You chatter too much."
She shrugged out of the fox cloak draped over her shoulders and sipped the tea. Warmth spread through her chest down into her stomach, easing a little of the day’s chill.
Snow fell more steadily now but the shops lining the street still kept their doors open. Song had not yet explored the capital properly and, having come out for a purpose and accomplished it, her spirits were better. She asked the driver to stop.
"I saw a shop selling candied fruit a moment ago," she told Xiaoxi. "I'll take a look."
Xiaoxi prepared to follow, but as she stood she caught the fringe of the small tablecloth with her sleeve. The cloth slid, and with a gasp she knocked over the teacup and a plate of pastries onto the carriage floor.
"Oh no—" she cried, scrambling to right everything.
Song waved a hand in that calm, almost indulgent way. "It's all right. Go clean it up. I'll look around myself."
Xiaoxi bowed, flustered, and fetched a handkerchief. Song stepped down from the carriage, umbrella in hand, and wandered into the shop. The owner hurried out with a practiced, welcoming smile. "Madam, what would you like? I can recommend—"
"I'll just have a look," Song said, smiling.
She strolled past displays until a small street stall in the corner caught her eye. Behind a low table sat an old woman wrapped in a straw cloak, hunched against the cold. Snow had dusted the broad shoulders of the cloak so that she seemed almost part of the white ground. In front of her, neatly arranged in a basket, were bright orange persimmon cakes—dried fruits that gleamed like little pieces of autumn.
The woman looked up and, despite the chill in her voice, smiled at Song. "Madam, would you like some persimmons?"
Song’s heart tightened at the sight of the frail woman. She studied the persimmon cakes; they were glossy, flecked with white frost, and their scent was warm and sweet. "I'll take all of them," she said.
The woman shook her head. "Not too many, madam. Too much of these will upset the stomach…"
Her voice was roughened by age and wind, but honest. Song's surprise turned to a soft tenderness—here was the old woman thinking of her health in the bitter weather.
"Thank you," Song said. "Don't worry. There are many of us at home—take them all."
The old woman hesitated, embarrassed by her shabby stall and the thought of selling to a lady so richly dressed. "Mine aren't fit for the likes of your household—"
Song leaned forward and touched one of the cakes. "They smell wonderful. I'm sure they'll be liked."
The woman's eyes shone. Without another word she handed over the entire basket and even offered the bamboo tray to make it easier to carry. Song pressed a little extra silver into her hand and watched the woman hobble away, the straw cloak flapping like a small flag.
Relieved and warmed by the small good deed, Song turned to head back to the carriage—with a light step and the basket tucked beneath her arm—when a voice called from behind her, bright with recognition.
"Song Ruotang?"