chapter 22
I had run through nearly half of Yandu, yet I still failed to gather all the medicines on the list before the hour of Yin.
As soon as the hour struck, I pushed open the gate of Huai Ci Palace.
Yan Ci stood in the courtyard, holding a small lantern, his face expressionless. I could not tell what he was thinking.
The flickering candlelight kindled two golden flames of ambition in his eyes.
A wild wind swept through, making the lanterns in front of the hall sway violently. As the light shifted, the shadow of the osmanthus tree in the courtyard clawed and stretched, wild and menacing.
“Go inside and decoct the medicine,” Yan Ci said softly. “She is waiting inside the hall.”
A sense of danger made every muscle in my body tense. Still clutching the packets of medicine, I had just stepped onto the stairs when a strange scent invaded my nose.
A strong mix of osmanthus fragrance and the metallic tang of blood-so pungent it was unbearable.
Through the door, I heard the steady drip of water. In the empty room, the sound gathered and echoed, each drop reverberating in my ears.
My heart sank. I slowly pushed open the main hall doors. Several flying squirrels scattered in panic.
The first thing I met were Madam’s wide-open, beautiful eyes. My gaze hurried past her ashen face and finally fixed on her abdomen, a bloody, mangled mess. Her plain white robes could not contain the blood flowing from her, drop by drop onto the floor.
Madam had died sitting upright in her chair, her abdomen slit open, a knife gripped in her hand. She looked like a broken doll, with half the stuffing pulled out.
Drip. Drip. The blood had spread to the threshold. I let go; the medicine fell from my hands, landing in the blood.
Yan Ci’s voice came from behind me: “Guanqi, tell me, why do you think she died?”
It was the height of summer, and the courtyard was filled with blooming hydrangeas. The dense clusters of tiny flowers looked like countless wide-open eyes, trying to peer into the secrets of the world, like gaping mouths, eager to reveal obscure mysteries.
Yan Ci’s fingers lightly brushed over the blossoms. That hand, so pale it seemed almost sickly-its owner was the greatest enigma in this world.
“Do you know, Guanqi? In distant Yingzhou, people call this the Ziyang Flower.”
“This flower is closely tied to the dead. Beneath the Ziyang Flower is where the departed rest. When the Ziyang Flower blooms, it means the dead have something to say.”
“Why don’t they speak while they’re alive?” Yan Ci broke off a branch. “Why wait until death to speak?”
Beyond the courtyard wall, lights flickered in and out. Suddenly, I heard the soft rustle of fabric-someone seemed to be approaching.
“I am Lin Shaotang, Right Assistant Minister of the Dali Temple, acting under the orders of the Sixteenth Prince, Yan Zhan, to investigate the Wen Mu case.”
Someone knocked at the door: “Madam Yan, Thirteenth Prince. I have unearthed Wen Mu’s head in front of Huai Ci Palace. Please open the door for inspection.”
No one answered. The knocking grew more urgent. The man spoke again: “The Crown Prince and the Sixteenth Prince are waiting.”