The twenty-second year of the Yongle era, ninth month, Beijing.
My hands were still trembling. Not from fear, but that kind of—after the adrenaline faded, the body hadn't caught up with the rhythm yet. From the alley back, all the way I didn't speak, he didn't speak. When we reached the Eastern Palace entrance, he said "You go back first," I said "Okay." But I didn't go back. I followed him into the study, watching him sit down, watching him turn over that unfinished sheet of paper, watching his right hand rest on the table. Index and middle fingers trembling. Very light, very slow, like a string plucked, aftershock not yet dissipated. I stared at his hand for a long time. He didn't notice. Or noticed, didn't speak.
I turned to find the medicine box. The medicine box was on the top shelf of the cabinet, I had to stand on tiptoes to reach it. Lid opened, gauze, wound powder, scissors, alum water—one by one laid out. Same as in the north. But in the north, his hand didn't tremble. At least I didn't see it.
I pulled his hand over. He didn't dodge, but his fingers curled slightly, wanting to clench into a fist. I didn't let him. I pried his fingers open, palm facing up. There was a cut on his palm, not deep, but long, from the base of his index finger all the way to his wrist. The blood had dried, forming a dark red scab, sticking to his skin, edges curled up, revealing the tender red flesh underneath. I used a cloth to dip warm water, gently wiping away the dried blood. When the cloth touched the wound edge, his fingers moved slightly. Very light, very fast, like being burned. He didn't pull back.
"Why didn't you dodge just now?" I asked.
He looked at me. "Too late."
I was stunned. Too late? He stood in the alley, when the arrow flew over, he clasped my wrist, threw me behind him. He turned sideways, shoulder line pressed down, hand lifted. First person fell, second person fell, third person ran. He said too late? I didn't believe it. But I didn't say. I lowered my head, wiped away the blood scab bit by bit, revealing the wound. Not deep, but edges uneven, slashed diagonally by the blade, skin flipped up a bit, revealing the tender red flesh underneath. When the wound powder was sprinkled on, his fingers moved again. This time not pulling back, just moving. I pressed the gauze on, wrapped a turn, then another. When my fingers touched the wound edge inside his palm, his fingers trembled again. Not the kind he couldn't suppress, but the kind—he was suppressing, but couldn't.
The gauze wrapped twice, when tying the knot I almost didn't tie it tight. My fingers pressed on the gauze once, then again, before tying the knot well. His hand rested on the table, palm facing up, gauze wrapped neatly. I stared at that circle of gauze for a while. White, very conspicuous under the lamplight. Same as in the north. But in the north, he sat in the military tent, I squatted beside him. Now he sat before the Eastern Palace table, I stood beside him. Different. I couldn't say where different. Just felt—he was farther from me than in the north. Not distance, but something pulled him back a step.
"Done," I said.
He didn't move. Hand still resting on the table, looking at that circle of gauze.
"Thank you," he said.
I was about to say something, he suddenly spoke. His voice was very even, different from before. Not that kind of "I'm letting you in" even, but that kind of—he was pushing something away.
"They weren't acting on impulse."
I was stunned. Looked up at him. His gaze wasn't on me anymore. Looking at that sheet of paper on the table, looking at the words on the paper, looking at those names, places, times I couldn't understand. His brows were furrowed, same as when he read memorials every day. Calm as if nothing had happened just now.
"Only we knew the route," he said.
I stood beside him, fingers clutching my sleeve. Heart sank. "You mean—"
"Someone leaked the message beforehand." He turned the paper over, revealing the back. The back was also full of words, handwriting as neat as the front. His fingers paused at the paper edge. "When we left the palace, no one knew where we were going. The alley was chosen temporarily." He paused. "But they were waiting there."
I looked at him. His fingers at the paper edge, gauze wrapped, white. Lamplight shone on his face, his expression very calm. But I suddenly felt, the "too late" he just said, wasn't talking about that knife slash in the alley. Was talking about this. Too late to think who was behind, too late to investigate the insider, too late to drag out those people hiding in the dark one by one. He could only stand there, block in front of me, let that knife slash his hand.
I suddenly remembered something. "That person just now—there was a mark on his hand."
He looked up, at me. His eyes changed. Not that "letting you in" change, but that kind of—he was re-evaluating something. Like in the north, when he stood on the high ground watching cavalry. Like in the Eastern Palace, when he sat before the table interrogating Official Zhao. He was looking at a person who needed to be judged, categorized, put into a certain box. That person was me.
I felt a bit uncomfortable under his gaze. "I just said it randomly."
He didn't speak. Lowered his head, turned that paper over, took out another from the box. On it was a portrait, drawn with brush and ink, lines simple, but brows and eyes very clear. Not Official Zhao. Another one. In his forties, thin long face, very thick eyebrows, very deep eyes, corners of mouth turned down, like angry.
"Is it this one?" he asked.
I stared at that portrait for a while. That person in the alley ran very fast, I only saw his side face, and the mark on his hand. That mark was on the back of his right hand, like being burned by something, leaving a scar, wrinkled, reflecting light in the sun. The portrait didn't have hands. Only face.
"I'm not sure," I said. "But the scar on his hand—very big piece, from back of hand to wrist, like a burn."
He put down the portrait, took out another from the box. This time a list, with over a dozen names, each with notes. His fingers slowly moved down the list, stopping at the note after a name. The note after that name read: Former border soldier, retired due to injury, right hand burned, currently guard of a certain residence.
"It's him," he said.
I was stunned. "How do you know?"
"Because you were right." He looked up, at me. His gaze retracted. Not that "re-evaluating" retraction, but that kind of—he was letting me in. "Not random."
The hall fell silent for a moment. I stood beside him, still clutching that cloth that wiped blood. There was his blood on the cloth, already dried, leaving a dark red mark. I looked down at that mark, then looked up at him.
"So—those people weren't targeting that person," I said. "They were targeting us."
He didn't answer. He stood up, walked to the window, pushed it open. Night wind rushed in, carrying the sweet scent of osmanthus and the chill of autumn. He stood before the window, back to me. Moonlight shone on him, his shadow stretched long. His hand wrapped in gauze, white, very conspicuous under the moonlight.
"From now on, you don't need to follow anymore," he said.
I was stunned. "Why?"
He didn't turn around. "This isn't something you should be involved in."
My heart blocked. Without thinking: "I've followed this far."
Only then did he turn around, looking at me. That glance was very light. Not warm, not cold, but that kind of—he was making a decision, and had already made it, that kind of lightness.
"That was before."
I stood frozen. Suddenly couldn't speak. Just now he was still standing in front of me, in the alley, when the arrow flew over. He clasped my wrist, threw me behind him. He stood in front of me, blocking. His hand was slashed, blood dripping from between fingers, he didn't say. Now he stood before the window, moonlight shining on him, he said "This isn't something you should be involved in". Just now he still let me stand beside him. Now he pushed me away a step.
"Zhu Zhanji—"
"Your skill in observing people is better than mine," he interrupted me. His voice very even. "But this matter isn't just about observing people."
I knew. Not just observing people. There were people in the dark, in places I didn't know, waiting. They knew our route, knew our time, knew we would appear in the alley. They were prepared. He was prepared. But he didn't want me to be prepared too.
"Then what about you?" I asked. "You go alone?"
He didn't answer. Wind blew over, osmanthus scent drifted in from the window, sweet to the point of cloying. He stood there, moonlight shining on him, gauze wrapped, white.
"Not alone," he said.
"Then who?"
He didn't answer. Turned back to the table, sat down, folded that list neatly, put it in the box. Movement very slow, same as when cutting apples. His fingers paused on the box lid, then covered it.
"Embroidered Uniform Guard," he said.
I was stunned. Embroidered Uniform Guard. He had been there for a few days. He put on that black robe, went to that place I didn't know, did those things I didn't know. He knew those people, those people knew him. They were in the dark, in those alleys I didn't know, in those corners I couldn't see. They were more familiar with those places than him. They knew how to wait, how to hide, how to strike. They didn't need me.
"Then what do I do?" I asked.
He looked up, at me. Gaze shifted slightly.
"Wait."
Wait. Again wait. Wait for cavalry in the north, wait for Official Zhao in the Eastern Palace, wait for assassins in the alley. Now he asked me to wait. Wait for him to go to that place I didn't know, wait for him to drag out those people hiding in the dark one by one, wait for his hand to heal, wait for that circle of gauze to be removed, wait for everything to end. Then he comes back, sits here, drinks tea. Same as before. But the gauze on his hand wasn't removed yet. Blood wasn't dried yet. Those people were still in the dark. He asked me to wait.
"I can't wait," I said.
He looked at me. Something moved in that glance. Not anger, not helplessness, but that kind of—he already knew I would say this, but when he heard it, he was still poked.
"You say that every time," he said. His voice very light, like stating something that didn't need discussion. I was stunned. Seems... I did say it. In the north, he said "You don't need to follow", I said "I've followed this far". In the Eastern Palace, he said "You don't need to come", I said "I've already come". Every time he pushed me away, every time I didn't leave. But this time different. This time not him not letting me come, but him protecting me. I knew. But I still didn't want to leave.
"Then you know every time too," I said.
He didn't speak. Looking at me, for a long time. Then he lowered his head, turned over that unfinished sheet of paper, continued looking. Same as before. But his fingers—the one wrapped in gauze—paused at the paper edge. Not trembling, but pausing. Like waiting for something to fall.
I stood beside him, didn't leave. Cloth still clutched in hand, with his blood. I folded it, tucked it into my sleeve. He looked at his paper, I stood beside him. Hall very quiet. Lamp on table, light very bright. His hand rested at paper edge, gauze wrapped, white.
After a while, he suddenly said: "That mark you mentioned just now—besides you, who else saw it?"
I thought about it. "Only me."
"Sure?"
"Sure. When he ran, his hand flicked, sleeve slid down, revealed it. People beside were all looking forward, no one noticed his hand."
He nodded. Took that list out from the box again, placed on table, added a line after that name. Handwriting neat, same as when he wrote memorials. I stood beside, watching that line fall. He wrote: Right hand burned, confirmed.
"Why are you writing this down?" I asked.
"Will be useful later."
He put the list back in the box, closed the lid. Movement very slow, same as when cutting apples. His fingers paused on the box lid, then retracted into sleeve.
"Go back," he said. "It's late."
I stood in place, didn't move. He looked up, at me.
"What's wrong?"
"You haven't said, next time take me with you."
He looked at me, suddenly smiled. Very light, very short. "Okay."
"Liar is a puppy."
He was stunned. Then smiled. "Okay."
I smiled too. Turned to walk out. When I reached the door, looked back. He was still sitting before the table, looking at that paper. Lamp on table, light very bright. His hand rested at paper edge, gauze wrapped, white. Moonlight came through the window, falling on him, stretching his shadow long. I stood there, watched for a while. He didn't look up. But I saw his mouth corner—slightly upturned.
I turned and walked out. Curtain fell, wind blocked outside. Moonlight shone in the courtyard, bright. Kumquat pot on windowsill, sprout under moonlight thin, tender, like a needle. I reached out and touched that leaf. Soft, cool, alive. He will come back. Every time. With new wounds, new secrets, new reasons to push me away. But he will come back. Sit here, drink tea, look at paper, let me bandage. Then I wait for next time. It's okay. I can wait.
(End of Chapter 31)