Yongle Year 22, September. Beijing.
I had just returned from the Kunning Palace, not even seated properly, when he placed a roll of something before me. The paper was old, corners curled, covered densely with characters. Names, times, locations, and some circled words like "transfer order," "records," "north side." I recognized his handwriting, neat, every stroke forceful. But these characters weren't written by him. They were copied, transcribed from somewhere else, the handwriting crooked and twisted, like someone wrote it while trembling. Zhu Zhanji stood before the table, looking at me.
"Take a look." His voice was very flat, like saying "drink tea." But I heard it, in that "take a look," there was something. Not a command, but—look at this, then tell me if I'm wrong.
I paused. "You switched gears too fast." Just now in the Kunning Palace, the Empress said "take it slow," Zhu Gaochi said "no need to come this early tomorrow." Now he stood before the table, pushing over a roll of old paper, saying "take a look." From paying respects to investigating the case, from Crown Princess to—I don't know what. He glanced at me. "What else?" Tone very flat, like saying "drink tea." But the corner of his mouth twitched, very light, very fast. Like saying: what else could there be. The case won't stop, people won't stop acting, the net won't untangle itself. He can't stop.
I looked down at that roll of paper. Handwriting crooked and twisted, like someone wrote it while trembling. I didn't recognize any of the names, didn't understand the times, locations. Something like "transfer order," "records," "north side." I didn't understand. But I sniffed it. The paper had ink smell, mold smell, and—medicinal smell. Very faint, so faint it was just a residue. Same as the medicinal smell in the western city room. Same as the medicinal smell on the white cloth in the alley. I frowned.
"This isn't right," I said.
He looked at me. "Where isn't it right?"
I thought for a moment. In Australia, the professor said: If the same impurity appears in a batch of samples, it means they come from the same source. The western city room, the white cloth in the alley, this roll of paper, all had the same medicinal smell. Not a coincidence. Someone was repeatedly using the same method. Covering up, cleaning, leaving no trace. But he didn't cover it up completely. The medicinal smell was still there. I smelled it.
"Not a one-time thing," I said. "It's the same group of people."
He looked at me. Didn't speak. The lamp was on the table, light very bright, shining on his face, and on that roll of old paper. His fingers paused on the paper edge, then retreated into his sleeve. I suddenly felt, he was waiting for my words. Waited for a long time. From the alley, from the western city, from that windowless room, he was waiting. Waiting for me to say "not a one-time thing," waiting for me to say "same group of people," waiting for me to say—this isn't a coincidence. He knew. But he wanted me to know too.
After a while, he pushed another item over. Also paper, also old, corners also curled. But the characters on this paper were written by him. Neat, every stroke forceful. I recognized it. It listed over a dozen names, each with remarks behind. I saw a few familiar ones—Jinyiwei transfer orders, border army records, wax sources. His fingers paused on the paper edge.
"These people are all related to him."
My hand paused. Didn't ask who. We both knew. Third Prince. Zhu Gaosui. The one who laughed at the banquet, saying "That won't do, if the Imperial Grandson is boring, this palace will have no meaning." The one in the Qianqing Palace side hall holding a tea cup, watching the show. The one who was never in the game, seeming to always be just an observer. The arrows in the alley, the medicine in the western city, the Jinyiwei mole. All him. Not Second Prince. Him. He stood in the dark, smiling, waiting, handing over the knife. He waited for us to find Second Prince, waited for us to think the case was closed, waited for everyone to think the wind had stopped. Then continued acting. He didn't expect us not to stop. He didn't expect Zhu Zhanji not to stop. He didn't expect the medicinal smell he left, I smelled it. He's panicking.
The air went quiet for a moment. Suddenly someone rushed to report outside. Footsteps were heavy, stepping on the stone ground, da da da, like someone running over. The curtain was lifted, a guard stood at the door, face very pale.
"Your Highness—someone committed suicide!"
I suddenly looked up. "Who?"
"The one captured last night."
A scene flashed through my mind—that person, sitting on a chair, tied up, mouth gagged. Lamp shone from above, his face half-lit half-dark. Zhu Zhanji stood before him, asking, waiting, asking, waiting. He hadn't confessed yet. Now he's dead.
My heart tightened. Almost instinctively said. "Not suicide."
He looked at me. "How do you know?" His voice was very flat, not questioning, but confirming. He was asking me—Are you sure?
I whispered. "The smell isn't right." In the western city room, that person died, the medicinal smell was added later, covering the blood smell. In the alley, that person ran, shoe soles had wax, red, the kind Zhu Gaochi used. In the Jinyiwei, that person was left, hands shaking, but didn't leave. Every time, there was a smell. Medicinal smell, wax smell, blood smell. This time there's none. Too clean. Clean to the point like nothing happened. But I know, it happened. Someone didn't want him to speak. Not himself. Others.
He fell silent for a moment. The lamp was on the table, light very bright, shining on his face. His expression was very calm, just like every time. But his fingers clenched inside his sleeve, fingertips gathering, then relaxing. Then he said a sentence.
"He's panicking."
My heart sank. He's panicking. Third Prince is panicking. He started cleaning traces, started silencing, started cutting those threads one by one. He thought cutting them meant they couldn't be traced. He didn't know, Zhu Zhanji had already reconnected the threads. From when he changed the Jinyiwei people, from when he left that mole, from when he sat at the table, pushing over the old paper saying "take a look." He had been connecting. One by one, reconnecting broken threads, mending the scattered net, finding those hidden in the dark one by one. He waited. Waiting for that person to get disordered himself, to panic himself, to walk to him himself. Now he's coming.
Someone else came to report outside. Footsteps lighter than before, but more urgent.
"Your Highness—Third Prince requests an audience."
The air suddenly quieted down. I looked at him. He stood there, lamp shining on him, his shadow cast on the ground, very long. On his hand, where the gauze had been wrapped, the scar remained, pinkish, faint under the lamplight. His expression was very calm, just like every time. But he glanced at me. That glance was very short, so short it was like just confirming I was still there. I was still there. He turned his head, looking at the door.
"Invite him in." he said. One word. Voice not loud, tone very flat. Like saying "drink tea." Like saying "let's go." Like saying "enough." But I knew, different. When he said "invite," he wasn't inviting someone in. He was inviting that net to close. He was inviting that person to walk to him himself. He was inviting this chess game, to place the final move. He had waited for a long time. From the alley, from the western city, from that windowless room, he was waiting. Now he's coming.
I stood beside him, didn't leave. His hand hung by his side, fingers slightly curling. My hand hung by his side, fingertips touching his sleeve. He didn't dodge. I didn't pull back either.
The door opened. Footsteps came from outside, very light, very steady, just like every day. Just like when walking in at the family banquet, just like when sitting down in the Qianqing Palace side hall, just like when he said "that won't do."
Zhu Gaosui walked in. Wearing gray-blue casual clothes, hair tied with a bamboo hairpin. Just like the first time he came to the Eastern Palace. He stood there, looking at Zhu Zhanji, smiled a little.
"Crown Prince," he said. Tone very light, just like when saying "I heard you have food here." But I knew, different. He called him "Crown Prince." Not "Imperial Grandson," not "nephew," but "Crown Prince." He acknowledged it. Acknowledged him as Crown Prince, acknowledged his investigation, acknowledged his personnel changes, acknowledged his net closing. He acknowledged it. But he came. Not to confess, but to—see the final move. See how he moves. See what he has left. He stood there, smiling. Just like every time.
Zhu Zhanji looked at him, didn't speak. The lamp was on the table, light very bright, shining on their faces. They looked at each other. Neither spoke.
I stood beside them, watching them. His hand hung by his side, my fingertips touched his sleeve. He didn't dodge. I didn't pull back. This game, it's about to end.
(End of Chapter Forty-Five)