The western road stretched ahead. The wind carried away leftover festival paper flowers, tumbling willow fluff along the roadside into the distance.
Outside Youzhen's south gate, an old willow cast thin shade. Morning had passed, noon neared, dust and sunlight tangled in the air, filling it with a hazy golden warmth.
The constable led his horse out of the gate. Thin and wiry, a short blade strapped to his back, his steps were steady. As Youzhen's head constable, Yan Jiu was long used to obeying orders. His face, weathered by age, carried the firmness of years. But today, his eyes no longer held calm—there was a quiet urgency pressing behind them.
Just as he placed a foot in the stirrup, a breathless shout came from behind:
"Head Yan—wait!"
Yan Jiu turned. Wang Cheng came stumbling, drenched in sweat, face red as if pulled straight from boiling water.
"You're heading… to Qingzhou as well?" Wang Cheng gasped, wiping his brow.
Yan Jiu nodded. "And how would you know?"
Wang Cheng waved a document in his hand, lowering his voice. "I heard it at the yamen—Master Lai's case is serious. He won't escape this time. You said his wife and child don't know? What if they return just as he's seized—won't they be taken too?"
Yan Jiu didn't answer. He only gave him a grave look and said, "Hold this horse for me. I'll find another."
Moments later, both men mounted, spurring their horses westward. Hooves struck the dirt, raising clouds of dust. The road shimmered pale under the noon sun, stretching endlessly into the horizon.
At that same hour, Bihua was walking the same road.
She held Layne's hand, sweat dampening her hairline. Dust rose underfoot, festival heat still clinging to her cheeks.
Around them were yellow fields tinged with spring green, ox carts creaking past. Ordinary scenery, yet today it pressed heavily upon her.
She said nothing to Layne, and the boy, sensing her mood, trudged along in silence. At times he seemed ready to ask, but each time he saw her gaze fixed on the far horizon, as if she were staring at a storm about to break.
An unease had been growing in her chest. At their parting that morning, Lai Su had shown no strangeness. Yet remembering now, she realized the tenderness in his eyes had been laced with restraint, with sorrow.
She thought of their ten years together. No wedding had ever been held. She had once resented it, thinking he disdained her birth, unwilling to wed her properly. Now she wondered—had he long foreseen this day, and so withheld the name of wife, sparing her the whirlpool of disaster?
Ten years—running the rice shop, raising Layne, steady love and respect. Even Youzhen had come to believe them lawful husband and wife. She had never asked what it had cost him, that no clerk ever questioned their records.
The thought of his midnight murmurs, his careful silences, the hidden weight behind his smallest gestures—today they all struck her like blows.
She halted.
"Mom?" Layne blinked.
"We should go back," she murmured, perhaps to herself, perhaps to him.
"What? Weren't we going to Qingzhou? We've walked so far already! You said we had to save Dad—why?"
Bihua only tightened her grip and walked faster. By the sun overhead, they had covered thirty li. If fortune favored, they might catch a cart heading east.
But soon, the beat of hooves thundered from ahead.
Instinctively, she drew Layne to her side. Dust rose on the road—two horses galloping hard, hooves like drums.
Yan Jiu reined in sharply when he saw them. Wang Cheng followed, leaping down, thrusting the document toward her. Breath ragged, he cried:
"Madam Lai—don't go on! Turn back! Go to Qingzhou—Master Lai has been taken!"
Bihua's body trembled as she scanned the words. She said nothing, lips pressed white, staring at their dust-caked faces.
Yan Jiu dismounted, handed a water flask to Layne.
As the boy gulped it down, Wang Cheng hesitated, then added in a low voice:
"Madam Lai… there's more. The Qingzhou tribunal will send for him. Within two or three days at most, they'll escort him away—public interrogation, in front of province, county, and town."
Bihua swayed, as if struck by thunder.
Yan Jiu urged, "If you return now, turning back will be nothing. But if you walk into their net, it'll be too late. Better to stay in Qingzhou—find an inn, keep low. Safer than in town. If the charges are lighter, you may at least send food or letters."
Bihua raised her head, eyes dark. "Very well. I'll listen to you."
There were no tears, only a dim, heavy light.
Wang Cheng said further, "I also heard—the tribunal may investigate household records. If you're found tied to him, you may all be implicated…"
Bihua turned pale.
She looked down at Layne, his small face sweaty, wide-eyed, full of trust.
She nodded firmly. "Thank you both. If we survive this, I'll come to your doors in gratitude."
She bent to bow, but Yan Jiu caught her quickly. "Madam Lai, don't—Master Lai was a good man. The whole town saw it. We're only small men. We don't know what else we can do."
"Mom… is Dad in trouble?" Layne whispered.
She crouched, wanting to soothe him, but words failed.
"Did he… do something wrong? I—I can write an apology for him. Like that time I stole the cakes from the stove…" His voice broke, tears glimmering in his eyes.
Bihua's chest clenched. He was too young to understand embezzlement or tribunals. He only knew the man who tucked his quilt at night might suddenly vanish.
The three adults exchanged no more words.
Yan Jiu untied his strong chestnut horse and handed it to Bihua. "This is a yamen horse. Take it—ride quickly. I'll report this myself."
She nodded, lifted Layne onto the saddle, then mounted behind. Her palms were damp, yet she never once looked back.
"Mom, we're not going home?" Layne whispered.
"No." She held him tightly. "Your father is in danger. We must find a way."
Yan Jiu and Wang Cheng stood watching until the mother and son disappeared down the long road.
"They must be innocent," Wang Cheng muttered.
"Perhaps," Yan Jiu said softly. "We can only hope they come through."
Spring light ripened. Fields on both sides flushed green, shoots like embroidery. Wind rippled through, lifting the horse's mane.
Within a quarter hour, the two men neared Qingzhou's eastern gate, Zhengyang Gate.
Qingzhou—one of the three provincial cities under Hanhai Circuit, under the shadow of mighty Qixia—though smaller than the capital, its streets thrived with trade and travelers.
At the gate, clerks checked passes. Bihua handed over Youzhen's travel slip. Once confirmed, they were let through.
Inside, the city's bustle surged.
Shops lined the streets, gray walls and blue tiles adorned with bright banners. Bookshops displayed scrolls, smithies clanged iron, hawkers cried sweets and toys. Students hurried through alleys with satchels on their backs. Amid the clamor there was no decadence—only the vigor of spring.
Layne's eyes were wide, but Bihua tugged his hand. "Don't wander. We must find a place to stay."
After a short search, they came to the Cloudrest Inn, a clean, modest lodge often used by merchants.
The innkeeper's wife, a forthright woman, greeted them warmly. "Here for the lantern fair? You're late—these past days the city's been in an uproar. They say a great case is to be tried—envoys from the Hanhai Circuit are already here…"
Bihua's heart sank, though her face remained calm. "Yes, delayed a bit. The boy longed to see the city, so I brought him."
She took two upstairs rooms facing the street, ordered no meal, only sat by the window, staring at the road below.
She knew little of Qingzhou, though Lai Su had spoken of it often. Back when he served in Qixia, he traveled here with records. "Large, but nothing compared to Qixia," he had once said. He had frowned over wine, muttering: "In the bureaucracy, a single misstep, and the board collapses." She had not understood then. Now she realized—he had already been caught in the game.
The streets outside swelled with unusual fervor. Soldiers patrolled, foreign riders entered from the north gate, heading straight for the tribunal. Rumors flew—imperial envoys, even secret agents from the capital.
At a tea stall nearby, two clerks whispered nervously:
"They say the case spreads far—Qixia officials have already fallen."
"Yesterday a troop from the capital arrived, carrying red-sealed orders. Could it be the fabled spy bureau?"
"Whatever it is, the county ordered silence. Even the gate towers hang yellow talismans forbidding talk."
Bihua's knuckles whitened on her teacup.
She had thought to find some safe way to ask about Lai Su. But now the city felt taut as a bowstring. She dared not even push the paper window wide, much less knock on the tribunal's heavy doors.
Lifting the corner of the curtain, she glimpsed a column of cavalry passing. Shopkeepers folded stalls, mothers dragged children into alleys.
She whispered, "No more moves. We wait here."
Layne leaned against her knee, spinning his bamboo pinwheel—the one made for him last winter by the village carpenter. He could not fathom the storm gathering beyond. He only knew his mother had grown more tense with every step.
And so, he no longer thought of sweets or play.