On the second morning, a thin line of dust slowly uncoiled along the road outside Qingzhou's eastern Zhengyang Gate.
At the upstairs window of the Cloudrest Inn, Bihua leaned against the frame, eyes fixed on the distant gate. Her expression did not change. Her left hand gripped the lattice until her knuckles whitened. Below, carts rolled and hawkers called as usual, but it all sounded muffled, as if through fog.
Layne rested his chin on one hand at the sill, the other hand turning his bamboo pinwheel in silence.
"Mom," he asked softly, "are we going to find Dad today?"
Bihua shook her head. "Not yet. It's too chaotic outside."
Just then, a low stir rippled from the end of the street. Vendors lifted their poles and hurried into alleys; mothers tugged children back indoors. People edged aside, their gazes tilting toward the east gate.
"They're here," Bihua murmured, almost without thinking.
She rose and smoothed her sleeves.
"Son, we're going out."
"Where?" Layne looked up at her, eyes still clouded with confusion.
"To… see the east gate." Her voice was so light it sounded like she was afraid to hear herself.
From their luggage she took a thin gray gauze veil. She had packed it last night to keep off sun and dust. Now it was armor.
Her fingers trembled as she looked at it. Ten years ago, she had veiled her face like this when she left Qixia at Lai Su's side. Ten years later, she would hide again among the city's smoke and dust.
She stood before the bronze mirror. The face staring back was still gentle and fair, though the eyes showed fatigue. She smoothed her hair and drew the veil down from her bun to hide her profile.
"Listen to me," she told her son. "When we go out, don't say anything. Just stay close."
"Are we going to see Dad?" Layne's eyes shone wet.
"No." Her tone remained mild, but the weariness bled through. "We… we're going to see if things truly can't be undone."
She tied his little cloak, patted his shoulder, crouched and took his hand. "Remember—don't ask, don't speak."
Layne nodded hard.
When she opened the door, the aromas of food and the din of the common room washed over her, sounding oddly unreal. She lowered the veil, lifted her chin just slightly, and led Layne downstairs.
She felt as though she were balanced on spider silk: one misstep and she would fall forever.
The flagstones outside were polished bright by countless feet. The street was lively as always, yet a restless edge ran through it.
Veiled, Bihua walked slowly with Layne in hand, her eyes calm beneath the gauze. She blended into the flow toward the east gate, one more mother with a child come to "see the bustle." With each step, her heart sank a little further.
Stall-keepers moved faster than usual, eager to pack up—festival aside, such spectacles were rare. Snatches of chatter blew past like gusts:
"Hey, did you hear? They brought in the prisoner from Youzhen—big case, years of embezzlement! Ten years and they still weren't done rounding them up. Caught another one now. Even some bigwig in Qixia is implicated."
"Really? Thought he was just a rice shopkeeper."
"Rice shop? Ha! He came out of Qixia—used to be a record-keeper in the granary tax office. Gold ingots, silver chests, grain, arms, cloth, salt, porcelain—he saw it all! No wonder he was tempted. Then he vanished… Well, they dug him up at last."
Bihua lowered her gaze and walked lighter. She dared not look up—dared not be recognized, dared not face that strange mix of coldness and excitement.
At a tea stall, the storyteller slapped the table: "A righteous law, a fallen official! Heaven's retribution!—On the east road today, the prisoner's escort arrives!"
Laughter swelled. A child tugged his father's sleeve. "Let's go see the corrupt official!"
The words corrupt official exploded in Bihua's head. A ringing filled her ears; even the sunlight seemed too sharp.
"Mom…" Layne tugged her sleeve. "Is the person they're talking about… Dad? What happened? Tell me—please!"
She looked down at him. Her lips moved, but no words came. She only tightened her grip.
By Zhengyang Gate the crowd had gathered. Guards roped the ways with bamboo cord, but the alleys teemed with craning necks.
Whispers rustled like surf:
"They say the kingdom's secret agents are involved—did you see any?"
"Nonsense—it's the Hanhai Circuit's envoys and big officials from the capital."
"Hush! They're here! I see the standards—Qingzhou's soldiers, and the men from Youzhen! What a spectacle!"
A surge pushed Bihua stumbling into a candied-hawker. He turned, ready to curse, but at the sight of a veiled mother with a child he only muttered and edged away.
Bihua stopped. Her heart pounded against her ribs.
Hooves rang. A column advanced behind soldiers clearing the way. At the head rode an officer in Qingzhou armor. Behind him marched Youzhen's constables, faces set.
At the center, a crude prison cart rolled through the gate.
Inside sat a man in neat clothes, hands and feet shackled, a heavy yoke on his shoulders. His face was pale, hair slightly disheveled, but his back was straight and his eyes cast down.
Bihua's heart leapt to her throat.
Lai Su.
Even through layers of bodies and the wooden yoke obscuring half his face, she knew him at once—the man who had bought her freedom, now in chains.
Layne stared, blank at first. Then his whole body jolted. He wrenched against her grip.
"Mom! It's Dad! He's there—let me go, I'm going to him!" His voice cracked to a rasp. He fought with all his might, face flushed, tears spilling hot.
"Don't look. Don't go—" Bihua locked her arms around him like vines.
Layne kicked and thrashed, shoes scraping stone. "He's looking at us! I saw him look this way! Let me go! Mom—he's all alone—it's not fair—what is happening?"
He cried like a small animal caught in fate's snare, helpless in his mother's arms.
Around them, the commentary didn't stop:
"Poor thing. The family will suffer too, no doubt."
"Does he even have a family? If not, fine. If so—the women to the red registries, the men to the frontier? Bah, easy on them. Off with their heads, I say!"
Struggling, Layne's foot slipped and kicked a peddler with a shoulder pole.
"Hey!" the man barked.
"I'm sorry," Bihua said quickly. "He's frightened."
Seeing her pallor and disheveled sleeves, the man only grumbled and edged aside—but there was no space to give. Layne still bucked and sobbed until her legs went numb.
With one hand she clutched her son; with the other she pinched the edge of her veil, as if holding on to her last shred of dignity.
She could not cry. Could not move. Could not be recognized—not by any who knew her. She didn't dare look longer. If he saw her there, his heart would break.
She edged back, hugging Layne, and slipped into the seams of the crowd, farther from the cart.
Sunlight blazed on the wall. It felt as if the whole city was staring at that column of wagons and horses—fate passing by, an irreversible judgment.
There was nothing more to see. Before anyone noticed, before Layne could fight again, she should return to the inn. What must come would come. To be recognized here would be worse—especially with people from Qixia about.
Holding Layne tight, Bihua shouldered her way out. When did I last carry him? she thought. He's eight—so heavy already.
On the way back, the street's clamor fell behind, but the words high crime, trial in Qingzhou still wrapped around her like cords. Each step felt like wading through water.
Layne curled in her arms, silent—forehead and lashes damp with sweat and tears—small as a frightened creature. Her fingers combed his hair, slow, trembling.
At the inn steps, the hostess was sweeping paper and sticks. "Back already? What a ruckus today! They say the big criminal came from Youzhen. Tomorrow morning—public trial at the county hall! Even the Hanhai dignitaries will sit the bench."
Bihua nodded, so calm she was almost cold. "Is that so."
She climbed the steps with Layne. The hostess watched them go, muttering, "What's with her? So different from yesterday."
Inside the room, Bihua said nothing. She slipped off their outer robes, washed Layne's face, wiped his brow. He sat motionless, dazed, as if woken from a nightmare he could not grasp.
The food on the table had cooled. Rice hardened under a thin shell; soup filmed with oil.
She moved her hand toward the chopsticks, then drew back. Quietly she gathered the dishes onto a tray and set it outside the door.
"Mom." Layne finally spoke. His voice was like a leaf dried by wind, hoarse from shouting. "That was Dad. I don't understand, but he needs us. Is this right? You wouldn't even let me go to him—that's not like you."
Bihua paused and looked at him—calm, with oceans beneath.
"Layne, your father made mistakes. You're eight. You know that mistakes bring punishment."
She sat beside him and pulled him into her arms.
"Your father isn't a bad man," she said. "At least to me—he did what he did for me. And without that, there would be no you."
Layne pressed his lips tight and nodded, eyes reddening.
They fell into silence, listening to each other's hearts: one soft but unyielding, the other small but growing stronger with every beat.