Time passed without notice.
Layne drifted in and out—sometimes dazed, sometimes weeping. When exhausted, he fell into a shallow sleep, only to wake and repeat the cycle. Neither he nor his mother thought of food, nor of seeking help.
Only days ago, they had been joyfully celebrating the Festival of Flowing Blessings, lighting lanterns, making wishes. Now, as if the beams of their house had collapsed and the pillars splintered, their family was about to be torn apart. What could an eight-year-old boy and a young woman not yet thirty possibly do?
Night fell.
Through the paper windows, the faint yellow glow of a candle wavered, casting trembling shadows across the floor.
Bihua adjusted the flame, then returned to her seat by the window. She held an untouched teacup, the water long since gone cold, a thin mist veiling its surface like unspoken sorrows in the night.
On the bed, Layne slept curled into himself. Even in slumber his brows knotted tight; his limbs twitched, and he muttered incoherently, lost in restless dreams.
She looked at him with the same tender gaze as always. The child was still so young. If there was no way to change what was coming, then she must not let him lose his mother as well.
Outside there was no rain, no wind. Yet all of Qingzhou seemed to hold its breath. From the direction of the county court, she could faintly hear the occasional clatter of hooves. A dog barked and fell silent, and stillness returned.
She had not cried. Not once that entire day, though tears had pooled again and again in her eyes. It was not that she did not wish to weep, but that there was no longer anyone to comfort her when she did. At times she envied Layne—at least he could cry without restraint.
She could no longer remember when it began, but Laisu's figure had always been walking ahead of her, steady and unwavering. Yet gradually, he had become like a great ship ready to sink—first faltering, then vanishing beneath the waves.
He had never confided a single complaint or fear to her. Strange—back when he still visited the House of Fragrant Shadows, he had always grumbled endlessly. But at some point he had grown quiet, and she only now realized how many secrets must have been hidden in those silent nights when he bent over the account books by candlelight.
The night deepened. Street lanterns went out, the tea house fell silent, only the occasional cough from a neighbor broke the stillness.
She glanced at the teacup in her hand, finally set it down, rubbed her eyes, and turned toward the distant county court, clenching her fists.
The candle sputtered once—and died.
Darkness swallowed the room.
Dawn broke.
Through the cracks of the wooden window, pale golden light spilled across the floor. Dust motes danced in the beam, proof that no one had truly slept in the room that night.
Bihua had changed into plain garments. Her hair was bound with a ribbon, her appearance calm and composed, though faint shadows beneath her eyes betrayed the sleepless night.
The boy sat at the table, his eyes swollen from weeping. Yet he refused to shed another tear. He bent over his bowl of thin porridge and whispered:
"Mother… today we're going to see Father, aren't we?"
Bihua softly replied, "Mm."
She brushed his brow, and added quietly:
"Remember this—your father is guilty by the law's decree. But that does not mean he failed as a husband, or as a father. We are not going to watch a spectacle. We go to tell him… that we are still here."
Far off, the deep clang of gongs rolled across the city. Today, Qingzhou would hold its Three-Hall Trial. The whole city knew.
The streets grew noisy. Shouts, footsteps, all streaming toward the county court. Even outside the inn, early risers wiped their faces with cloths as they hurried away, gossiping as they went.
Bihua looked once at the swelling tide of people, lowered her veil, took Layne's hand and said faintly:
"Let's go."
The county court of Qingzhou lay in the inner city, its blue-brick walls and crimson gates guarded by ranks of soldiers. The public trial would be held not in a chamber, but on the vast training grounds behind the court.
Bihua and Layne walked with the crowd.
"This case runs deep! I heard even envoys of the Han Sea Circuit have come!"
"They say the main culprit was once a tax official in Xixia City—handled silver and grain, and vanished ten years ago…"
"And one from our very own You Town—Laisu! For ten years he hid as a rice merchant!"
The words surged like waves, one after another. Bihua kept her eyes lowered, holding Layne's hand tighter.
The training ground was enormous, ringed by triple fences and bristling with guards. At the western wall, the tribunal dais gleamed red, banners flapped in the morning sun, and racks of punishment stood grimly in place.
The presiding lord of Qingzhou, broad-shouldered and stern, sat upon the main seat. Beside him was the imperial censor from Xixia, clad in dark purple robes, his brush and scroll ready.
When the city lord finally spoke, his voice boomed like a war drum:
"Bring forth the accused!"
The side gate opened. Chains clinked. Soldiers escorted forth a man in white prison garb—Laisu. His head bowed, iron shackles heavy on wrists and ankles, yet his step remained steady. His clothes were neat, his face unmarked, but his eyes held only a weary calm, like a boat about to sink in still waters.
Bihua froze.
Layne's eyes widened, his body straining forward, until she clutched him hard. He must not cry out. They could only watch.
The wind stirred, the banners snapped, and the trial began.
The Qingzhou lord's voice was sharp as a blade:
"Laisu, former Registrar of the Xixia Granary and Tax Bureau! You stand accused of embezzling grain and silver, taking bribes, and falsifying accounts. Do you confess?"
"I confess."
"Who commanded you?"
"No one."
"Who else was involved?"
He hesitated, then slowly shook his head.
The lord slammed the desk, rising like a storm:
"How dare you! Already near a hundred officials have confessed and been executed—yet you still feign ignorance! Do you think to shield your accomplices even now?"
His black robe swelled as if with wind. His presence crashed down like a tiger descending on prey.
Laisu bowed his head. His voice was faint:
"I confess my guilt… but I truly do not know the names of others."
The pen struck the record. Ink spattered.
The lord exhaled heavily, then pronounced:
"You were a servant of the crown. You stole from the people you were meant to serve. The law is iron. For your crimes of embezzlement and corruption—Laisu, you are sentenced to death. Execution in three days' time, here in Qingzhou."
The crowd roared in uproar. Some shouted "Good!" Applause and cheers swelled—the downfall of a corrupt official was always met with jubilation.
Bihua's chest tightened painfully. She pulled Layne's head against her, shielding his eyes.
On the platform, Laisu seemed to sense something. He turned his head toward the throng. Did his gaze catch the faint eyes hidden beneath a plain veil, standing only a few dozen paces away?
For a moment, the din of the crowd fell away. He closed his eyes, lips moving faintly.
She could not hear the words. But she saw.
Don't cry.