The madam said nothing for a long moment, her gaze now fixed on the chrysanthemums beyond the lattice window. The silence between them was heavy.
At last she spoke: "Do you remember the poem by Cao Zhi? He wrote, 'He leaves his father and mother behind, dismisses his sons and wife out of his mind. As his name is written within the warrior book. He never works for himself by hook or crook. He'll sacrifice his life for native state; Even death is something of but little weight. But alas, though Cao Zhi wrote this while aspiring to be like his valiant father, he lived in melancholy and was killed by his kin." The master didn't respond, his mind filled with unspoken calculations of survival and loyalty.
She rose, smoothing her sleeves and beckoned her personal attendant behind the door. "It grows late. I will see to the household." Her voice was gentle, but behind it ran a clear current of worry. She left him alone, her figure and footsteps fading down the dimming corridor.
The master remained seated, fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his teacup. Outside, the garden lanterns flickered against the setting sky, casting restless shadows across the wooden porch. He felt the weight of the world pressing in; duty, friendship, and the ever-watchful eyes of Bianjing.
After a moment, he stood and made his way to his study. As he drew closer, the familiar scent of ink and old paper greeted him; a small comfort. He lit a lamp, its pale glow illuminating the neat rows of scrolls, purple hair brushes. Hui ink from She county, and blank sheets awaiting his hand.
He languidly sat at his desk, unrolling a fresh sheet of paper. After placing the paper in front of him, he relaxed into his chair. While gazing at the blank sheet, he simply listened to the soft call of a night bird, to the hush of servants settling final chores, and the gently rustle of leaves. The door slid open with a creak. His longtime aide, Chen, entered quietly, bowing with practised deference. The man was no older than the master, but had an air of vigour even with his greying hair and wrinkled face.
"Master," Chen said in a hushed voice, careful to not disturb the quiet. "The household is settled for the night, is there anything you require?"
The master leaned his head back and closed his eyes, shaking his head.
Chen hesitated, then stepped closer. "Forgive my boldness, but, what will our next steps be? The madam is anxious, and the city is restless with rumour. If there is anything you wish me to prepare, or anyone you wish me to contact, I am ready."
Ruolan's father opened his eyes, the lamplight catching the lines of worry on his face. For a moment, the lofty navy brocade and scholarly face seemed to disappear as he weighed his words. He regarded his aide with a thoughtful gaze, the only sound being the faint crackle of the lamp.
"Chen,"he whispered, "these are days when a single careless word can bring ruin. We must be prudent, but not paralyzed."
He gestured to the blank sheet. "Tonight, I will send word to old friends, those who still value justice over favour. We must learn what is truly happening in Bianjing, and where there is any hope for Lord Wang. At the same time, I want you to remind the household; no gossip, no unnecessary visitors, and nothing about the Wang family spoken beyond these walls."
Chen nodded, his expression grave. "And if someone from the palace comes to call?"
The master's lips pressed into a thin line. "Naturally, we will receive them with courtesy and caution. If he ask after uncle Wang, we know nothing beyond what is already spoken in the streets. Our loyalty to the throne, Emperor Renzong, is unwavering; let that be clear in every word and gesture."
He paused as he ground an ink stick, and added, "send for my eldest daughter at dawn. I wish to speak with her privately."
Chen bowed. "It will be done, master."
Once the aide withdrew, with careful deliberation, the master dipped his brush and began to write. The words came dreadfully slow at first, measured and precise, each stroke weighed for meaning and risk. They appeared as formalities on the surface, yet beneath them, the master knew he had to convey a current of urgency and caution. He broke focus often, listening for footsteps in the corridor, re-reading each phrase as if it might be one day scrutinized by others.
Finishing the first letter, Ruolan's father waited to let the ink dry before folding the page. Heread it one more time before sliding it aside.