Deng Ying helped Yang Wan to the bed, turned to move the lamp closer, and bent down to roll up her trouser leg. “Have you applied medicine?”
Yang Wan shook her head, “No, but I’ve applied cold water several times. I’m afraid of pain – this kind of injury hurts too much to rub medicine on it, I don’t dare.”
Deng Ying looked at Yang Wan’s knee in the lamplight. Though the compressed area hadn’t broken skin, an alarming patch of blue and purple had spread from the point of impact. He wanted to reach out and touch it but didn’t dare.
“Wan-wan.”
“What?”
“Let me help you leave the palace, while I still hold this position.”
“Who will take care of you if I leave?”
Yang Wan rolled down her trouser leg, cutting him off directly.
Deng Ying was stunned, momentarily speechless.
Yang Wan shifted her legs, inching closer to Deng Ying. “If I leave, what will you do when you pick up those messy books to read again?”
Deng Ying lowered his head, “Without you here, how would I dare read those books again?”
He paused, then continued, “Wan-wan, wherever you go, I will be but dust beneath your feet. Even without you, I will live a quiet life. But… knowing my reputation is tarnished, though I seek a peaceful end it cannot be attained. So, before I am completely ruined, I want to send you away.”
“It’s too late for that.”
Yang Wan curled her legs, her toes gently pressing against Deng Ying’s thigh. She propped her cheeks with her hands, giving Deng Ying a calm and gentle smile. “Deng Ying, don’t you dare be dust beneath my feet.”
“Am I not worthy?”
Yang Wan raised a hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind Deng Ying’s ear, and looked up, “No, it’s because I’ve always wanted to be your legacy.”
She withdrew her hand, folding it on her knee, and spoke sincerely: “Deng Ying, hundreds of years from now, people will gradually understand your life – your illnesses during the Zhenning years, your ups and downs, your contributions to the dynasty, and your sincerity toward the scholars of the realm – none of it will be erased.”
Deng Ying remained silent.
Yang Wan asked, “You don’t believe me, do you?”
Deng Ying neither confirmed nor denied.
Yang Wan gripped Deng Ying’s slightly cold hand, “Deng Ying, even hundreds of years from now, people will still find you after searching through piles of old documents. How much more so now that I’m by your side – don’t send me away.”
Deng Ying still didn’t speak.
“Did you hear me?”
“I heard you.”
As Deng Ying spoke, Yang Wan’s voice became lighter. She pulled the blanket over both their legs and asked, looking up:
“Then tell me, if people hundreds of years from now could hear your voice, what would you want to tell them?”
“Me?”
“Yes, say what you want to say.”
Deng Ying’s fingers gently squeezed, and he said softly, “I don’t know.”
“Think about it now?”
Yang Wan tugged at Deng Ying’s sleeve gently as she spoke.
Deng Ying obediently raised his hand, accommodating Yang Wan, and responded warmly, “Alright, I’ll think about it now.”
After speaking, he leaned back against the bedframe.
Yang Wan fell silent too. She released Deng Ying’s sleeve, turned to pull a pillow behind her waist, and leaned back opposite him, waiting quietly for his answer.
The lamp in the inner chamber flickered, and Deng Ying raised his head, clearing his throat softly.
“Have you thought of something?”
“Yes.”
“What is it?”
Deng Ying’s gaze fell tenderly on Yang Wan, “Though I bear a thousand sins and countless wrongs, with no way to defend myself, only my private longing for Yang Wan is true. For this sin alone, I have no regrets about any punishment I’ve received in life.”
Yang Wan’s throat caught at his words.
This answer was both sad and amusing.
Later studies of Deng Ying, whether praising or criticizing, would thoroughly cover his official career and social connections, but his romantic history would remain ethereally invisible. Yet Deng Ying himself wanted to fill in this part.
A thousand thoughts ran through Yang Wan’s mind, but all she could manage to say was “Fool.”
“Fool…”
In the final month of Zhenning’s fourteenth year, heavy snow fell for days. In Hebei, the snowstorm collapsed many homes, with countless people and livestock freezing to death on the roads. Days later, the south began reporting disasters too, with rivers and lakes in Jiangsu freezing over, closing the ports. Meanwhile, in the Hall of Mental Cultivation, Emperor Zhenning lay on his deathbed.
Though the new year approached, none of the palace’s twenty-four departments prepared for the festivities.
The palaces were quiet, their gates tightly shut. Only the East Prosperity Gate saw constant traffic of coal-bearing carts, even busier than usual.
Chen Hua at the Fuel Conservation Office barely dared to close his eyes, working to heat the Hall of Mental Cultivation and other palaces.
That noon, Li Yu trudged through the snow into the office, finding Chen Hua pacing worriedly inside, with ten baskets of charcoal on the ground, none filled.
Seeing Li Yu enter, Chen Hua hurriedly said, “Quick, take a basket.”