Each autumn rain brings another chill.
The Mid-Autumn Festival passed in the blink of an eye. As autumn deepened and the sky dried, half the phoenix trees in the capital were stripped bare overnight. The weather turned sharply cold.
The imperial prison provided quilted prisoner’s garments to those in custody.
Deng Ying was temporarily freed from his shackles. He sat in the corner, carefully massaging the bruises on his wrists and ankles. The execution day was approaching, and he didn’t want to appear undignified at the execution grounds due to impaired movement.
A young jailer, taking advantage of his supervisor’s absence, quietly poured a cup of his own hot tea and offered it to Deng Ying. Though the tea didn’t smell expensive, it was fragrant.
“This is…” Deng Ying looked up questioningly while rubbing his wrist.
The jailer glanced outside the cell, “Take a sip, no one’s coming.”
Deng Ying accepted the hot tea with both hands, took a sip, and bowed his head in gratitude, “Thank you.”
The jailer smiled, “I feel sorry for you.”
“Thank you for your compassion.” He couldn’t help but ask, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Very young.”
The jailer nodded, “I heard you’re young too, from an official family, and were once a jinshi scholar.”
Deng Ying lowered his eyes and replied, “Yes, but I no longer hold any titles now.”
The jailer said, “I studied at home before too, but not as well as you. I tried for several years but couldn’t earn any titles, so I took over my father’s position to serve the government. I used to hate people like you – those with knowledge and talent who didn’t do proper work, ending up in chains, about to be…”
He seemed to find it too cruel to say “lingchi” to Deng Ying’s face, so he held back.
Deng Ying placed the cup on his knee and softly replied, “Your criticism is justified.”
“Did you really do those things?”
Deng Ying startled slightly at the question and looked up, “The court has already passed judgment, why do you ask this?”
The jailer hesitated, took back the teacup and handed him the quilted clothes, “Change your clothes. I’ll return later.”
As he kicked the shackles aside and turned to leave, he saw Zhang Luo standing outside the cell. Frightened, he dropped the teacup, “My Lord… I…”
Zhang Luo glanced at the mess on the ground and said coldly, “He is a condemned prisoner. No matter how much you pity him, you cannot privately give him food or drink. If anything happens to him before the execution, you won’t be able to save yourself.”
“Yes…”
As the jailer was about to apologize, Zhang Luo added, “Clean this up.”
There was no blame in these words. The jailer hurriedly gathered the broken porcelain and retreated outside.
Zhang Luo entered the cell. Deng Ying had already stood up and backed against the wall to bow to him.
Zhang Luo looked around, “You can change to a different cell.”
Deng Ying straightened up, “I’ll stay here.”
Zhang Luo didn’t insist, “The execution is scheduled for the third day of next month. Before then, you may request any accommodations you need for your daily life.”
“None needed.” Deng Ying gripped his injured wrist. “You have already shown me great benevolence, I dare not forget this kindness.”
Zhang Luo shook his head and said evenly, “I’ve overseen the imperial prison for many years and understand everything about prison life. Though prisons should ‘show mercy to prisoners,’ who would feel compassion for the guilty? They wouldn’t treat a death row prisoner well without reason.”
Deng Ying remained silent, hands at his sides, waiting for Zhang Luo to continue.
Instead of speaking further, Zhang Luo raised his hand and held out a book to him.
“What is it?”
Zhang Luo lifted his arm higher. “See for yourself.”
Deng Ying reached out to take it, and Zhang Luo added, “You cannot keep it. After reading, it must be returned to me for burning.”
Deng Ying nodded and looked down at the cover.
The words “Eastern Depot Observation Notes” met his eyes, and as he turned the page, there was that somewhat “humorous” small portrait.
It was exactly as he had looked that night, sitting on the bed, when Yang Wan had sketched him in her notes.
Deng Ying’s hands trembled uncontrollably as he held the book. “This is…”
“Written by Yang Wan.”
Zhang Luo looked down at the pages as he spoke, “Last month in mid-autumn, Qingbo House’s printing blocks for this book were burned. Afterward, the Five Districts Command and I repeatedly confiscated copies from civilians, but it keeps reappearing despite the ban. I shouldn’t give you this book, but she wrote it for you. Before your death, you should at least see it once.”
Deng Ying lowered his head, fingers gently stroking the pages.
The first chapter described the period before and after his torture.
The ending passage read:
From the moment I saw him, I knew that I lived my life for Deng Ying. But outside the torture chamber, barriers still existed between us. He respected proper dress, yet had no clothes to cover himself; I was fully clothed, yet dared not look at him. In the twelfth year of Zhenning, only a charcoal brazier remained in the torture chamber. I sat by the fire, deliberately keeping my distance. Though thousands of words filled my heart, I could not speak them, only deceiving him with one sentence: “I’m a bit cold too.”
Four years had passed since meeting Yang Wan, and these words gradually awakened the details of their first meeting. That feeling, like trees sprouting, seemed to grow from within his flesh and bones. Deng Ying remembered she had indeed said those words: “Then sleep a while longer. I’m a bit cold, I’ll warm myself by the fire before leaving.”
In truth, she hadn’t left afterward.
She sat before his torture bed, constantly facing away. Even when she heard his groans of pain, she busied herself with the fire to help cover for him, never turning around once.
She had protected his heart without leaving a trace.