Deng Ying silently watched him with lowered hands, his gaze unchanged, though he had grown much thinner since their last meeting.
Zheng Yuejia couldn’t help sighing, reaching out to pat Deng Ying’s shoulder lightly.
“How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Good then.”
He withdrew his hand and adjusted his tone.
“The Elder’s intention is for you to enter the Inner Study Hall. Though you’ll be a eunuch, you’ll still lecture there like Yang Lun and the others, teaching poetry and literature to the children of the Inner Study Hall when time permits. If you spot any promising young saplings, you can guide them in engineering and the classics. Also, regarding the Three Great Halls of the Imperial City, you’ll remain in charge of their construction. The Ministry of Works will assign an official to work with you, of course, after you’ve recovered.”
“Yes.”
Deng Ying responded calmly.
Seeing he had no intention of saying more, Zheng Yuejia also fell silent, then suddenly asked after a while: “Nothing else you want to say? What Li Shan can’t decide, I can.”
Deng Ying looked up but spoke of something unexpected to Zheng Yuejia.
“Please tell Lord Yang Lun on my behalf that there’s a woman in Nanhaizi who might be his sister.”
Zheng Yuejia started, “How do you know?”
Deng Ying shook his head.
“As a condemned man, I shouldn’t speak more.”
Zheng Yuejia nodded, not pressing further.
“Where is she now?”
“I don’t know. She’s injured, perhaps fell down a slope before. She’s been lingering outside my detention storehouse these past ten-odd days.”
Zheng Yuejia frowned, “That seems unlikely. For the past half month, they’ve been searching for her outside Nanhaizi, causing quite a commotion. She would have no reason not to know this—why wouldn’t she seek help from Li Shan?”
This was also Deng Ying’s question. If he hadn’t heard Zheng Yuejia and the Justice Ministry official’s conversation here, he would have found it hard to believe that Yang Lun’s sister, a woman betrothed to a minister’s eldest son, would say on the night before his punishment that she lived this life for him.
Seeing his silence, Zheng Yuejia asked further: “How do you know she’s Yang Lun’s sister?”
Deng Ying lowered his eyes, “She wears two lotus jade pendants.”
The Yang clan revered jade, and all clan members, male and female, loved wearing it.
When Deng Ying pointed this out, Zheng Yuejia couldn’t help sighing, “You might be right.”
He then called outside: “Have Li Shan come see me.”
Then, crossing his arms, he asked Deng Ying, “Besides this, nothing else to say?”
“No.”
His voice was faint, carrying a sense of distance. Zheng Yuejia understood his meaning and nodded:
“Alright then, I’ll go.”
The words grew cold, and so did their meaning.
After Zheng Yuejia left, the hall’s doors were firmly locked, leaving behind a charcoal brazier that wasn’t burning very warmly. Sparks scattered sporadically near Deng Ying’s feet. He crouched down, leaned against the brazier, and slowly removed his shoes and socks, sitting quietly for a long time.
Zhang the Bearded hadn’t arrived yet—perhaps it was Zheng Yuejia’s arrangement, wanting to give him more time.
If so, it was unnecessary.
The charcoal gradually burned out.
Deng Ying finally stood up, turned to kneel on the wooden couch, and lifted a corner of the window paper with his finger.
He had no other purpose, just wanting to see the people or things outside.
Previously, he had never thought to rely on anyone, including his father, brothers, or close friends, but now he yearned for physical contact, even through prison clothes—if possible, preferably from someone slightly warmer than himself.
Was anyone outside now?
Indeed, there was.
Yang Wan sat on the stone steps behind the punishment chamber, holding her small notebook.
Snow was sliding off the eaves, occasionally falling in clumps near her feet.
While not exactly startled, it looked cold. She unconsciously hugged her legs tighter, resting her chin on her knees, silently picking at the corners of her notebook. Her eyelids were heavy, but she wasn’t sleepy.
Last night, sleeping in front of Deng Ying, she hadn’t slept well either.
She woke in the middle of the night to find Deng Ying looking up at the snow shadows on the window, seeming not to have slept at all.
There was no light at night, but his eyes held a pool of rippling light. Even though he wore thin clothes and his body seemed stiff with cold, that tranquility with which he could sit quietly in a corner the night before his punishment somehow made Yang Wan feel warm.
Entering the world of men, though gravely wounded, yet without resentment.
This aspect of Deng Ying’s humanity could heal half a lifetime’s worth of pain for many people in the 21st century.
Previously, trying to learn about what happened before and after Deng Ying’s punishment, Yang Wan had searched through several libraries in X-jing, but couldn’t find any reliable related documents.
However, there were many scattered materials in private collections of late Ming and Qing literati.
For instance, a somewhat improper Qing scholar had fabricated such a passage in his private collection.
He wrote that after his punishment, Deng Ying kept his “treasure” in a small pottery jar, carrying it with him always. Later, when he became the Superintendent of the Eastern Depot and acquired a large mansion in the city, he buried the jar under an elm tree in front of the main hall of his outer residence, ordering it to be watered with wine daily. This was called “planting the root.” It was said that if one was sincere when planting the root, it might avoid the inner palace’s pruning and something might grow from below. Unfortunately, later when Deng Ying was condemned and executed, angry Donglin Party youth dug up the wine jar, smashed it open, and burned the rotting contents to charcoal.
Upon reading this, Yang Wan decisively discarded all materials from that Qing scholar.
In historical research, one should avoid not just bias, but preferably even personal character.
How twisted must that person have been to fabricate such a brainless story about Deng Ying “planting the root.”
By the end of her research on Deng Ying, Yang Wan completely rejected any Ming history researcher’s insults against Deng Ying, regardless of their purpose. And nothing could better counter these messy accounts than genuine first-hand materials.
What could be more direct than being present at the time, witnessing things firsthand?
Yang Wan understood everything in her heart, but how to put it?
The person in the documents was dead, with no boundaries between them and the living. They had no privacy; their extinguished life was there for later generations to peer into. But the Deng Ying before Yang Wan’s eyes was different.
He wasn’t an unburnable pile of charcoal needing to be rekindled.
Yang Wan felt that, at least in this space-time, besides being her research subject, he was also a living person.
They were equals.
Never mind.
She finally decided not to pursue this first-hand material, standing up to brush the snow from her hair, but still somewhat reluctant, she turned back to look once more at the wall covered in black moss.
Never mind.
She repeated these words to herself again.
Wait until he’s better, she thought. After all, this part… wasn’t that important.