The fourteenth year of Zhenning, year’s end, on a snowy night.
The floating snow on the moat was carried away by the cold water, flowing in large clusters toward the outside of the city. When Yang Wan brought the noodle bowl outside and came back in, she saw Deng Ying sitting quietly at the edge of the bed, soaking his feet, his hands resting on the bed’s surface.
He kept his head down without speaking, as if afraid of what Yang Wan might say.
Yang Wan smiled, took off her shoes, and got on the bed, kneeling to stuff cotton into the window cracks, while calling to him, “Deng Ying.”
“Mm?”
“Has the foot-soaking water gotten cold?”
Deng Ying looked at his ankles, where the swelling had reduced considerably. The human body was like this – mistreat it and it would deteriorate terribly, but care for it properly and it would improve. During the time Yang Wan had confined him to bed to recover, his injuries had indeed healed significantly. But when Yang Wan wasn’t around, he would forget to brew medicine for foot soaks in cold weather, to eat warming foods regularly, to get extra rest occasionally, and to maintain his health.
He never realized that his treatment of himself stemmed from his inner “self-loathing,” which over time gradually led to self-destruction. Only when sitting beside Yang Wan would he be willing to rally his spirits and try to repair his broken body.
“Has it gotten cold?”
Yang Wan lowered her hand and turned back to ask again, “Why aren’t you speaking?”
“It’s not cold.”
Yang Wan shifted on her knees to sit beside Deng Ying, looking down at the basin, saying softly: “It seems like the past half month of recovery has been completely wasted.”
Deng Ying’s neck stiffened, and he didn’t dare turn around.
“Wan Wan, I know I was wrong.”
Yang Wan let out a laugh, “You know you were wrong, but you still won’t change.”
“I will change.”
“How will you change?”
She smiled as she spoke, her gaze gentle, her voice softening, “Will you change in the imperial prison?”
“Wan Wan…”
“Never mind.”
Yang Wan interrupted him, “Dry your feet and come up.”
Deng Ying dried his feet and drew his legs under the covers.
The bedding held Yang Wan’s warmth. She had already placed pillows at the headboard, her knees drawn up as a desk, spreading open the notebook she often read.
“Deng Ying.”
“Yes?”
“Come sit on the inside.”
“Oh… alright.”
He lifted the covers, crawling on his knees to the inner side of the bed.
Yang Wan moved the lamp at the bedhead closer with her hand, illuminating the notebook on her knees.
She turned to the first few pages and showed them to Deng Ying, “Look at my childish drawings.”
Deng Ying looked down at the paper, where the figure wore a headscarf and hat, the body proportions extremely unbalanced.
“Is it me?”
“Yes.”
Yang Wan couldn’t help but laugh, “It’s you, but I’m almost embarrassed to admit it.”
She poked the face in the drawing with her finger.
“Deng Ying.”
“Mm.”
“You’re good at drawing, aren’t you?”
Deng Ying shook his head, “I used to be somewhat good, but now I can only draw blueprints.”
“Are you skilled at drawing blueprints then?”
Deng Ying smiled without answering.
Yang Wan looked up, “You never talk about the things you’re good at. It was the same before when I asked whether you or my brother was better at studying.”
Deng Ying clasped his hands together. His middle garment’s sleeves weren’t long, and the old marks of shackles were faintly visible on his exposed wrists.
“Wan Wan, I can’t leave anything behind, but I think, as long as I don’t speak, future generations will at least not think I was an arrogant and disrespectful person.”
This was his only small hope for his posthumous reputation.
Yang Wan lowered her head, turning to a fresh page.
“Deng Ying, I’ll draw you again. Looking at you while drawing, it should turn out better.”
Deng Ying unconsciously straightened his back, “Dressed like this… is it acceptable?”
Yang Wan looked up at him. He wore a grey-blue robe, with newly changed undergarments beneath, slightly yellowed from washing.
“It’s fine, very clean.”