Soft-hearted

“Madam! Over here!”
Xiang Yao was waiting outside the residence ahead of time, standing amid the long procession for the funeral escort. She waved at Yingshi from beside a crimson carriage.

She had hurried over to prepare the carriage for Yingshi. “Come up and see, I’ve laid out a mat for you—so soft and comfortable. There’s plenty of space inside, enough for two to sleep.”

Yingshi had already noticed; there was no need for Xiang Yao to explain further. This carriage was clearly prepared especially for her, markedly different from the plain ones before and after in the convoy—broad and inviting.

It looked so comfortable to sit in that Yingshi felt utterly satisfied.

She gestured at the pastries in her hand and called for Chunlan to fetch two plates.

“I’ll save a few pieces for you both to eat on the road, and the rest I’ll deliver to the others,” Yingshi said.

The Liang family’s wealth and extravagance showed in every detail. Even as they escorted the coffin out, everything for their journey—food, clothing, daily necessities—was prepared well in advance. Pots, bowls, pillows, bedding, all were laid out before their departure.

The bowl and dish in Yingshi’s hand, for example, were sky-blue porcelain with frosted white bases, discreetly adorned with gold and iron filigree patterns visible only under candlelight. She knew the Liang family had their own kiln supplying the manor. Out of hundreds of pieces fired, perhaps only one or two would be deemed perfect enough for use in the residence; the rest were smashed.

While reflecting on the wastefulness of the wealthy, Yingshi quietly set aside a few pieces of pastry and offered them to Xiang Yao and Chunlan.

Xiang Yao asked, “Where did these pastries come from, Madam?”

“My second sister-in-law just brought them for me,” Yingshi replied. “This recipe has been passed down in her family for generations, better even than anything served in the palace. Naturally, I’m sharing something this delicious with you to satisfy your cravings. The rest I’ll deliver to the young masters.”

Clearly, the pastries were a wife’s thoughtful gesture for her husband. Yingshi was no fool—after a few bites, how could she accept the whole box?

The pastries may have been a small thing, but the two maids were touched. They hadn’t expected their mistress to remember them even in such matters and to bring them a treat especially.

Though the three had always shared a close bond, something now felt subtly different. Chunlan and Xiang Yao couldn’t say exactly what had changed—perhaps in the past it was mostly them caring for Yingshi, but now it seemed the roles had reversed.

...

Seeing that the lead guard was still tending to the horses, Yingshi decided to take the pastry box and step down from the carriage again.

At the head of the funeral procession was a carriage drawn by two jet-black steeds, though its frame was unusually plain.

Yingshi’s gaze lowered; she lifted her sleeve and lightly knocked on the carriage window.

“Elder brother, are you there?” Her voice was hard to describe—gentle and elusive, like the wind in the treetops.

A moment later, the sound of a book closing came from inside, and a slender hand lifted the bamboo curtain.

The carriage was parked under a lush zelkova tree before the manor gate.

At dawn, the sky was tinged with a faint duck-egg blue.

The pale morning light reflected in Liang Yun’s deep eyes. Yingshi raised her head and, unguarded, met his ink-black gaze.

His eyes were strikingly beautiful—shaped like a sleeping phoenix, with long, narrow corners. Yet there was something unsettling about them. His bearing was cool and austere—he should have been the very model of upright virtue, but those eyes were almost inhumanly sharp, their depths impossible to disguise.

It seemed nothing could hide from his gaze.

Yingshi quickly averted her eyes, almost as if she had been caught doing something guilty.

Outside the carriage, the spring breeze stirred the treetops, lifting the soft hair at Yingshi’s temples, carrying with it a faint floral scent.

She had knocked on his window but didn’t speak further, even lowering her head without knowing why, so that Liang Yun could see only the dark crown of her hair and her long, curled lashes.

Liang Yun, reserved yet gentle, asked, “What is it that brings you here, sister-in-law?”

The window was set high—Yingshi had to stand on tiptoe to see inside.

Thus, Liang Yun hadn’t noticed the box she carried.

Yingshi, prompted by his question, regained her composure and awkwardly lifted the box, looking up and offering him a gentle, innocent smile.

“Second sister-in-law gave me some pastries. I doubt I can finish them all myself, so I brought some for you.”

The box was made of sandalwood—already quite heavy—and with four layers of pastries, each packed full by Xiao Qiongyu, it was a burden for Yingshi to carry.

Perhaps this was Liang Yun’s first time being offered pastries by a woman.

He seemed unused to refusing, especially refusing her.

While he hesitated, Yingshi rested one side of the box on the window ledge for support, but it began to tip.

Liang Yun was always quick to act.

Just as he had caught her in the mourning hall that day, he reached out to steady the box, his other hand naturally cradling the bottom.

Unexpectedly, Yingshi’s hand was also underneath, supporting the weight.

His hand was large and cool, and when it inadvertently closed over hers, it nearly enveloped her entire hand and slender wrist.

Yingshi’s hand was so soft it seemed even the bones were pliant—so much so that Liang Yun didn’t realize at first what he was touching.

He wasn’t sure what it was—until she jerked her hand away as if shocked, and only then did he realize.

He lifted the box by its handles, taking it from her with steady hands.

He said evenly, “Thank you, sister-in-law. I’ll have someone distribute these to my brothers.”

He carried himself with such open dignity it was as if nothing had happened—as if it was all Yingshi’s imagination.

Yet her hand tingled from that strange touch. Forcing down her confusion, she hurriedly bowed and fled back to her carriage.

After she left, Liang Yun looked down at his own hand, lost in thought.

After a while, he pressed his palm against the cool lid of the box, as if to suppress the warmth and unfamiliar feeling lingering there.

...

This funeral escort was meant to be an unadorned procession.

For one, the days were growing hotter; even if only bones remained, it was unwise to linger—any longer and decay would set in.

For another, the Liang family was a house that valued propriety and reputation above all. Even though their young master had died for the country, with so many elders and brothers still living, it would not do to make a grand display of his funeral.

There were barely a dozen attendants and guards, led by the three Liang brothers. Each day, they traveled diligently toward Hedong.

Sometimes the procession took the main road; other times, they took muddy byways through the countryside. At each posting station, they would stop to rest their horses and carriages.

The drivers’ work was hard, but even riding in the carriages was no easy task.

Day after day, Yingshi rose early to continue the journey. On good roads it was bearable, but the rutted byways left her dizzy and sore.

After much stopping and starting, as evening fell, they finally found a place to stay—a modest inn along a country road, for which they had to pay several times the usual rate.

The innkeeper was reluctant to accept a funeral procession, fearing bad luck.

But the Liang family’s show of wealth and force—ten taels of silver and a dozen gleaming swords—left him no choice.

He could only accept the money with a forced smile, accommodating the supposedly unlucky guests.

The guards quickly unloaded their luggage and weapons, tended the horses, and settled in.

The young masters were still outside discussing matters, their faces grave.

Passing by, Yingshi saw the three Liang brothers standing together, each more stern than the last.

She wondered what could be so serious, but felt no fear. She knew that in her previous life, the journey had proceeded smoothly and everyone had returned safely.

All she cared about was getting a good rest, soaking in a hot bath, eating a hearty meal, and replenishing her snacks when they reached the next town—her carriage’s supply was running low. She calculated her plans carefully.

However, as soon as she set foot inside the inn, a foul odor hit her.

She looked up to see a cramped, dingy inn with a handful of grimy tables in the hall.

The innkeeper’s assistant was dressed in clothes so dirty they shone; the kitchen in plain view behind the hall had not even a curtain to hide it.

There, an old man was chatting with others while taking off his shoes, grimacing as he dug at his toes inside his boots.

At the sight, Yingshi recoiled several steps, suddenly reluctant to enter.

Liang Yun followed her in. Sensing her discomfort, he offered a rare look of apology.

“There’s no other inn to be found here. Forgive me, sister-in-law, for making you endure this for one night.”

Hengzhou, wedged between Heluo and Hedong, was unsettled. Ever since entering Hengzhou, they had avoided the main roads, taking only the most remote paths and thus unable to stay at official posthouses.

What else could Yingshi say? It was only for a day or two. Aside from the aches from riding, she could bear anything—except, perhaps, the food cooked in that kitchen.

She steeled herself, nodded, and stepped inside.

A few burly men sat shirtless in the hall, drinking and playing dice.

Hearing that a funeral procession had arrived, they looked on with open disdain.

As Yingshi passed by, their eyes raked over her without pretense.

It is said that mourning clothes only make a woman’s beauty more striking. Dressed in white, petite and lovely, Yingshi’s delicate features stood out all the more. Standing there, she was the very image of a young, charming widow.

Men, when emboldened, are rarely restrained in their words.

At first, seeing the Liang family’s guards, they’d been wary. But as soon as they saw Yingshi with only two maids, their spirits swelled with liquid courage, and they began to whistle and catcall.

Their drunken, lecherous eyes stared hungrily at her fair face.

They must have been wagering earlier on who would emerge from her carriage.

“I was right—it’s a pretty little widow!”

“So young and beautiful—what a waste that her husband’s dead!”

“Did you see earlier, the man fussing over her? Tsk, tsk, tsk—give it three months, she’ll be unable to stay chaste and run off with him!”

The back door stood wide open, the west window letting in gusts of wind.

These coarse, vulgar men seemed to be making sure Yingshi could hear them, making no effort to lower their voices.

Hearing their crude talk, Yingshi was so angered her breath trembled uncontrollably. Liang Yun, who had entered just steps behind, heard as well.

When she turned, she saw his face had gone suddenly cold and grim.

In that instant, she forgot her own anger, her heart skipping a beat at the sight of his icy expression.