Liu Lanzhi found him behind the hedge again.
He was not on the bench. He was not waiting with his hands folded and his feet dangling. He was crouched in the shadow of the crumbling wall, his knees drawn to his chest and his face buried in his arms. His shoulders were shaking.
She stopped at the edge of the courtyard. The morning light was pale, casting long, thin shadows across the stones where the dew still clung, cold and wet. He had been here for some time. She could see it in the way his robes were damp at the knees, the fabric clinging to his small frame. He did not look up when she came through the hedge.
She sat on the bench. Not close. Not far. Just there.
He did not move. She listened to his breathing—the wet catch of it, the jagged, broken rhythm as he tried to make it even and failed. She watched the tremble in his shoulders and the dirt on his sleeves that had not been there yesterday.
She waited.
When he finally looked up, she saw the bruise first. It was a dark smear across his cheekbone, already purpling, the skin split at the edge. He had tried to hide it with his sleeve; that was why his face had been buried. He saw her looking, and his hand went to his cheek, quick and sharp.
"I fell," he said.
The words were fast, the edges worn smooth from use. She had heard them before, in another voice, in another life.
She did not call him a liar. "Let me see."
He hesitated. His hand stayed pressed to his cheek, his eyes fixed on her face. He looked for a long time. Her face did not change. She waited.
Finally, he lowered his hand.
The bruise spread from his cheekbone to his jaw, the skin swollen and tight. There was a cut beneath his eye, small but deep. It had a clean edge, the kind that came from something sharp. A ring. A buckle.
Liu Lanzhi's hands tightened in her lap. The cold pressure stirred in her chest—a slow, coiling movement that waited beneath her ribs.
"Who?"
His eyes widened. He looked at her, then at the ground, then at his hands. They had started shaking again.
"The tutor," he said. His voice was a thin thread. "I could not remember the lesson. He said I was stupid. He said—"
His voice broke. He bit down on his lip. It was split too, the blood dried to a dark crust that flaked as he moved. "He said princes who cannot learn do not deserve to be princes."
She remembered this tutor. In her previous life, she had not met him until Zichen was older, until the bruises had become routine. She was not too late now.
"His name."
"Tutor Wei. He comes in the mornings. After the first bell."
Liu Lanzhi rose from the bench. Her robes hissed against the stone. "Come. Let us get you cleaned."
He stared at her. "You are not angry?"
She looked at him. Four years old. Bruised. Asking if she was angry because he had been struck by a man twice his size. Her heart gave a single, hard thump against her ribs.
"I am not angry with you."
She held out her hand. He looked at it for a long moment, his eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, he put his small hand in hers.
The water in the courtyard fountain was cold. The stones were slick with moss, the scent of wet earth rising in the pale morning light. Liu Lanzhi dipped the edge of her sleeve into the basin and pressed it to his cheek.
He flinched. She held her hand steady, patient, until he settled.
"The tutor said I was stupid," he said.
"You are not stupid."
"I could not remember the lesson. The other princes remember. They are older."
"The other princes have tutors who teach them. Tutor Wei does not teach. He strikes."
He was quiet for a moment. She dipped her sleeve again and wiped the blood from his lip.
"Why does he do it?" Zichen asked.
She looked at his face. He was four years old. He did not need to understand cruelty; he needed to know it was not his fault.
"Because he is a small man," she said, "who has found someone smaller."
Zichen looked at her. Something moved in his face—a shift in his gaze, a tightening of his jaw. "You are not small."
"No," she said. "I am not."
He nodded, as if this settled something. Then he looked at her sleeve, wet and spotted with his blood. "Your sleeve is ruined."
The silk was stained, the embroidery dark. It had been a gift from someone whose name she no longer remembered.
"It can be cleaned."
"Jiejie. Will you come back tomorrow?"
She folded her wet sleeve against her palm. "I will come back."
He nodded. "Then it is all right."
She sat beside him on the edge of the fountain and let the morning light warm her shoulders.
The palace administration building was low and dark, tucked near the eastern gate. Inside, the air was heavy with the scent of old ink and dust.
The clerk at the desk was thin. He did not look up from his ledger, the scratching of his pen the only sound in the cramped room. Liu Lanzhi stood before his desk. She did not sit. Her hands were folded, her back a straight line.
"I wish to report an incident. One of the imperial tutors has been striking his student."
The pen paused. The clerk looked at her robes, then at her face. He did not smile.
"I am afraid," he said, "that matters of imperial education fall outside the jurisdiction of—"
"Tutor Wei has been observed striking the Eleventh Prince. Today, he left visible injuries on the child's face. These injuries were witnessed by this princess."
She did not raise her voice. The silence that followed was heavy.
The clerk set his pen down carefully. "Your Highness, I am certain it was a misunderstanding. Tutor Wei has served the imperial family for—"
"Tutor Wei struck a child in the face. He drew blood. If this office does not wish to investigate, I will bring the matter to the Crown Prince directly."
The clerk's hands shook. He reached for his pen, then set it down again.
"There is no need for that. The matter will be looked into. Discreetly."
Liu Lanzhi inclined her head. "I am sure it will."
She turned and walked out.
The tutor was gone by the next morning.
Liu Lanzhi learned of it from a servant. Removed, Your Highness. Sent away. She went to the garden at her usual hour. Zichen was on the bench, his hands folded, his feet dangling. The bruise on his cheek was darker now, a deep purple against his pale skin, but his eyes were clear.
She sat beside him.
"Tutor Wei is gone," he said.
"Yes."
He looked at her. A question moved in his eyes. "Was it you?"
She did not answer. The zither notes from a distant hall drifted through the air, thin and sharp.
"Will there be a new tutor?"
"Yes."
"Will the new one be like him?"
She looked at the garden, at the crumbling wall and the bench where they sat. She thought of the lake. Of cold water. Of a child she had failed to save. The cold pressure settled slow in her chest.
"No. The new one will not be like him."
He looked at her for a long moment. Then he nodded.
"Jiejie. Why did you help me?"
"Because no one else will."
He was quiet. She watched him think—the way his brow furrowed, the way his fingers curled into his palms. He leaned against her, just slightly, the weight of his head against her arm.
She did not move away.
In the Crown Prince's residence, a report sat beside the morning tea.
Tutor Wei has been removed. The Northern princess was observed at the palace administration office yesterday. She filed the complaint.
Yun Qingyu sat alone. He looked at the report, then at the empty space where his steward had stood. He did not call him back.
He thought of the Eleventh Prince. The boy was young, unimportant. He had no faction. No future.
And yet, she had moved.
He called for his steward.
"Assign a new tutor to the Eleventh Prince. Someone competent. Someone who will not strike him."
The steward bowed. "Yes, Your Highness. Do you have a preference?"
Yun Qingyu looked at the window, at the morning light hitting the floor in long, sharp rectangles.
"Find someone who will teach him," he said. "Not just the lessons. Teach him."
The steward withdrew. Yun Qingyu sat with the report still in his hand.
For now, he watched.