Zichen was waiting for her in the garden.
The boy sat on the bench—hands folded, feet dangling, and face turned toward the hedge where she always appeared. When the branches parted, his expression lit with a sudden, sharp relief .
"You're here," he said.
Liu Lanzhi sat beside him. A small, warm hand found hers, and she held it. Her own hands were clean. There was no blood and no marks to betray the night's work. Liu Lanzhi had washed them in the fountain before arriving at the garden, watching the water run clear as the last physical traces of Consort Li disappeared into the darkness .
No mention was made of Consort Li. The child was only four years old; he did not need to know of the violence. He needed only to know that Liu Lanzhi was here. He needed to know that she would always be here—that the garden was safe, the bench was safe, and her hand was safe .
He leaned against her arm and closed his eyes.
