CHAPTER FOUR: WHAT THE SNOW REMEMBERS
The snow did not fall lightly that night.
It came in weight.
In silence thick enough to press against the earth, to soften the sharp edges of stone and swallow the space between breath and sound.
By midnight, the courtyard lay buried beneath it—
white without interruption,
untouched—
as though nothing had ever walked there.
—
That illusion did not last.
—
The first mark was faint.
Barely visible against the fresh fall.
Then another.
And another.
—
Footsteps.
—
Unsteady.
Unshod.
—
Wang Yu-huaà did not feel the cold.
Or perhaps—
she did.
But it did not reach her in the way it should have.
—
Her feet pressed directly into the snow, sinking with each step, leaving behind imperfect impressions that filled slowly as the snowfall continued.
Her skin had already reddened.
The hem of her garments darkened where it brushed against the ground—
damp,
heavy,
dragging.
—
She walked as though drawn forward by something unseen.
Not searching.
Not aware.
—
Remembering.
—
Her outer robe hung loosely from her frame, a pale blue silk long since unsuited for winter's severity.
It had not been fastened properly.
One side slipped lower than the other, exposing the thin inner layer beneath—light, almost translucent against the cold.
The fabric clung where the snow had melted upon contact.
Heavy in places.
Weightless in others.
—
Her sleeves were too long.
They trailed.
Caught against the snow, gathering moisture, pulling her movements slower—yet she did not correct it.
Did not notice.
—
Her hair had come undone entirely.
Dark strands fell freely down her back, tangled by wind and movement, clinging where dampness had begun to settle.
A few strands stuck against her cheek.
Others shifted with each step—
unrestrained,
unseen.
—
And her eyes—
—
Bright.
—
Too bright.
—
Amber, clear beneath the muted wash of snowfall, reflecting light that was not entirely present—
not entirely now.
—
She stopped.
—
The courtyard stretched before her.
Empty.
Silent.
Buried.
—
But not to her.
—
Her breath hitched.
—
"No…"
The word broke softly from her lips, fragile—
disbelieving.
—
Her gaze fixed on a point before her.
Low.
Still.
—
There was nothing there.
—
And yet—
—
She moved forward suddenly.
Faster now.
The careful, drifting steps gone—replaced by something sharper.
Urgent.
—
She stumbled once.
Caught herself.
Did not stop.
—
"Kneel."
The command did not come from her.
—
It echoed—
through her.
—
Her body obeyed before the thought could form.
Her knees struck the snow.
Cold bled upward instantly, soaking through the thin fabric without resistance.
Still—
she did not react.
—
Her hands pressed into the ground.
White.
Endless.
—
And then—
—
Red.
—
Her fingers trembled.
—
"No—no, no…"
It spread beneath her palms.
Seeping.
Staining.
Drenching the snow in a colour too vivid—
too wrong.
—
Her breath fractured.
—
"Mother—"
The word tore from her this time.
Raw.
Uncontained.
Her voice echoed sharply against the courtyard walls—
too loud for silence,
too desperate for the present.
—
She leaned forward suddenly, as though reaching—
as though something lay before her.
Something she could touch.
Something she could still—
—
"No—please—"
Her voice broke completely now.
—
"You can't—"
Her hands shook violently against the snow.
Fingers curling as though grasping fabric that was no longer there.
—
"Don't leave me—"
The words dissolved into breath.
Into sound.
Into something closer to a sob than speech.
—
Tears fell freely, vanishing the moment they touched the cold surface beneath her.
—
"I'm here… I'm here…"
Her hand lifted slowly—hesitant—
as though reaching for a face she could not see.
Her fingers hovered in empty air—
then curved, gently—
cradling nothing at all.
—
But the snow remained.
—
White.
—
Unbroken.
—
Untouched.
—
Behind her—
—
Zhu Biao had not announced his presence.
He had not needed to.
—
He had followed the disturbance when it was first reported—
a figure moving within the inner courtyard at an hour when no one should have been there.
The guards had expected disorder.
Perhaps intrusion.
—
They had not expected this.
—
He stood at a measured distance, unmoving.
His gaze fixed—not on the courtyard—
but on her.
—
Barefoot.
—
The detail registered first.
Not as shock.
As calculation.
—
The ground was near freezing.
Prolonged exposure would have consequence.
—
Her garments—
insufficient.
Improperly fastened.
Not chosen with awareness.
—
Her movements—
—
Not deliberate.
—
Not present.
—
"…hold," one of the guards murmured under his breath, already shifting forward.
Zhu Biao raised his hand.
—
They stopped immediately.
—
Because whatever this was—
it was not an attack.
—
And it was not meant for them.
—
He stepped forward.
—
Slowly.
—
Deliberately.
—
Zhu Biao's gaze stilled.
Not at her voice—
but at her hand.
The it moved.
not searching—
not uncertain—
but remembering.
As though it had done this before.
As though it had once touched something real—
and had not yet understood.
that it was gone.
—
The snow did not resist him.
It yielded.
Even as it continuously fell.
Quiet beneath each step.
—
She did not notice.
—
Not when he approached.
Not when he drew close enough to see the tremor in her hands.
The tears that had not yet ceased.
—
Not even—
when he removed his outer cloak.
—
Heavy.
Lined.
Meant for winter.
—
He placed it over her shoulders.
—
The reaction was immediate.
—
She moved.
Fast.
—
Her hand struck outward—not blindly—
but with sharp, instinctive precision.
—
Not memory.
—
Reflex.
—
The guards reacted at once—
steel drawn,
movement cutting through the stillness—
—
Zhu Biao did not move back.
—
He caught her wrist.
—
Not forcefully.
—
Just enough.
—
"Stand down."
The command came without raising his voice.
—
The guards froze.
—
Her breath was uneven.
Her gaze lifted—
not to him—
but through him.
—
Still seeing something else.
Still there.
—
"Don't—"
Her voice cracked again.
—
"They'll take you—"
—
The words faltered.
Shifted.
Lost.
—
Her strength did not hold.
—
The resistance faded from her arm as suddenly as it had come.
Her body swayed—
unsteady.
—
Zhu Biao released her wrist.
—
Then—
without hesitation—
he reached forward.
—
And lifted her.
—
She did not resist.
—
Not anymore.
—
The cloak fell more securely around her now, shielding what little warmth remained, the pale blue fabric disappearing beneath its darker weight.
Her head fell lightly against his shoulder, her breath still uneven—
still caught somewhere between past and present.
—
The snow continued to fall.
—
It settled into the prints she had left behind.
Filled them.
Softened them.
—
Until—
they were gone.
—
By the time he reached her chambers, the courtyard behind them no longer bore any trace of her passing.
—
Only white.
—
As though nothing had happened.
—
As though nothing ever had.
—
Inside, warmth returned slowly.
Braziers burned low.
Light flickered against the walls.
—
He did not call for attendants.
—
He did not wait.
—
He set her down carefully upon the bed, adjusting the cloak around her before drawing the covers over it.
Her hair spread across the pillow, still damp in places, strands clinging faintly to her skin.
—
Her breathing had steadied.
Not fully.
But enough.
—
He remained there a moment longer.
—
Watching.
—
Not her.
—
But the stillness that followed.
—
"…six years," she murmured faintly.
—
Barely audible.
—
But not lost.
—
Zhu Biao's gaze sharpened slightly.
—
He did not respond.
—
Did not question.
—
But he did not forget.
—
Outside—
the snow fell on.
—
Unbroken.
—
Just as it had that winter.
—
The winter—
when the court had turned on itself.
—
When red had stained white—
—
and nothing had ever truly been buried.
—
The doors had been closed.
The attendants dismissed.
The disturbance reduced to silence once more.
—
But the night had not settled.
—
Snow continued to fall beyond the eaves, soft against the stone, unbroken by sound.
Within the corridor, only two figures remained.
Their silhouettes visible only by the blazing fire lit from the small lamp.
—
Zhu Biao did not immediately leave.
—
His hands were clean.
No trace of snow remained upon him.
No sign—
that he had carried a girl through a courtyard as she wept for the dead.
—
Behind him, his trusted aide stood at a respectful distance.
Unmoving.
Waiting.
—
"…Your Highness."
The title was spoken quietly.
Carefully.
Because this was not the palace.
And yet—
nothing about this felt less dangerous.
—
Zhu Biao's gaze remained forward.
On the closed doors.
—
"She walks in her sleep," the aide said after a pause.
Not a question.
A statement offered cautiously.
—
Silence.
—
Then—
"No."
—
The answer came without hesitation.
—
Zhu Biao turned slightly.
Not enough to fully face him.
Only enough.
—
"She remembers."
—
The corridor stilled.
—
The aide lowered his head.
But not before the flicker of recognition passed through his expression.
—
"…The incident six years ago."
—
Not named.
Never named.
—
Zhu Biao did not respond.
Which was answer enough.
—
Snow pressed softly against the papered windows.
—
"She is unstable," the aide continued, more carefully now. "The court has long—"
"Decided?" Zhu Biao finished.
—
Not sharply.
But precisely.
—
A pause.
—
"Yes, Your Highness."
—
Another silence.
Longer this time.
—
Zhu Biao's gaze lowered slightly—
not in thought—
but in measure.
—
"The court," he said slowly,
"finds it convenient."
—
Not cruel.
Not dismissive.
—
Accurate.
—
The aide did not reply.
—
Because there was nothing to contest.
—
A girl who remembered too much—
or too little—
was easier to silence if she was called mad.
—
And far easier to control.
—
"…Then why come tonight?"
The question slipped out before it could be restrained.
—
A mistake.
—
The aide stiffened immediately, lowering his head further.
"My apologies, Your Highness. I—"
"It is a reasonable question."
—
Zhu Biao's voice did not change.
—
Which made it worse.
—
He turned then.
Fully this time.
—
The lantern light caught briefly along the edge of his expression—
not revealing—
only sharpening.
—
"She is Wang Yu-huaà."
—
Not explanation.
Not justification.
—
Fact.
—
"The niece of Hu Weiyong."
A beat.
"The niece of Wang Guangyang."
—
Names that had once stood at the very height of the court—
before they fell.
—
Before they were removed.
—
Before the snow had turned red.
—
His gaze held.
—
"And," he added,
"she is to be my Crown Princess."
—
The words settled.
Heavily.
Inevitable.
—
The aide did not lift his head.
—
"Then Your Highness came to observe her," he said carefully.
—
Zhu Biao regarded him for a moment.
—
"Did I?"
—
The question was quiet.
—
And yet—
it did not invite answer.
—
Because it was not uncertainty.
—
It was… consideration.
—
He turned away again.
—
His steps were measured as he began down the corridor.
—
"Tell me," he said after a moment,
"what did you see?"
—
The aide followed immediately, falling into step behind him.
—
"A woman in distress," he answered.
"Disoriented. Delusional. Reacting to memory as though it were present."
—
A pause.
—
Zhu Biao continued walking.
—
"And before that?"
—
The question came without warning.
—
The aide hesitated.
Only briefly.
—
"…She struck you."
—
Not accusation.
Observation.
—
"Without hesitation."
—
Another step.
—
"Without sight," he added.
—
Silence stretched between them.
—
Snow softened the world beyond the corridor.
But within it—
everything sharpened.
—
Zhu Biao's voice came once more.
—
"Does a madwoman measure distance?"
—
No answer.
—
"Does she adjust for resistance?"
—
Still none.
—
"Does she choose not to kill—"
A pause.
—
"—when she is capable of it?"
—
The aide's breath slowed.
—
Because the answer—
was already clear.
—
"No, Your Highness."
—
Zhu Biao inclined his head slightly.
—
"Then she is not what they say."
—
Not madness.
—
Something else.
—
Something far less convenient.
—
They reached the end of the corridor.
The night opened before them.
Snow still falling.
Unchanged.
—
Zhu Biao paused.
—
Only once.
—
"Have the physicians attend her," he said. "Quietly."
—
Not concern.
—
Control.
—
"And—"
—
A brief pause.
—
"Ensure no one speaks of tonight."
—
The aide bowed.
"It will be done."
—
Zhu Biao stepped forward into the snow.
—
As though nothing had shifted.
—
As though nothing had been revealed.
—
But behind closed doors—
and beneath falling white—
—
he had already begun to reconsider
everything
he thought he knew about her.
—
Inside, the room remained still.
The brazier burned low.
The air warmed—slowly, unevenly.
Wang Yu-huaà did not wake.
But her fingers shifted slightly against the covers—
curling inward,
as though still holding something that was no longer there.
Her lips parted.
Barely a sound—
"…don't go."
The snow continued to fall.
—
By morning, the courtyard would be smooth again.
No footprints.
No trace.
Only white.
As though the night had imagined itself.