Chapter Three — Days of Still Water

Day One – The Market & Unwanted Attention

The morning mist clung to the tiled roofs of Qinghe Town, turning the world into soft shades of grey and silver. The streets had already begun to stir; merchants lifted the shutters of their shops, calling out half-hearted greetings to their neighbors, while the scent of steaming buns and fried sesame cakes drifted into the air.

Inside the small inn at the edge of the main street, Xinyue tightened the last knot on her sash. Her movements were neat and deliberate—an unspoken grace that betrayed her noble upbringing, no matter how plain her clothingThey thrive where no one pays attention. Xiaohua, ever attentive, fastened the woven basket across her back.

“You’re certain you don’t want to rest a little longer, Miss?” the maid asked in a low voice.

Xinyue’s eyes flicked toward the small chamber where Qiaoyun lay. “She should rest. We can’t linger in Qinghe too long, but pushing her now will only worsen her condition.”

The plan was simple—Xinyue and Xiaohua would go to the morning market for dried provisions and medicinal herbs. Qiaoyun, weak from the days of travel and the night she collapsed on the roadside, would remain at the inn under the care of the innkeeper’s wife.

Yet even before they reached the busy heart of Qinghe, Xinyue’s sharp instincts stirred. At the corner of her vision, she caught sight of a man—broad-shouldered, with a beard that had not been trimmed for weeks—pretending to examine a stall of copper trinkets. His gaze flickered too often in her direction.

She kept walking, but her steps slowed imperceptibly as she let him pass, then resumed at her own pace. When they reached the spice vendor’s stall, Xiaohua leaned closer. “Miss… that man has been behind us since the west gate.”

Xinyue did not answer. She tested a pouch of peppercorns, letting the tiny beads fall into her palm, then spoke in a tone only Xiaohua could hear. “If he draws nearer, make it obvious we’ve noticed.”

Sure enough, by the time they reached the herb-seller, the man had sidled closer, his eyes fixed on the leather strap of Xinyue’s coin purse. Xiaohua moved as if to block him, her basket swinging just enough to graze his side.

“Sir,” Xinyue’s voice cut through the hum of the market—low, calm, but carrying an edge like drawn steel. “You seem very interested in us. Perhaps you have business to discuss?”

The man’s eyes darted from her face to the coin purse, then away. He muttered something under his breath before melting into the crowd.

Only then did Xiaohua exhale. “Brazen thieves even in broad daylight…”

“They flourish in the cracks where no one bothers to look,” Xinyue murmured, tying the herb packet and placing it into the basket. Her gaze lingered briefly on the busy street, where the man’s shadow had disappeared. “But it’s always worth paying attention.”

Back at the inn, Qiaoyun awoke to the distant calls of street vendors. She tried to push herself upright, frustration tightening her features. The four walls of the room seemed to press inward, the muffled laughter from the common room below only deepening her restlessness.

She managed the stairs halfway before her knees buckled. The innkeeper’s wife, a sturdy woman with kind eyes, rushed forward, catching her arm. “Aiyo, miss, you’re pale as paper! Back to bed with you before you fall again.”

Qiaoyun tried to argue, but her voice faltered under the woman’s fussing. By the time Xinyue returned, the girl was already tucked back into bed, a folded quilt placed under her feet to warm them.

Xinyue set the basket down and took in the scene, her expression unreadable—but the faintest sigh left her lips.

“Rest, Qiaoyun. The streets will still be here tomorrow.”

Day Two – A Storm and Stories by Candlelight

By noon, the skies over Qinghe had turned the color of pewter, heavy clouds pressing low above the rooftops. The wind carried the damp scent of rain, rustling through the rows of paper lanterns strung across the street.

Inside the inn’s narrow dining hall, the light was dim, the windows shuttered against the coming downpour. A few travelers lingered over bowls of steaming millet porridge, speaking in hushed tones.

Xinyue sat by the window, idly tracing a finger along the rim of her teacup. The market trip the previous day had replenished their supplies, but she knew they couldn’t remain in Qinghe without drawing questions. Still… with Qiaoyun’s color only slightly improved, leaving now would be reckless.

The first drops of rain fell—soft, scattered taps against the tiled roof. Then, as though some invisible dam had burst, the storm descended in earnest. Water streamed down the eaves, blurring the view beyond the glass.

Upstairs, Qiaoyun sat cross-legged on her bed, staring at the rivulets of water racing down the wooden frame. “I’ve never seen rain fall this hard,” she murmured, more to herself than to Xiaohua, who was folding laundry nearby.

“It’s Qinghe,” Xiaohua said, glancing out the window. “The mountains catch the clouds, and they empty themselves in one sweep. By morning, the streets will smell of wet earth and plum blossoms.”

That evening, when the rain still hadn’t stopped, Xinyue carried a small oil lamp into Qiaoyun’s room. The wind outside howled like a restless spirit, rattling the shutters, but the lamp’s glow wrapped the room in a cocoon of golden warmth.

Qiaoyun was awake, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. “Couldn’t sleep,” she admitted. “It’s… too loud.”

Xiaohua was already setting down a tray—dried jujube tea, and a small plate of sesame sweets they’d bought that morning. “Then we’ll talk until the storm grows bored of us.”

What began as idle conversation soon wandered into gentler territory—memories of the villages they’d passed, the people they’d met along the road, and even fragments of childhood mischief.

Qiaoyun spoke of the pear orchard behind her father’s estate, where she used to hide to avoid embroidery lessons. Xiaohua countered with tales of the capital’s bustling west market, where street performers could balance on porcelain bowls while juggling knives.

Xinyue listened quietly for a long while, the flicker of the oil lamp dancing in her eyes. At last, she offered her own story—softly, almost reluctantly—about a winter in Jincheng when snow had fallen for seven days without pause. The palace courtyards had turned into white oceans, and she had stood alone at the gates, watching the flakes swallow the city walls.

For a moment, the sound of rain seemed farther away, replaced by the hush of falling snow in their minds.

By the time the lamp’s oil ran low, Qiaoyun’s eyelids had grown heavy. Xinyue rose, setting the blanket more snugly around her shoulders.

“Sleep,” she said quietly. “The storm will tire itself out by morning.”

And for the first time in days, Qiaoyun drifted off without a trace of fever in her cheeks.

Day Three– An Unexpected Visitor at Dusk

The rain eased by midmorning, leaving the air cool and washed clean. Qinghe’s streets glistened under the pale sunlight, puddles mirroring the dangling red lanterns above.

By afternoon, the inn had grown livelier—farmers delivering sacks of millet, merchants stopping for tea before continuing their routes. From the upper floor, Xinyue could hear the low hum of conversations mingling with the clink of porcelain cups.

Qiaoyun’s fever had broken completely, though she still moved with caution. Today, she had insisted on sitting by the window to watch the street. A faint smile played at her lips whenever children ran past chasing a hoop or a stray dog darted between stalls.

Xiaohua, as always, had gone downstairs to fetch hot water. Left alone with Qiaoyun, Xinyue found herself oddly at ease, the days in Qinghe settling into a rhythm she hadn’t expected to enjoy.

But as dusk fell, that calm shifted.

The first sign was subtle—the sound of a horse’s hooves slowing outside the inn. Xinyue, instinct honed over years of court life, straightened. Few rode through Qinghe at this hour unless they had purpose.

From the crack in the shutters, she saw him: a man in a deep green travel cloak, the hood drawn low. He dismounted with the practiced ease of someone accustomed to long roads, his boots splashing in the shallow puddles.

She expected him to head toward the stable, but instead he entered the inn. Moments later, faint voices drifted up from below—the innkeeper’s polite tone, the stranger’s lower, measured replies.

Qiaoyun tilted her head. “Is something wrong?”

“Just a traveler,” Xinyue replied, though her eyes remained on the stairwell.

The man didn’t take a seat in the dining hall. Instead, he asked something—too quiet for Xinyue to catch—and the innkeeper’s voice grew hesitant. A moment later, the man’s boots began to ascend the stairs.

Xinyue rose, her expression unchanged but her mind sharp. She had no reason to be recognized here… yet the stranger’s measured steps carried an unhurried certainty, as though he already knew who he sought.

When he reached the landing, his gaze swept the corridor, lingering just a moment too long on their door before moving on.

He passed without knocking.

Only after his footsteps faded did Xinyue release the slow breath she’d been holding.

From her seat, Qiaoyun watched her. “He’s not here for supper, is he?”

“No,” Xinyue murmured. “And I would like to know why.”

Outside, the last traces of daylight bled into night, and somewhere down the street, the sound of the man’s horse shifting in its stall echoed like a quiet warning.

Day Four– The Lantern Street Festival

The morning broke soft and golden, mist curling lazily along the tiled rooftops of Qinghe. Merchants were already setting out bundles of silk, candied fruits, and strings of paper lanterns in anticipation of the festival. The town seemed to hum with an unspoken excitement; even the usually reserved innkeeper had a spring in his step as he polished the front counter.

Qiaoyun’s cheeks had regained some color, and Xiaohua had coaxed her into wearing a pale blue jacket embroidered with clouds. “It’s the festival,” Xiaohua had declared, “and if we don’t go out, we’ll miss the best part of Qinghe.”

Xinyue agreed, though for reasons she kept to herself. The man from yesterday lingered in her thoughts like an unplayed note in a song. She hadn’t seen him again, but her instincts told her he had not yet left town.

By dusk, the streets glowed with light. Red and gold lanterns swayed above, their silk sides painted with cranes, lotuses, and verses from old poems. Vendors called out cheerfully over the crowd, offering skewers of grilled chestnuts, steaming cups of sweet rice wine, and delicate sugar figurines spun into the shapes of foxes and rabbits.

The three of them strolled together, Xiaohua buying a paper fan painted with plum blossoms for Qiaoyun, while Xinyue allowed herself a rare cup of chrysanthemum tea. Children darted between stalls, their laughter ringing against the soft lilt of flutes and drums from the central square.

Yet Xinyue’s gaze was never still.

Each time a figure in a dark cloak passed, she felt the faint prickle of alertness rise in her spine. Once, she thought she caught the same steady gait as the man from yesterday—moving in the opposite direction across the crowd—but when she turned fully, he was gone.

They reached the riverbank just as the floating lanterns began. Townsfolk knelt by the water’s edge, setting small reed rafts adrift, each bearing a candle and a strip of paper with handwritten wishes. The flames shimmered on the current, carrying their light slowly downstream.

Qiaoyun crouched, whispering something to her lantern before letting it go. Xiaohua released hers with a grin, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes.

When it was Xinyue’s turn, she held the little raft a moment longer than necessary. She wrote nothing on the slip of paper, only watched the lantern until it was swallowed by distance, its glow mingling with the hundreds of others.

She felt someone’s gaze then—not from the water, but from behind. Turning slightly, she caught a figure at the edge of the crowd, half-hidden in shadow.

The hooded man.

He did not move toward her, nor away—merely watching, as though content to wait.

A gust of wind stirred the lanterns overhead, and when she looked again, he was gone.

The music from the square swelled, drowning out the rush of the river. Xinyue took a quiet sip of her cooling tea, the warmth grounding her, even as unease wove itself through the night’s fragile beauty.

Day Five – The Sudden Storm

The morning began unremarkably—quiet drizzle, low clouds, and the scent of wet earth rising from the streets. It was the kind of weather Qinghe wore well, softening the edges of tiled eaves and muting the colors of the market stalls.

Xinyue, Qiaoyun, and Xiaohua had spent the early hours indoors, sharing breakfast by the window. Qiaoyun was practicing her calligraphy on scraps of paper, her brow furrowed in earnest concentration. Xiaohua fussed over the inn’s potted chrysanthemums, humming as she pinched away faded petals.

By noon, the rain had stilled to a fine mist, and the trio decided to venture out. The streets were quieter than during the festival—many vendors had yet to open—but the air carried that fresh, damp sweetness unique to towns bordered by river and forest.

They stopped at a bookseller’s stall tucked into an alley, where the air was thick with the scent of ink and old bamboo scroll cases. Xinyue lingered over a bound volume of travel poems, her fingertips grazing the neat brushstrokes.

That was when she felt it again—someone watching.

Her back straightened imperceptibly. She turned slowly, scanning the flow of passersby. At first, nothing. Then, near the mouth of the alley, a tall figure in a dark cloak stepped aside to let a cart pass. His hood was pulled low, but even at this distance she could feel his gaze.

She closed the book with deliberate calm.

“Shall we?” she asked, her voice steady.

Xiaohua and Qiaoyun followed without question, and they resumed walking toward the open street. Yet the man did not vanish this time. He followed—always at a respectful distance, but close enough that she could hear the faint rhythm of his boots on the damp stones.

The sky darkened unnaturally fast. Thick clouds rolled in from the east, smothering the silver daylight. The air shifted, heavy with the metallic scent of oncoming rain.

Then the storm broke.

Wind tore down the street, sending lanterns swinging and scattering sheets of paper from the bookseller’s stall. Vendors hurried to shutter their stalls as rain lashed sideways, drumming against wood and tile.

“Here!” Xiaohua shouted over the wind, pulling Qiaoyun toward a tea house whose carved doors stood open. They ducked inside, warm light spilling across the wet threshold.

Xinyue was the last to enter—and that was when the man appeared before her.

Up close, he was taller than she expected, his cloak darkened by rain, droplets sliding down its folds. He made no move to block her path, only inclined his head slightly, as though in greeting.

For a heartbeat, the storm outside faded from her awareness.

His voice, when it came, was low and even.

“Princess Jincheng.”

The title struck the air between them like the toll of a hidden bell.

Her pulse leapt, but her expression did not waver. She stepped past him into the tea house without a word, the warmth of the interior wrapping around her as she did.

When she dared glance back, the man was still outside, rain falling hard around him—watching.

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