Night pressed in thick and heavy. The locust leaves whispered; the lantern stalls of Tongming Ward had long since tired out, leaving only a handful of guttering candles flickering like weak stars in a restless sky.

  Gu had asked us to meet near the back gate of Huaisu Hall at around the hour of the tiger. Mu and I had been there long enough to feel the chill through our coats. I pulled my collar up and sidled closer to him, lowering my voice with mock solemnity.

  “Cool breeze brings a letter, boundless autumn moon — late at night, sir, could it be you’ve come to look for ghosts?” I whispered, putting on my best theatrical tone.

  Mu pinched the corner of his mouth. “Keep talking and I’ll shove you through that gate so you can investigate first,” he muttered.

  “Hey, hey, calm down,” I protested, ducking my head. “I was just easing the mood. Look at this place — when the wind hits those scholartrees, it sounds like crying. The shadows sway like bodies hung from the branches—”

  “One more ‘hung’ and I’ll string you up myself,” he cut in, clapping his sleeve. He sounded sharper than usual, but there was that streak of boyish bluntness under it; hands that barked never actually bit.

  I shut up and smiled to myself. Mu’s threats were all bark for show. Gu arrived soon after, carrying two dark badges that vouched for them having business among the bookstalls. He raised an eyebrow at us. “Lights are still on inside. Master Li probably hasn’t turned in.”

  Mu fixed his gaze on the courtyard wall. “He’s hyper-alert. If we burst in carelessly, we’ll spook the wrong things.”

  “That won’t stop our fort chief, Mu,” I whispered. “He’s good on the mountain, good at cracking doors—three generations of stealth in the family—”

  “Shut it,” both of them said at once.

  I rubbed my nose, and watched Mu slip a tiny porcelain bottle from his sleeve. He tipped a pinch of powder into the wind. “Calming scent,” he murmured. “Harmless — makes a man drowsy for a short while. If he’s still up, it’ll be good for him to sleep.”

  I stepped back as he vaulted up and over the wall with a shadow’s grace. In the candlelight his face went still for a moment — a maturity that didn’t belong to his years — and I felt an odd little pang of respect. “Are all young men this dedicated these days?” I whispered.

  Gu glanced at me. “If you don’t cause trouble, you’ll be doing us a favor.”

  It took only a minute. The lights in the main room of Huaisu Hall dimmed. Master Li’s head bowed to the table; he seemed to have slid into a shallow, drugged sleep.

  The hall’s back garden was meant to be closed by custom. Rumor called the place ill-starred, heavy with old grievances. I’d never truly believed such things — until our feet hit the ground inside and the night brushed past like dead fingers on my sleeve.

  Moonlight threaded weakly between the ivy-choked walls, painting the ground in broken, accusing patches. It looked like we were stepping over the footprints of a thousand resentments.

  “Do you hear that?” I whispered, suddenly sharp. “There’s a sound… not wind. Someone’s sighing.”

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  Mu didn’t look back. “Wind.”

  “Bull—wind doesn’t have nasal tones!” I yelped, feeling something brush the back of my neck. “Something just rubbed me there. Is that Li Qing’s ghost? Has Miss Liu come back to fetch her?”

  Gu said, dry as always, “If they’re coming for anyone, they’ll be coming to tell you where the wrong was done.”

  I went quieter. The deeper we walked, the thicker the cold became. Somewhere ahead a gnarled locust bough shifted as if a woman in white were stooping to brush hair from her face.

  “Do you want me to kneel and knock my head three times for luck?” I hissed. I even dug a few coins from my pocket. “Or burn some incense? I’ll go fetch it—fast!”

  “Shut up,” Mu ordered, his hand on my shoulder. “Don’t move.”

  I froze, looking like a small hunted thing.

  Then the lone lamp in the corner went out with a soft puff.

  My heart jumped into my throat. “It’s starting! See? I told you — that’s the omen: when a lantern goes out, a grievance is about to show itself—Li Qing has returned to complain! I shouldn’t have climbed the wall! It was Mu Cangli’s idea—”

  “Shut it,” Gu snapped.

  Mu crouched and checked the lamp. “Wind blew it out.”

  “W-wind of grievance,” I stammered, voice trembling. “Textbook omen—when the light dies, the wronged will show.”

  “One more word and I’ll make your soul show first,” Mu Cangli said flatly.

  Silence hugged the garden so tight that every footfall sounded like a drum in my ribs. The windows were stamped shut, but a paper screen in one room bled a guttered, yellow light. It looked like it had been kept for a late reader — stubborn, sleepy, tired.

  I edged closer, squinting through the crack of the lattice.

  The room was dim, but the small couch was freshly slept in; the bedding creases still held shape as if someone had just sat up. A ceramic teacup sat at the table rimmed with damp droplets; steam had long since faded, but tea still clung to a faint warmth at the bottom.

  That little detail settled into me like ice.

  Then the shadow inside the room moved and the light brightened. A figure resolved — a young man in plain-blue robes, long-limbed and narrow-shouldered, with fine, composed features. He was sitting on the wooden chair, writing brush in hand, turning pages as if he’d been doing nothing remarkable at all.

  My heart gave a leap. “Is that… the Zhuo lad?”

  Gu’s expression tightened. “Possibly.”

  The young man looked up as if he’d known we were coming. He rose slowly and inclined his head with composed courtesy. “You three, visiting at night — may I ask your business?”

  Mu’s voice went thin. “Who are you and why are you lodged in Huaisu Hall’s back garden?”

  The youth smiled without anger. “This was the home of an old friend. I’m only a temporary lodger. If my presence offends, I apologize.”

  I squinted harder. “You’re of the Zhuo family, aren’t you?”

  A flicker of surprise crossed his face. He didn’t deny it; instead he dropped his gaze and said quietly, “Once I had a betrothal with the Li family’s daughter. The war separated us. I cannot make noise of it here.”

  So it was him. My pulse thudded. I opened my mouth to ask another question and Mu Cangli put up a hand.

  Gu stepped forward. “If you are the third son of the Zhuo family, why hide here? Are you aware that Miss Liu’s death may link to Li Qing’s fate?”

  For a sliver of a second the youth’s sleeve lifted and showed a fine-wristed hand — white and uncallused, without the scarred toughness of a veteran soldier.

  All three of us felt that wrongness at once.

  “You said you were Zhuo’s third son.” Gu’s tone was careful as a drawn sword. “Do you remember the lantern festival that year — when you supposedly fell at the west market gate? Who helped you up then?”

  For a moment he stared, puzzled. “—It was Miss Li who helped me.”

  Mu’s eyes went hard. “No. That year the third Zhuo was serving with the army in the northern border. He hadn’t returned to the city.”

  The youth’s face tightened, then went still.

  Gu closed in like a hunter. “Who are you?”

  The youth’s eyes flicked, looking for the exit. Mu snatched a handful of his robe.

  “You’d better tell the truth now,” Mu said quietly. “Or I won’t mind leaving you to sleep through the night in a stupor.”

  Under the light the young man hesitated, jaw working. Something like a struggle flickered in his eyes. Then — he began to speak, but the rest of his answer was cut off as the paper screen behind him shivered and the courtyard seemed to sigh in one breath.

  We were not here to break ghosts or summon valor. We were here to find the truth, and the truth, as always, refused to keep its shape.