That Year of Childhood Companionship

The following morning, as Qin Shi pushed open the door to the Longing Pavilion, he was greeted by the sight of a young matron standing quietly to one side. After a brief moment of surprise, Qin Shi said, “Madam, please follow me this way.” He led her into the backyard, then went to knock on Ming Yue’s door.

“Master, the lady has arrived.”

After a short pause, the sound of objects colliding echoed from within. Soon after, the door was flung open from the inside, revealing Ming Yue, dressed simply with her hair hastily pinned up. Ming Yue stepped aside to make room and invited, “Madam, please come in.”

“Qin Shi, prepare tea and lanterns!”

The lady entered and took a seat at the table, ignoring her surroundings. Ming Yue sat beside her and said, “Let me remind you once more: once the Longing Ritual begins, there is no turning back. Any attempt to withdraw will cause you great harm, Madam. Have you thought this through?”

The lady lowered her gaze, then nodded after a moment’s hesitation.

Qin Shi brought in the tea, setting it before her, then closed the door behind him. Spreading his right hand, a glass lantern slowly materialized in his palm.

Ming Yue drew a fire starter from her bosom and handed it to the lady. “Then please light the lantern in Qin Shi’s hand and tell your story from the beginning. Remember, before your tale ends, you mustn’t be disturbed by the outside world, nor may you stop or lie. Once your story is told, the Longing Ritual will be complete. Do you understand all of this?”

The lady nodded again and reached out to light the lantern. Gentle, clear blue radiance spread from the wick, enveloping the entire room. Bathed in this soothing glow, the lady closed her eyes. At the same time, Ming Yue’s left eye revealed a crimson six-pointed star, spinning like a gear.

“I was mischievous as a child, always sneaking out of the manor behind my parents’ backs, just to glimpse the bustling marketplace…” As the lady began her tale, white mist suddenly rose in the room, obscuring their sight. When clarity returned, Ming Yue and Qin Shi found themselves inside a vast illusion conjured by the soul lantern.

Snow lay everywhere. The streets were deserted, houses stretched forward on both sides, eventually merging with the white expanse of heaven and earth. Ming Yue shivered, rubbing her arms and moving closer to Qin Shi. She had rushed out that morning, grabbing only a light coat, never expecting the lady’s story to start in the depths of winter.

Clutching Qin Shi’s arm, Ming Yue quivered, “This won’t do, I need to buy a winter coat first, or I’ll freeze to death before I even meet the lady.”

“Qin Shi has no money… Master.” Qin Shi frowned slightly, always remembering to add that title only after speaking.

Ming Yue froze, then suddenly clamped Qin Shi’s arm and raised her voice, “Ah, I didn’t bring any either! I forgot to ask the lady for payment upfront! You didn’t get up late, so why didn’t you bring a few coins?” Ming Yue’s grip tightened, making Qin Shi wince, yet she nestled closer still. Even so, her body grew colder by the minute.

In the end, Ming Yue had to pawn her jade hairpin. Seated in a wonton shop, she mourned her loss—the white jade pin was her favorite, simple yet finely made, perfectly suiting her taste.

Ming Yue gritted her teeth, poking the wontons in her bowl silently with bamboo chopsticks. Qin Shi, naturally, remained mute as well. It wasn’t until a cacophony of noise drew Ming Yue’s attention that she looked up. A group marched through the streets, bearing a snow sculpture, led by someone beating a gong. Ming Yue, raised in Yinzhu, instantly recognized the scene.

“So it’s the Longest Night Festival,” she muttered, swallowing a wonton as she watched. Just as she was about to look away, she spotted a small figure at the end of the procession. Ming Yue paused, then slammed a few coins on the table and dragged Qin Shi with her. That timid little girl was none other than the future beautiful matron.

When the procession turned, Ming Yue intercepted the girl.

“Little sister, what’s your name?”

The girl blinked at Ming Yue but said nothing.

Ming Yue waved her hand toward the street corner behind her and told Qin Shi, “Go snatch a string of red dumplings from that old man at the corner.”

Qin Shi’s brow twitched, but he silently headed toward the corner. Once Ming Yue placed the fiery red dumplings in the girl’s hand, the child finally spoke, “Wen Yan, my name is Wen Yan.” With that, Wen Yan ran off to rejoin the parade.

So she was a daughter of the Wen family, Ming Yue thought. The Wen clan was an ancient lineage of the kingdom, with the main branch residing in the capital and numerous offshoots spread across the land. Wen Yan’s manor in Yinzhu, though not particularly significant within the clan, held enough influence locally to ensure their prosperity.

Ming Yue gazed at Wen Yan’s receding figure, lost in thought, as an object slowly appeared in her hand. Still dazed, she felt a sudden weight in her palm. Looking down, Ming Yue asked, “What’s this square block of copper?”

Qin Shi didn’t answer, but Ming Yue understood—it was the nascent form of Wen Yan’s soul lantern. Still, seeing it for the first time was hard to accept. She pouted, slipped the copper block into her sleeve, and beckoned Qin Shi to follow Wen Yan.

“It’s so heavy! Wen Yan really is a playful soul, sneaking out alone on such a cold day. The Longest Night Festival is always chaotic, and she’s just a little girl—doesn’t she fear trouble?” No sooner had Ming Yue spoken than a commotion erupted ahead.

The two hurried over, only to see a hole broken in the ice of the river, Wen Yan’s small form flailing desperately within. The procession carrying the snow sculpture had already crossed to the far side. Amid the noise and drums, no one noticed Wen Yan had fallen in, except Ming Yue and Qin Shi, who followed behind and heard her cries.

Ming Yue pulled Qin Shi aside, hiding behind the corner of a wall.

This was not her moment to intervene; her role was only to observe.

Soon, a slightly older boy arrived from another direction.

“Help… help me…” Wen Yan’s voice grew weaker, and the boy immediately jumped in, making even Ming Yue shiver at the chill. Eventually, after much struggle, the boy managed to pull Wen Yan from the river. Just then, a crowd of servants escorted a stately lady forward. The woman rushed to Wen Yan, wrapped her in winter clothes handed over by the nursemaid, and fussed over her with affection. Ming Yue stared for a long time, finally recognizing her as Wang Huan, mistress of Wen Manor in Yinzhu.

“Don’t be afraid, Yan’er. Mother is here,” Wang Huan soothed, passing Wen Yan to the nursemaid. When she looked at the boy, her smile turned icy.

Wang Huan held her hand warmer, tucked loose hair behind her ear, and said softly, “Thank you for saving Yan’er’s life, but I can’t let her carry such a heavy debt at her age. I’m sorry.”

She raised her hand, and her page pushed the boy back into the river, then the retinue hurried away.

Ming Yue frowned. Qin Shi’s soul lantern could discern the origins of events, and since Wen Yan’s story began here, it surely involved her future husband, even if she herself hadn’t realized it. Judging by what had happened, the boy was the most likely candidate. Ming Yue moved to the riverbank, watching as the boy struggled out after two ordeals, barely able to stand.

Unnoticed by Ming Yue, the boy grabbed her skirt and looked up, asking, “Why?”

Ming Yue rolled her eyes—she cared little for Wang Huan’s conduct. She stepped back, easily freed herself from the boy’s grip, crouched down, and asked, “Who are you? Tell me your name.”

The boy opened his mouth, but the scene abruptly shifted. The snow-covered streets faded, replaced by a willow-lined embankment. Ming Yue panicked; without knowing the other’s name, the ritual couldn’t be completed. She hurried forward, calling loudly, “Quick, tell me your name!”

But the boy’s figure slumped on the bank, replaced by a painted barge. At the prow stood a refined youth, about twelve or thirteen, handsome yet pale with a sickly beauty, his bearing undiminished by frailty. Wrapped in white fox fur, holding a folded fan, he smiled faintly and spoke, “Chu Xuan. My name is Chu Xuan.”