The three women were startled in unison.
They rushed out of the little courtyard and toward the yard where the sigh had come from—a place filled with laughter, and even a touch of desolation.
Long Qingmei had the strange feeling that she had returned to Huiwen City in the Southern Border.
That night, she had gone with a dozen or so men to attack Wang Xian, and she had nearly died outside that little courtyard.
If she hadn't been clever enough to use a cat in her place, the sword that had flashed through the wind might have cut her instead of that old tree.
Each of the three women had her own thoughts. Who had time to worry about manners?
They rushed through the half-open gate into the courtyard. Long Qingmei cried out, "You little rascal, Wang Xian! So you've been hiding at Longmen Temple?"
She clearly remembered that from the time he left Huiwen City until he met Tang Qingyu, the fellow had been sneaking around just as he was tonight.
Whenever she thought of the Southern Border, her expression grew indescribably desolate.
At that moment, a rush of heat surged through the woman's heart, and she could no longer concern herself with anything else.
She charged into the courtyard, flying like an arrow, and made straight for the guest hall, where a dim oil lamp glimmered. But in the very next instant, she let out a startled cry.
Then she stopped in her tracks.
The little courtyard fell utterly silent.
On the ground lay several sheets of tin-foil spirit money, burned to ash. A gust of wind swept through, scattering the ashes. In the darkness, who knew how many unseen ghosts were waiting to snatch them up?
Two coffins stood side by side.
One was made of