The Small Courtyard of the Wei Residence.
Cui Fu drove the carriage into the mouth of the alley, reined in the horses, and glanced back at the curtain.
The curtain did not stir. Not a sound came from within.
Cui Fu waited a moment, then finally could not help murmuring, "Young master, we have arrived."
The curtain lifted, and Wei Nisheng emerged into the deepening night.
He stepped down, waved a hand at Cui Fu without a word, pushed open the courtyard gate, and went inside.
The courtyard's jujube tree stood bare, a thin layer of snow nestled among its branches.
The lamp in Qu Niang's room was still burning. At the sound of the courtyard gate,
a silhouette shifted against the paper window, as though she meant to rise, only to sit back down.
Wei Nisheng did not go to the main room, but headed straight into the study.
He closed the door, lit the lamp, sat at the desk, and took out the Memorial Draft. Yet he did not put brush to paper. He simply sat there.
Feng Yan's intention was for him to seize Shen Duan's foundation and establish his own footing at court.
The emperor wanted to recover Gansu. Of that there was no doubt.
But the emperor also knew they could not fight now.
The treasury was empty, Liaodong was under pressure, and the Tanguts were no figures pasted from paper or molded from clay.
Shen Duan had clamored for war all these years without taking it back. Clearly, it was not that he did not want to fight, but that he could not.
Yet the emperor did not want to hear those three words: "We cannot fight."
Anyone who told him they could not fight was dousing him with cold water, failing to understand