Early March, Jinghe Year Fifteen.
Spring in Jinling had already reached the season of Chinese roses.
Along both banks of the Qinhuai, mist-veiled willows wove a dense tapestry, their fresh green just spreading evenly, their supple branches dipping into the water as they swayed in the breeze.
Riverside houses and waterside pavilions stood with vermilion shutters half-open; across the water, a pipa sounded twice, then fell silent.
At the entrance to Wuyi Lane in the south of the city, swallows darted beneath the eaves, carrying mud to mend their nests, their twittering unceasing.
Two or three old men basked beneath the eaves, coarse porcelain tea bowls in hand, idly discussing the affairs of the streets.
Jinling's spring lacked Suzhou's delicate elegance and Yangzhou's lush splendor.
The Capital, Fang Qi's residence.
The spring days lingered, and a begonia tree in the courtyard stood in full bloom.
Abundant blossoms weighed down its branches, layer upon layer of pink and white; now and then, a breeze passed through.
Petals fell upon the steps, with no one to gather them.
Fang Qi sat in his study, the swelling gone from his face, leaving only red marks.
A transcribed copy of a memorial lay spread upon the desk before him.
He Yanming's second memorial pleading guilt.
"Chess piece, discarded piece..."
Fang Qi finished reading, set it down, and raised a hand to rub between his brows.
The Suzhou Situation was nearing the moment when the deadlock would break.
Investigating temples, moving troops, sealing the city, blocking the river-each step secured the next, without letting a single drop escape.
In his first memorial, He Yanming could still wield "spring plowing" and "the people's hopes" as shields.
But every word of this second memorial was a plea for survival. His shields had shattered; only his bare