By the time Xie Ning returned to the residence, it was completely dark. He had walked back alone. From the palace gates to the Jinghai Marquis Residence, the ride usually took no more than the time it took an incense stick to burn, but today he had walked for nearly an hour. Not because he was slow, but because every step sent pain tugging through his left leg and backside. The wound medicine His Majesty had bestowed was tucked inside his robes, as were the banknotes. His father had sent no one to fetch him and had not had a horse prepared. After the palace messenger arrived at the residence, Marquis Jinghai had merely said to let him drag his own sorry self home. And he had. When he reached the gates, the gatekeeper came forward with a lantern. At the sight of the bloody scratch on his face, the man nearly dropped it. Xie Ning waved a hand and headed straight for the main hall.
The main hall was brightly lit. Xie Ting sat in the grand armchair in the center, still wearing the black everyday robe he had worn during the day. The tea beside him had long since gone cold; he had not touched a drop. Madam Xie sat farther down, twisting a handkerchief in her hands. When she saw Xie Ning enter, she sprang to her feet and took a step forward, then forced herself to stop. Xie Ning knelt, his knees striking the flagstones. He took the envelope containing the banknotes and the wound medicine from inside his robes and placed them on the floor. Xie Ting looked at the bloody scratch running from his cheekbone to the base of his ear, at the dark, dried scab, and at the hand that dropped back to