Chapter Seventy-Two: Visiting the Prison (1)

Since their marriage, Ye Qianran had rarely seen Wei Zhuang; early departures and late returns had become the rhythm of his life. She knew he was tirelessly working for her father's sake, visiting the homes of powerful officials, pulling every string he could. He truly treated her concerns as his own. Yet, she could do nothing to help, not even set foot in the capital, where her wanted posters were plastered everywhere.

Her days were spent quietly waiting for news from him, standing atop the small building. Sometimes, she truly hated herself—hated her own helplessness, her weakness. In her eyes, everything about herself seemed unworthy and fragile. The more she realized this, the more grateful she became for Wei Zhuang. Thank goodness she had him to hold onto; without him, she might have collapsed long ago.

She treated him with increasing tenderness. No matter how late it was, she would always wait for him to return. Once a noble lady whose delicate hands never touched spring water, she now learned to prepare simple soups and small dishes. The flower maid taught her bit by bit, and she suddenly discovered that, when done calmly, even cooking could be a delightful affair.

At night, she would prepare a bowl of soup with her own hands for him. Sometimes, watching him drink it all in one go, she felt a fleeting happiness.

Ye Qianran sat by the window, having waited a long time. She rose and pushed open the window; outside, the sky was studded with stars, and the cold white moonlight spilled over the lake behind the building. The maple leaves by the lake burned fiery red, their graceful branches reaching toward her window. When the autumn wind stirred, the shadows of the trees danced. Standing on tiptoe, she reached for a crimson leaf that looked as if it might drip color, and was suddenly reminded of the day she stood at Wei Zhuang's window, plucking golden ginkgo leaves while he held her in his arms. Her heart felt like a jar of honey had been upended—sweet and warm.

There had been such beautiful moments between her and him.

She played with the leaf in her hand, then looked up at the crescent moon, now high overhead. Wei Zhuang had still not returned.

She reached out to test the temperature of the papaya and red date soup; it was already cold. She had always been able to guess his return accurately, but tonight, so late and he was still absent.

“It’ll be fine, there’s nothing that can stump him. If he could help me escape the emperor’s decree, he’ll definitely find a way to save Father. Don’t overthink it, everything will be alright,” she told herself, pacing the room, trying to offer comfort.

The second watch had passed, and still, he was not back.

Ye Qianran was growing anxious. She picked up “Tales Under the Parasol Tree,” which she had put down countless times.

Wei Zhuang finally returned at the fourth watch. Seeing the faint candlelight in her room, he quietly ascended the stairs and pushed open the door. She had fallen asleep at the table.

He picked up the cloak that had slipped to the floor and covered her gently.

Wei Zhuang stood silently beside her, his gaze falling on her serene and beautiful face—so lovely even in sleep: jet-black lashes, snowy skin soft as silk. Seventeen was a girl’s most beautiful age, innocence mingling with the first hint of a young woman’s charm—a stirring allure. He reached out and gently brushed her cheek, reluctant to let go of the girl beneath his fingertips.

Ye Qianran woke, her sleepy eyes meeting Wei Zhuang’s as he stood by her side, watching her. Resting her head on her arm, her voice was drowsy and tinged with girlish charm. “You’re back?” In her gaze, she saw the exhaustion between his brows. Suddenly, Wei Zhuang leaned down, bracing his hands on the chair, and kissed her.

She was caught off guard, unable to resist, her hands instinctively circling his neck, lost in a whirl of emotion.

Wei Zhuang held her tightly, burying his head in the crook of her neck, as if he would never let her go, as if he wanted to press her into his very bones.

Ye Qianran sensed something was amiss. In a voice soft as spring rain in March, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Wei Zhuang shook his head and held her even closer. His voice was low and hoarse. “Do you want to see your father?”

Ye Qianran did not reply.

Wei Zhuang shifted in her embrace, burying himself deeper. Still in that low, husky voice, he said, “Tomorrow I’ll take you to see them.”

The gauzy curtains rose and fell. Holding him quietly, Ye Qianran suddenly realized that, without her knowing when, Liu Yun’s figure had become but a hazy shadow in her heart.

The next day, Ye Qianran dressed in the flower maid’s dark blue clothes, a blue floral kerchief tied around her head, and an exaggeratedly large black mole painted at the corner of her mouth. She looked every bit the middle-aged woman, and passed through the city gates without trouble. Together, she and Wei Zhuang made straight for the Ministry of Justice prison.

The jailer, upon seeing Wei Zhuang, greeted him obsequiously, bowing and scraping. “What brings you here, Master Wei?”

Wei Zhuang acted as though they were old acquaintances. “An old friend is here. I’d like to visit. Might you grant me this small favor?”

The jailer’s stoop—whether from birth or from years of fawning—never straightened. “And Master Wei’s friend is?”

“Ye Yuandao.”

At once, the jailer’s jovial face turned grave. “Ye Yuandao is a major criminal under the Ministry’s jurisdiction. Lord Wu gave strict orders: no visits without his express permission.”

Wei Zhuang took a silver note from his sleeve and quietly handed it over. The jailer glanced at it but immediately pushed it back. “Don’t make it hard for me, Master Wei. Anyone else, and I could oblige, but not Ye Yuandao.” Though greedy, the jailer knew that if Lord Wu found out, his life would be forfeit. He had no desire to die yet.

Wei Zhuang smiled, “Aren’t you curious about the amount on this note?” He slid it back toward the jailer.

The jailer was about to refuse but, catching sight of the number, his hand froze. His mouth fell open in astonishment.

He had seen generosity before, but never anything like this.

That sum—he couldn’t earn it in a lifetime as a jailer.

“I only wish to see him and speak a few words. It won’t take long at all. Please, brother, do me this kindness,” said Wei Zhuang, his tone gentle, like a true gentleman.

The jailer swallowed, glanced around to make sure no one saw, then hurriedly tucked the note into his robe. “Be quick about it, Master Wei. If word of this gets out, not only I but you as well will be in trouble.”

Wei Zhuang nodded in agreement.

The jailer signaled the guards at the gate. The great doors of the Ministry prison slowly swung open. Wei Zhuang murmured his thanks, and the two strode quickly inside.

So this is what a prison is like, Ye Qianran thought. The air was thick with damp, the stench of decay and hopelessness. The prisoners wore expressions of numbness or vicious malice. Wails and the crack of whips echoed through the darkness—a place of despair and death.

She shuddered and quickened her steps, eager to see her parents.

At the end of the corridor, Ye Qianran finally saw them.

At the first glimpse, her eyes stung with tears. Her father had aged so much; the carefree pride that once set him above the world was gone. Disaster had struck like a mountain, an insurmountable pain. Tears fell to the damp stone as she gripped the bars. “Father!”

Ye An helped Ye Yuandao to his feet, trembling. His clothes were filthy with hay, his prison garb in tatters. He came before her and looked at her in silence.

A wave of guilt crashed over her. She raised her right hand and slapped her own face. “It’s all my fault the Ye family has fallen. All my fault!” Her voice broke with sobs. After the right hand fell, she raised her left, striking herself again. “It was me. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Again, she lifted her hand, but Wei Zhuang caught it.

Ye Yuandao said painfully, “Ran’er, this has nothing to do with you. Don’t even think that way.”

From a nearby cell came a child’s voice, tinged with tears. “Sister!”

Ye Qianran ran over, crouching before nine-year-old Qianzhi. “Qianzhi.” Such a beautiful life, set to wither in three days. The thought made her ache, pain pouring from every part of her body.

Her mother held her hand, tears streaming down. “Qianran, when we’re gone, you must take good care of yourself.”

Ye Qianran wiped her own tears. “Don’t worry, Mother. Master Wei will find a way to save you. You must hold on.”

Wen Qiumei nodded, tears in her eyes, though she was only comforting Ye Qianran—everyone knew there was no hope, with only three days left.

Seeing the adults cry, little Qianzhi burst into tears as well. “Sister, I’m scared.”

Ye Qianran bit her lip hard. “Don’t be afraid, Qianzhi. I’ll get you out. I promise.”

Ye Yuandao looked at Wei Zhuang. This man, at the end of his life, had not turned away as others had after his imprisonment. He had not misjudged him.

Wei Zhuang gripped the bars. “Master Ye, I’m sorry. My abilities are limited; I can’t—”

Ye Yuandao raised his hand, cutting him off. “Since Zhang Jing’s escape, the court believes I conspired with him in rebellion. Add to that my previous crime of deceiving the emperor, and Wu Duan’s deliberate framing—the emperor is furious. Even Meng, as a head of the Six Ministries, has no power to intervene, let alone you.”