Chapter Sixty-Nine: The Weight of Life

Biaozi strode in, found the oil lamp hanging from the beam, and lit it. “Second Master Lu, at which foreign embassy do you work?”

By now, Second Lu could see his face clearly. He couldn’t quite recall where he’d seen him before, but judging by the stance of Biaozi and his companions, he sensed they hadn’t come with good intentions.

“Why are you asking?”

Lu shrank back on his bed, trying to stand, but Biaozi was on him in an instant, pressing him down by the shoulders. He drew a pistol from his coat and aimed it at Lu’s head. “Come with me. I’ll take you to a nice place.”

Lu was the sort who relied on the power of those he served, but he’d never encountered a situation like this. With the dark muzzle pointed at his head, his whole body trembled uncontrollably.

After the others had left, Yang Xiaolin entered through the small side door. He hadn’t expected to find the woman sitting in the courtyard at this hour. The night was cold. She sat on a stone bench, holding her child, her gaze blank as she stared at the vast house.

Yang Xiaolin hesitated, unsure whether he should approach and greet her. The woman gently stroked her child’s head, her touch tender and intent. He didn’t want to disturb her reverie, yet it felt discourteous to leave without a word.

As Yang Xiaolin lingered in uncertainty, the young mistress spoke. “How long do you plan to stay?”

Yang Xiaolin was momentarily startled, then replied, “Half a month, maybe longer.”

She nodded, saying nothing more. Yet Yang Xiaolin felt a growing urge to listen to her, to let her pour out her heart. He took two steps closer and stopped at a respectful distance. “Young mistress, what will you do?”

She smiled—a first for Yang Xiaolin. The sorrow in that smile was palpable. “You don’t need to worry. I suppose I can hold out for half a month. Once you’re done with your business, I’ll burn this house down. That way, no one will covet it again.”

Such a method struck Yang Xiaolin as far too extreme. No matter how difficult the circumstances, destroying the house benefited no one. Besides, what of her and her child’s future?

“Why not sell the house to me instead?”

“Are you truly one of the laborers who returned from western Liaoning with Lu Mozong?”

“Yes.”

“How could a laborer possibly offer to buy such a grand residence?”

Clearly, this woman was sharper than Yang Xiaolin had anticipated. Even in such a situation, she could spot the flaw in his words. For a moment, he was at a loss for an appropriate excuse to cover his slip.

She didn’t press further. “I knew from the moment you arrived that you weren’t mere laborers—at least not you. There’s no need to tell me your intentions. Lu Mozong is an honest man. If you were up to no good, he wouldn’t keep your company.” She looked at him, and Yang Xiaolin suddenly said, “I just want to help you.”

His words were abrupt, but the young mistress took no offense. “Thank you. In that case, would you do something for me?”

“Of course.”

“There’s a large trunk in the west wing filled with books. Please move it out for me. Those books meant everything to him. Burn anything else, but not them.”

That “him” was clearly the young master Zhao everyone spoke of.

The trunk was indeed heavy. Even with Yang’s considerable strength, he was short of breath after dragging it out. The young mistress gently ran her hand over the trunk as if caressing something deeply cherished. Yang Xiaolin noticed her cheeks quiver, her eyes suddenly rimmed red.

“He was a bookworm, always reading. I once thought it a good thing—what man shouldn’t strive for honor and success?”

Without warning, she began to confide in him. Yang Xiaolin didn’t know why she was telling him these things, nor how he should respond. But he understood that when a woman is pouring out her pain, the best thing to do is simply listen.

Her voice grew choked. “That day, chaos reigned in Beijing. Everyone was desperate to escape, except him. He insisted on leading a group to fight the foreigners. I tried to stop him. I said, ‘Even the Empress Dowager has fled—what heroics are you chasing?’ He slapped me. Since marrying into the Zhao family, he had never raised a hand to me.”

Yang Xiaolin remained silent. Her words were no longer merely confiding—they had become a tearful lament. Though he’d heard of the young master Zhao from others, hearing it from her own lips moved him deeply.

“He called me ignorant, said I’d never studied, never understood what it meant to sacrifice oneself for righteousness, to be loyal to one’s country. I was ignorant. All I could think was, if anything happened to him, what would become of me and our child? I clung to his legs, refusing to let him go, but he pushed me away. I didn’t have his strength; my grip failed, and he took his blade and charged towards the city gates with his men. I ran after him, calling his name, but he never looked back. Then a shell landed—and he was gone…”

She could go no further. Her sobs burst forth, unrestrained. The child in her arms, frightened, gently wiped her tears with a small hand. “Mama, don’t cry.”

Now was the time to hand her a handkerchief, but Yang Xiaolin had never carried such things; it would not suit a laborer’s station. He took two steps closer. He wanted to comfort her with a gentle pat on the back, but halfway there realized it would be inappropriate and instead patted the child’s head lightly. “Your father was a true man. You didn’t marry the wrong person.”

The young mistress gazed up at him through tears. “I almost wish he hadn’t read so many books. If he’d known less, at least he’d still be with me.”

Just as she said this, she suddenly stood, clutching her child and stepping back. Yang Xiaolin’s heart leapt; turning, he saw Biaozi had appeared behind him without his notice.

Glancing back, Yang Xiaolin saw Biaozi seemed almost embarrassed, as if trying to avoid the scene. Yang Xiaolin instantly realized he’d stood too close to the widow—a situation easily misconstrued in these times of strict propriety.

He quickly stepped back and looked at Biaozi, who nodded at him in understanding.

Yang Xiaolin said to the young mistress, “I have something to attend to outside. I’ll be back soon—it won’t take long.”

“In which consulate are you a cook?” The question was one Biaozi had just asked, and Second Lu now understood these men were not to be trifled with—especially surrounded by seven or eight of them in Lu Mozong’s room, his fear grew.

“The French consulate,” he stammered.

Yang Xiaolin laughed. “Biaozi, what a coincidence.”

Biaozi laughed as well. “Indeed. What should we do with this fellow?”

Yang Xiaolin waved a hand. “Put your gun away; don’t scare our friend. Loosen his ropes and get him a glass of water.”

As Lu’s nerves began to relax, Yang Xiaolin asked, “Where are you from?”

“Beijing.”

“I mean your hometown.”

“Shandong.”

“Any family left?”

“A younger brother, but he went missing more than a decade ago.”

Yang Xiaolin nodded. He was adept at questioning people; interrogating Second Lu brought back memories of his days as a petty policeman—if only he were taking notes for the record.