Chapter Twenty-Four: The Pavilion Amidst Ten Miles of Crimson Water Lilies

At night, the Seventh Prince did not come, and Yu Hualiang was secretly pleased, especially since Alyu had made stewed chicken for him. But the wound on his lip stung with the heat.

Alyu searched for a spoon to blow on the hot broth and feed him, but Yu Hualiang snatched it away. “I’ll do it myself.”

“Let Alyu serve you,” Alyu pleaded.

Yu Hualiang felt goosebumps rise at the suggestion, but if he refused, Alyu would surely look at him with teary eyes, and that would be even more vexing. So Yu Hualiang obediently opened his mouth and let Alyu feed him. Alyu smiled, “Is it good?”

“It’s delicious!” Yu Hualiang nodded vigorously. Alyu’s cooking was indeed excellent, with a comforting, motherly touch.

Mo Cai watched the two of them as he quietly ate a bowl of plain noodles. Noticing this, Yu Hualiang called him over and added a chicken drumstick to his bowl. “Eat up, there’s plenty more. Stay here, it’s so cold outside,” Yu Hualiang said with concern.

Mo Cai was moved to tears. Alyu added, “That’s right. Even though I serve you, you treat me so well. Mo Cai works hard and deserves no less.”

“No, I’m just a servant,” Mo Cai corrected, making clear there was a difference between himself and Alyu.

After the meal, Yu Hualiang, feeling idle and restless, asked Mo Cai to fetch paper and brush. He recalled the scenic beauty of Huanlin Pavilion, where the Seventh Prince had summoned him earlier that day.

Alyu helped him grind the ink, while Mo Cai, his usual job usurped, was left with nothing to do.

The Seventh Prince, in his sable-trimmed purple robe, had seemed somewhat melancholic—his surroundings faded into dullness, the pavilion’s scene captured in soft ink washes. Every detail was etched clearly in Yu Hualiang’s mind: the patterns on the pavilion, the teapot, the cups, and the Prince’s robe.

He painted the pine trees in deep green, added plum blossoms in muted crimson, letting the colors bleed like flowers blooming in mist—uncertain, dreamlike. Only the Prince’s face emerged sharply from the painting, compelling the gaze to linger upon him alone.

Alyu, seeing this, grew jealous. “When will you paint one of me?” he asked.

Yu Hualiang laughed, “What flower do you like?”

Alyu’s eyes cooled. “What does Ziliang like?”

Yu Hualiang studied him for a long moment. “Alyu suits blue hydrangeas.”

“Blue hydrangeas?” Alyu repeated, never having seen such a flower.

“I’ll paint one for you in a moment,” Yu Hualiang teased.

Mo Cai, gazing at the painting on the table, seemed utterly captivated, unable to look away. The Seventh Prince’s sorrowful face was especially heart-wrenching.

“Young Master, it’s a masterpiece!” he exclaimed.

Alyu echoed, “Isn’t every one of Hualiang’s works a masterpiece?”

Yu Hualiang knew Alyu was flattering him, but truthfully, he’d never seen what the previous Yu Hualiang’s paintings were like. Curious, he asked, “Alyu?”

“Yes?”

“Were my paintings always like this before?” Yu Hualiang inquired.

Alyu smiled, “Just as good as now.”

Yu Hualiang eyed him skeptically—clearly, love had colored his perception! It was better to ask Mo Cai, so he turned to him. “Mo Cai, what about you? How did my paintings look before?”

While mounting the painting, Mo Cai replied, “I’ve been with you since I was ten, and you were fifteen then, Young Master. But I’ve never seen you paint before.”

Yu Hualiang sighed. It seemed only Yu Ming might know...

Alyu tugged at Yu Hualiang’s sleeve. “It’s true!” he insisted.

Then he drew out a white handkerchief from his chest, upon which a bamboo stalk was exquisitely embroidered. Despite the passage of years, Alyu had kept it with great care. Yu Hualiang examined it—just a segment of bamboo and a few leaves, yet the hand revealed was skilled and confident, no less than his own, perhaps even more so.

“When did I make this?” Yu Hualiang asked.

“Three years ago, when we first met. You gave it to me. Have you forgotten?” Alyu’s voice quivered with disappointment.

Mo Cai explained, “Young Master’s been ill lately, his memories muddled.”

Yu Hualiang realized the old Yu Hualiang must have practiced often—he might not have been as useless as rumors suggested. But why had he never shown his talents, not even to those closest to him? Even when Chang Zihao looked down on him, he endured it...

Perhaps Yu Hualiang truly loved painting but had always suppressed it. What hardship held him back?

“If you want to know about your past, you should ask Magistrate Meng. You two were always together,” Mo Cai reminded him. Could the answer be connected to Lian Sheng?

Yu Hualiang pulled Mo Cai aside and whispered, “Did I really try to kill myself over Alyu?”

“Yes, Young Master. You drank every day, swearing you’d marry no one but Alyu. That day, after pleading with your father, you jumped.”

Yu Hualiang looked back at Alyu’s radiant smile—so he really was a lovesick fool who tried to die for love...

Seeing Yu Hualiang and Mo Cai so close, Alyu grew restless. “Hualiang?” he called.

“Hmm?” Yu Hualiang turned.

“Weren’t you going to paint me?” Alyu flushed.

Yu Hualiang smiled and nodded. Mo Cai prepared the brush and ink for him.

Yu Hualiang took up the brush—the image of Alyu, cheeks tinged with a faint blush, was already vivid in his mind. He painted delicately, capturing Alyu’s gentle beauty, the features soft and almost feminine. He added hydrangeas to the blank space, and once colored, Alyu seemed to emerge from a sea of flowers.

The flowers and the man vied in beauty—though the phrase was meant for women, no other words fit better.

When the painting dried, Alyu held it up. “Wow, these flowers are so beautiful, it’s as if they’re really blooming around me.”

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Yu Hualiang asked.

“It’s too beautiful. What are these flowers? Are they only found in the afterlife?” Alyu was lost in admiration.

Yu Hualiang gently patted his head. “What nonsense. There are plenty of these flowers. I’ll take you to see them in summer.”

Alyu nodded happily. Mo Cai, expressionless, took the painting from him and quietly mounted it.

Ah, the sickly sweetness of young love!

That night, Alyu insisted on sleeping close to Yu Hualiang. After Mo Cai helped them bathe, he quickly left—he couldn’t bear to watch their intimacy.

Yu Hualiang did not sleep well. He woke looking pale and worn. Alyu, worried, asked, “Hualiang, what’s wrong?”

“It’s nothing…” Yu Hualiang yawned and dressed. Today he was to accompany the Seventh Prince to Shili Pavilion to paint.

Mo Cai had prepared everything early, just waiting for Ye Fang’s message so they could depart.

Alyu cooked porridge and sat across from Yu Hualiang. “Hualiang, why don’t you let me go with you?”

Yu Hualiang waved him off. “That won’t do. This is the Prince’s manor, not the Yu residence. We can’t act so willfully. Just wait for me here.”

Still uneasy, Alyu clung to his sleeve as he left. Yu Hualiang turned and embraced him. “Don’t worry. If you get bored, paint some bamboo.”

After much coaxing, Yu Hualiang finally got Alyu to stay. Once in the carriage, he noticed the Seventh Prince also looked weary. They exchanged awkward smiles.

The Prince asked with concern, “Ziliang, did you not sleep well?”

“I’m alright…” Yu Hualiang replied bashfully.

The Prince’s knowing look made Yu Hualiang blush with embarrassment.

He hurried to explain, “There’s nothing between me and Alyu!”

“Ziliang, there’s no need to explain. It has nothing to do with me. Your explanation is either unnecessary or it means you care how I see you.”

Yu Hualiang was stunned. Why was he even explaining? But the Prince’s last words puzzled him.

The Prince’s meaningful smile made Yu Hualiang’s eyes drift downward, where he noticed the Prince’s hands, wrapped thickly in bandages, with blood seeping through—clearly a serious burn.

“Your hands, Prince?” Yu Hualiang asked, worried.

“A small matter, just a burn…” the Prince said lightly, but Yu Hualiang knew it must hurt terribly.

“Did you see a doctor?” Yu Hualiang pressed.

The Prince looked at his hands. “No need to worry, I’ve already applied medicine.”

Yu Hualiang thought to himself that if the Prince hadn’t seen a doctor, he would have recommended Doctor Wang, who, despite once wanting to stick him with needles, prescribed effective medicines.

The Prince, seeing Yu Hualiang’s concern, felt his own reluctance to part with him intensify. Today was to be his final test for him. He hoped things would go as he wished.

Shili Pavilion stood ten li from the city’s back gate, with a temple behind it—Wan’an Temple, famed for granting the most efficacious blessings for love. People from all around flocked there to pray for matches. If their prayers were answered, devotees would tie red ribbons to the trees outside the temple; after many years, the trees were thickly festooned in red.

From afar, it looked as if the trees were ablaze with red leaves. This custom spread far and wide, and soon the red ribbons were not just for love—people tied them for children, wealth, any wish at all. As a result, all the trees near Shili Pavilion were draped in red, a veritable forest of crimson.

Upon arriving, Yu Hualiang was dazzled—the pavilion looked as if it were surrounded by a grove of maples, the white snow making the red trees all the more striking. Closer, he noticed words written on the ribbons.

The Prince, gazing at the sea of red, recited, “For matters of fate, spare the matchmaker’s trouble; ten li of red silk unravels longing.”

Yu Hualiang laughed. “To spare the matchmaker’s trouble? Even the old man under the moon must be at ease!”

“Who can say?” the Prince replied. “Since we’re here, why not tie a red ribbon as well?”

“Gladly,” Yu Hualiang answered without hesitation.

Together, they walked toward Wan’an Temple.