Chapter 10
Chapter 10: The Handkerchief
The light inside the carriage was dim, with only a few thin threads of light filtering in through the gaps in the curtain, falling on the floor, falling on the seats, falling on the two people within.
Song Ning sat upright, his brow suddenly furrowing.
"A fever?" His tone carried concern. "Did you catch a chill last night?"
He had noticed that his younger sister's breathing was slightly off—more rapid than usual, with a faint trembling quality to it.
"Should we stop the carriage and send you back?"
Song Youyi's fingers paused ever so slightly.
She looked at that face, so close to her now—those white, sightless eyes fixed in her direction, brow lightly creased, every line of his expression filled with concern and tenderness.
That gaze was so gentle, so full of pity, it nearly made her eyes roll back.
Her fingers resumed their movement, practiced and subtle.
"I don't want to go back." She spoke, her voice soft, carrying a faint breathlessness. "I want to go with you—together, we'll go…"
Song Ning had no suspicions. He reached out a worried hand toward her face.
First, he touched her cheek.
The skin was faintly warm, smooth, and soft.
Song Youyi shivered slightly at the touch, her pearly teeth biting down on her lower lip—waiting, anticipating.
Song Ning's hand continued upward, following instinct across the bridge of her nose, until it finally came to rest on her forehead.
"You are a little warm." He gauged the temperature against his palm carefully. "Does your head ache?"
He was genuinely worried she might be running a fever.
His younger sister was no martial artist. In this world, martial artists possessed exceptional constitutions—even when they fell ill, they could push through. But for an ordinary person, any illness left untreated was uncertain at best.
Especially with her constitution, which had always been frail since childhood.
"Is your breathing obstructed?" he asked again, his hand still resting on her forehead. "Why are you panting like that?"
Song Youyi felt the warmth of that hand upon her brow, and her gaze grew hazy and unfocused.
She raised one hand and gently wrapped it around Song Ning's, drawing it down from her forehead and pressing it against her cheek instead.
She tilted her face slightly, rubbing her cheek against his palm—as affectionate as a cat.
"Perhaps it's been too long since I last went out." She murmured, her voice light and soft. "It'll pass in a moment. My body has always been like this."
Song Ning's hand was held in place by hers, feeling the warmth of her cheek beneath his palm—he was still not quite at ease.
Yet he said nothing more and only let out a quiet sigh.
"Tell me if you're uncomfortable. Don't force yourself."
"Mm."
Song Youyi answered, but she did not release his hand.
She held it pressed to her face, feeling the warmth of his palm, tracing the outline of his fingertips.
Her gaze settled on his face—from his brow bone to the bridge of his nose, from his nose to his lips—mapping him inch by inch.
What a beautiful face.
Refined, gentle, always carrying a faint, barely-there trace of a smile.
Those white, sightless eyes could not see anything—and yet they seemed to know everything.
She watched him, and something she could not name surged within her chest.
Tender emotion.
Longing.
And something else—a desire to possess.
She thought of these hands leading someone else, of this face smiling for someone else, of this person marrying someone else—and something seemed to press against her chest like a stopper.
But he did not belong to her.
At least, not yet.
Her movements grew lighter than before—slower—like playing a soundless melody.
Using that melody to express the depths of what she felt.
The carriage was dim and small.
The sound of wheels grinding over the road, the tinkling of copper bells, the distant murmur of the city's market—all of these sounds wove together, wrapping the cramped space so tightly that not even air seemed to pass through.
Song Ning sat there, entirely unaware.
He could not see.
How fortunate.
A wicked thought rose suddenly in Song Youyi's heart: if not for his blindness, perhaps she could never have done something like this in her entire life.
Xia Ling knelt in the corner, facing the wall of the carriage, not daring to move a single muscle.
A silk ribbon was tied across her eyes, leaving only a hazy blur before her.
Her ears were plugged by her own hands, letting in nothing but a muffled droning.
She did not know how long she had been sitting like this. She only felt a creeping agony.
Xia Ling did not dare turn around.
But she let her fingers relax a fraction—and she could still catch something of the sounds.
The Young Master's words of concern.
Song Youyi's soft murmuring.
And that faint, elusive breathlessness.
Xia Ling's face burned.
‘Young Master, oh Young Master—how on earth am I supposed to say a word about this?’
She poured out her silent grievance inward.
This Second Miss—so sickly and delicate on the surface, every bit the image of a proper young lady—who could have imagined she would do something like this?
For a moment, Xia Ling even began to envy Xia Shuang.
Xia Shuang was out there on horseback, knowing nothing.
The breeze was clear, the sky was blue, and she had not one tangled thing to face.
And her?
She was trapped inside this narrow carriage—blindfolded, ears plugged—still pretending to know nothing.
She wanted to turn and look, and yet she did not dare.
If she happened to see something she shouldn't…
Her fingers tightened again, pressing her ears more firmly shut.
But those faint, elusive sounds still found their way in.
Song Ning, entirely unaware of his younger sister's strange state, assumed she was simply fragile in constitution and prone to overthinking—and so he spoke to reassure her:
"Don't aggrieve yourself, and don't place unnecessary burdens on your own shoulders."
His voice was gentle—the same as when he used to coax her to sleep as children.
"Just rest easy in the estate. Read a little, tend your flowers. Be well cared for and at ease."
"Leave what lies outside to me and Elder Sister. You need not worry about any of it."
He paused, then smiled lightly.
"Don't let my blindness fool you—there is much I am capable of."
This was a worry he had long carried: that his younger sister, unable to do anything, might feel inadequate—might fret over the household's affairs. And so he always reassured her this way.
He wanted to give her a stable place to recover, to let her live peacefully and without worry her whole life—to be a Young Miss free of all care.
As for everything else, he and Elder Sister would handle it.
"I promise you will be well looked after all your life." He said softly. "Don't worry so much about the household."
Song Youyi listened to these words, and the corners of her lips slowly curved into a smile.
That smile was somewhat unwell.
She stared fixedly at Song Ning's lips as he spoke—that mouth opening and closing, each word so soft, so lovely.
Every sentence was like honey flowing into her heart, only to catch fire once it arrived.
Her slender body tensed, as though the moment were reaching its crest.
Her gaze traced his brows, his eyes, his nose, his lips.
The light around her began to recede. The noise of the street began to blur. The walls of the carriage began to dissolve.
In her world, only this face remained.
She began to fantasize.
She imagined tearing apart that face.
She imagined pressing this blind adoptive brother down in the narrow space, biting at his lips, biting at every inch of his skin.
Claiming him for herself—forever.
Yes.
Forever.
Her leg snapped suddenly with a jolt.
Her slender body shuddered once, sharply and violently.
And then—a cramp.
A sharp, stinging pain shot up her calf, and she let out an involuntary soft hiss.
"What's wrong?" Song Ning heard the sound and immediately tensed. "Xia Ling—see what's happened to her."
Xia Ling had, in truth, never plugged her ears all the way. She had been quietly listening the entire time.
At Song Ning's command, she stiffened all over.
The Young Master's orders evidently outranked the Second Miss's.
She hesitated for a moment, then slowly turned around.
The silk ribbon was still across her eyes, and she could not see clearly.
She raised her hand, tugged the ribbon down a fraction, and opened a narrow slit.
And then she saw the true scene before her.
In the dim carriage, Song Youyi was leaning back against her seat, her clothing slightly disordered, her skirt somewhat creased.
Her cheeks were flushed, her gaze was hazy, her lips were barely parted—still faintly rising and falling with breath.
Xia Ling's eyes slid downward, and her face went scarlet in an instant.
"I'm fine." Song Youyi's voice came—already returned to its usual calm.
She stretched her slender, graceful leg out toward Xia Ling.
"Rub my leg for me."
Xia Ling stared blankly at that foot—the silk stocking white, the ankle delicate, the sole small and dainty.
She took that foot and placed it across her own knee, and began to pat it gently.
Her fingers met that pale, rosy skin, and a complicated mix of feelings stirred within Xia Ling's chest.
She kept her head bowed, not daring to meet Song Youyi's gaze.
Yet from the corner of her eye she still caught it—Song Youyi drawing a pale pink handkerchief from her sleeve and slowly, carefully wiping her fingers.
The motion was light, unhurried, entirely graceful.
Xia Ling did not dare look further, bowed her head again, and continued her work—her lips pressed into a small pout.
Song Youyi finished wiping her fingers, tucked the handkerchief back into her sleeve, and her expression had returned to full composure.
She leaned back against the seat, her gaze settled on Song Ning's face, something concealed deep within her eyes.
"Brother." She spoke softly, her voice gentle. "I'm alright—it was just a cramp."
Only then did Song Ning let out a breath of relief.
"Told you not to come out, and you insisted." He said, though his tone was full of fond worry. "Rest well when we're back."
"Mm."
Song Youyi answered, the corners of her mouth curving into a sweet arc.
Xia Ling sat beside her, rubbing the leg, her heart a tangle of knots.
She snuck a glance at Song Ning—he knew nothing, his face still wearing that same gentle expression.
She snuck a glance at Song Youyi—that sickly, beautiful face wearing the perfectly composed smile of a proper young lady.
Just then, the carriage rolled to a stop.
The Housekeeper's voice drifted in through the curtain:
"Young Master, Second Miss—we have arrived at the Qi Family Residence."