Chapter 16
Chapter 16: Time Moves Too Fast
"Brother, I suddenly feel like time has been passing so fast."
Back at the Song Family Estate, the carriage had just come to a stop. Song Youyi steadied Song Ning as he stepped down, and the words left her lips softly, in a gentle, quiet voice.
Song Ning tilted his head slightly, catching something unusual in her tone.
"I keep feeling like I haven't been at the Song Family Estate very long, and Brother is already leaving." Song Youyi spoke again, a trace of bittersweet smile spreading across her face.
The smile was faint, yet it could not conceal the emotions quietly fracturing beneath the surface.
Song Youyi had always believed she had limitless time.
She always felt the days stretched far ahead—that she could take it slowly, draw close slowly, let him grow slowly accustomed to her presence.
She could seep in beside him bit by bit, occupy his world bit by bit, crowd out those irrelevant people bit by bit.
In her imagination, her brother would fall out with Qi Chuyao because of some mishap or another.
That arrogant woman, Qi Chuyao—sooner or later she would do something unforgivable.
She would despise Brother for being blind, humiliate him in public, do something so catastrophic that neither family could recover from.
Then the betrothal would be broken, and the 2 would never meet again.
And then what?
Song Ning's Mother would be torn.
2 daughters—one stationed far away at the frontier, the other sickly and bedridden at home.
To whom could she entrust Brother's future? No matter how she weighed it, in the end it could only be between her and her elder sister.
But Elder Sister was far away at the frontier—no choice there could ever truly reach.
The final place would naturally fall to her.
She would be united with Brother in marriage, and together they would tend to the Song Family Estate, day and night, year after year.
How wonderful that would be.
Yet today at the Qi Family Residence, Qi's Mother had said it so carelessly—"The wedding date is set for the day after tomorrow"—and those words had landed like a heavy hammer, crashing straight into her heart.
Crashing hard enough to shake her thoughts loose, set her emotions swaying, leaving her screaming silently inside without being able to make a sound.
How had things come to this?
She jolted back to reality—in the real world, Brother was getting married the day after tomorrow.
Not to her. To that Qi Chuyao, who had never once looked at him properly.
She stood beside the carriage, and the hand steadying Song Ning trembled ever so slightly.
Song Ning could hear the reluctance in the young woman's voice. He smiled, freed his hand, and gave her head a gentle ruffle.
"It's not as though I'm going somewhere far away," he said softly. "I'll still be right here in the Capital. If you want to see me, you can come whenever you like."
"And I'll be coming back to the Song Family Estate to stay when nothing's on."
Hearing this, Song Youyi felt not the slightest hint of happiness—only deepening gloom.
That hauntingly beautiful, delicate face was heavy with melancholy.
What did he mean by that?
It meant that after the wedding, he would no longer be living at the Song Family Estate, didn't it?
It meant he would be moving into the Qi Family Residence, spending every waking moment with that Qi Chuyao, didn't it?
It meant that when she wanted to see him, she would have to send a calling card first, wait for someone to announce her, and put on a performance for the Qi family, didn't it?
She pressed her lips together and said nothing.
Xia Ling stood nearby watching it all in quiet silence, until Song Ning and Song Youyi parted ways.
Song Ning walked toward his own courtyard; Song Youyi turned and went in the opposite direction.
Xia Ling quickly stepped forward, taking Song Youyi's place and supporting Song Ning by the arm.
Her pink skirt swayed, casting a faint, rippling shadow in the sunlight.
Xia Shuang stole a glance at Song Youyi, then hugged her sword and fell in behind Song Ning as he left.
A faint rustle—some small disturbance—and the soft sound of footsteps made Xia Shuang spin around sharply. Her gaze cut like a blade unsheathed, her small hand reflexively gripping the hilt of her sword, her expression cold as frost.
Yet nothing happened at all. It was as though she had imagined it entirely.
Xia Shuang tilted her head in puzzlement, decided it must have been her imagination, and resumed hugging her sword as she followed a short distance behind Song Ning.
****
Song Youyi stood rooted in place, watching the 3 figures slowly disappear into the distance.
Watching Xia Ling support Song Ning's arm. Watching Xia Ling lean close to whisper something in his ear. Watching Song Ning tilt his head slightly, a warm smile touching his face.
Her gaze dimmed.
How is it that Brother seems to be like that with everyone? How irritating.
If only he were like that with her alone.
Then she turned and walked toward her own courtyard.
All along the way, servant girls bowed as she passed.
"Second Miss."
"Second Miss is back."
Song Youyi never slowed her steps—only a slight dip of her head, acknowledgment enough.
Her pace was unhurried, drifting by.
The servant girls, having paid their respects, silently stepped aside, heads bowed, waiting for her skirt to sweep past before daring to return to their tasks.
Everyone in this Song Family Estate knew the Second Miss's authority.
Frail as she was, always on medicine, her word still carried weight.
It was as though Song Ning's Mother had deliberately raised her to one day take charge of the household's inner affairs.
Passing through the last gate, Song Youyi finally entered her small courtyard.
The courtyard was not large but had been arranged with exquisite care.
Beneath the tree sat a stone table, 2 stone stools, and on the table, a set of celadon tea ware.
Further in was a row of flower stands, filled with all manner of plants and flowers—some in bloom, some merely green leaves—all varieties that demanded careful tending.
Song Youyi crossed the courtyard, stepped up onto the platform, and pushed open the door to her room.
A faint medicinal scent drifted out to meet her.
It was a smell she knew well, familiar enough that she hardly noticed it anymore.
But any outsider stepping in would surely furrow their brows at that bitter, pervasive fragrance.
The room was not large, yet it was arranged with quiet elegance.
A rosewood writing desk, brush, ink, paper, and inkstone, along with several open books.
The pages were dense with annotations in neat, graceful handwriting—her own.
Beside the writing desk stood a bookshelf, its volumes arranged in careful order: poetry collections, story books, medical texts, miscellaneous notes—a little of everything.
Against the wall was a carved canopy bed, its curtains a pale celadon, thin and soft, draping down to veil what lay within.
In the corner stood a vanity table, set with a mirror, combs, rouge and powder.
Yet those things were seldom used. She had been ill for so long that her face always carried the pallor of sickness—no rouge could ever cover that.
Song Youyi closed the door, walked to the bed, bent down, and pulled out a chest from underneath. A small lock hung from its latch.
She reached into her sleeve and drew out a key, turning it in the lock.
She lifted the lid.
Inside, folded neatly in layers, were garments—all white.
White of every kind.
Moon-white, plain white, silver-white, frost-white—whites light and deep, layered together like a cupped handful of snow.
On top was a moon-white Inner Robe, the fabric soft, with a faint pattern of bamboo leaves embroidered along the collar.
It was Song Ning's—Xia Ling had sent it over for washing a few days ago, and she had kept it back.
Beneath it was a plain white sleeping robe, thin and soft, folded into a neat square. That was Song Ning's too.
Below that was an outer robe, also white, with a small ink stain on the hem.
It had splattered on him while he was practicing calligraphy. She had kept that one as well.
There were also handkerchiefs, hair ribbons, sock wrappings… all his.
Every piece of it gathered by her, little by little, over these past days.
Song Youyi reached out and gently ran her fingers over the garments.
Then she lifted the topmost Inner Robe and pressed it against her chest.
She buried her face deep into it.
The fabric carried a faint Soap Bean fragrance—and beneath it, a thread of something that was his alone.