Chapter 21
Chapter 21: Two Little Thieves
Xia Shuang sheathed her sword and left, and the night fell back into silence.
Song Youyi stood in the shadow of the corridor pillar, her heartbeat thundering so loudly it was deafening within her chest.
Her feet had already moved beyond her control.
One step, two steps, three steps—toward the east, toward that bridal chamber glowing with candlelight—she crept forward, not making a single sound.
Her pace was slow, light, like a small white cat wandering alone through the dark of night.
She reassured herself inwardly.
It's fine, just a look.
What if her brother had been mistreated? What if that arrogant woman Qi Chuyao had laid hands on him? She was just going to look, just to confirm he was safe.
Just a look…
Just a look…
But she knew herself—this was nothing more than a thin veil of self-deception.
People could become terribly twisted by their feelings.
Song Youyi felt herself mired in a swamp she could not name. The more she struggled, the deeper she sank; the deeper she sank, the less she wanted to struggle.
The wooden chest in her boudoir told her—she loved her brother.
Those white garments folded so neatly, every single one soaked through with his scent, every single one a piece of hidden evidence she had secretly kept. She held them as she slept, pressing her face into them, imagining herself wrapped in his embrace, her slender fingers wandering downward, doing what ought not to be done, chasing pleasure in solitude.
The tears she could not hold back at the wedding told her—she loved her brother.
The moment the Ceremonial Official called out "husband and wife, bow to each other," the moment her brother bent at the waist and gave a gentle bow toward another woman—her tears had burst forth like a river breaking its dam, impossible to stop no matter what.
Jealous tears. Aching tears. Despairing tears.
The pounding of her heart when she stared into her brother's eyes inside the carriage told her—she loved her brother.
In that cramped, dim space, she had held her breath and drawn closer to his face inch by inch, close enough to make out the curve of his lashes—yet her eyes had never once left his lips.
If that was the truth, if she truly loved her brother, then on this very night when Song Ning was handed wholly over to another woman, she ought to feel agony and madness. She ought to lock herself in her room, cover her ears, shut her eyes, and pretend none of it was happening.
But in truth, she could not bring herself to leave.
She was drawn toward him more and more, wanting to see what he looked like on his wedding night.
Would her usually calm and gentle brother feel nervous? Would he wear a look of happiness? Or would he, in fact, be a little reluctant?
Would Qi Chuyao bully him? What would she say to him? Would it be like those storybooks—the way a husband writes to his wife?
Tonight, what expression would cross that handsome, ever-gentle face?
A furrowed brow of endurance? A soft and ragged breath? Or…
Song Youyi could no longer walk.
She leaned against the pillar of the Covered Walkway, fingers clutching the front of her garment.
A flush of red crept across her pale, delicate face. Her breathing grew rapid and disordered, her lips parted faintly.
Grief—because that person was not her.
Longing—because those expressions and sounds, she would never see nor hear.
If only her brother were not blind, she sometimes thought.
Then he would be able to see her gaze, to see the love she could not hide in the depths of her eyes.
Then he would know—the person in this world who loved him most was not Qi Chuyao, was not Xia Ling or Xia Shuang.
It was her. Song Youyi.
But she could say nothing. She could do nothing.
Only on such nights as these could she act like a thief, sneaking and creeping toward his bridal chamber, toward him and his rightfully wedded wife.
All just to hear his voice for a moment.
Song Youyi took a long breath, slowed her steps, and made her way once more toward the bridal chamber, moving alone through the dark.
****
Clearly, she was not the only one harboring such thoughts.
A dark figure swept silently across the rooftop, like a gust of black wind.
Qin Junyue had drunk a great deal of wine tonight. The smell of it drifted from her, mingling with the cool touch of the night breeze.
She wore her Night-stalking Outfit, pressing herself against the shadows along the roof ridge, cautiously making her way toward the bridal chamber, glancing left and right.
She walked, and all the while cursed herself under her breath.
Shameless.
Have you no face.
That is your good friend's wedding night.
That is a person beyond your reach.
But her feet would not obey.
If Song Youyi had acted on a sudden whim—noticing no one around and slipping quietly toward the bridal chamber—then Qin Junyue had been plotting this for far longer. From the day she first learned of the marriage, she had been turning this over in her mind.
She meant nothing by it. She only wanted to look.
1 look was all.
Just to listen to his voice through the window for a moment.
She reassured herself—she was only going to look, she hadn't truly betrayed her good friend, hadn't done anything to Song Ning.
Yes, how could she possibly do anything to the man who had once been her benefactor, even half a master—the one who had always been her unattainable ideal?
She only wanted to put an end to years of foolish longing.
As memories of her youth came flooding back, a fire roared up inside Qin Junyue's chest.
Drawing on her Second Rank Inner Energy, she leapt and ran across the rooftops with the ease of flat ground, her movements feather-light, not making a single sound.
The night wind swept through her Ponytail, scattering some of the wine's haze.
Security at the Song Family Estate was lax tonight, especially around the bridal chamber. Qi's Mother had likely given orders to clear the space for the newlyweds.
This suited Qin Junyue perfectly.
She lay flat on the back of the bridal chamber's roof, held her breath, and felt the presence of those around her.
No one else.
The blue-robed maidservant who was always clutching her sword was not here.
Qin Junyue exhaled in relief.
That mute maidservant called Xia Shuang—she had never been able to read her depth. But she had seen her practice her sword and knew her strength was nothing to dismiss.
If she had been here, tonight would have been difficult to manage.
Qin Junyue was just about to roll down from the roof and find a window or gap in a door to see what Song Ning was up to—when a stumbling sound of footsteps reached her from a distance.
Her body stiffened. She hurriedly pressed herself flat and drew in her presence.
In the moonlight, a red figure came swaying forward.
Qi Chuyao.
She wore that bright red Bridal Gown, her hair bun half undone, a gold hairpin hanging askew at her temple.
She clutched a wine jar in her hand, swaying two steps for every three she tried to take, her face flushed red as though it might burst into flame. One glance was enough to know she had drunk a great deal.
As a Martial Artist who had not yet reached even First Rank—not even Fourth Rank—her tolerance for wine was clearly nothing remarkable.
Qin Junyue lay flat on the rooftop, watching that swaying figure below, her expression cycling through something extraordinary. Inwardly she grumbled:
‘Are you serious?’
‘How did you manage to arrive even later than me?’
‘Your groom has been waiting in the bridal chamber for ages—and you, of all people, went and drank yourself to this point?’
‘Do you even understand what getting married means? If you don't, can't you just hand him over to me?’
She watched Qi Chuyao lurch this way and that toward the bridal chamber, nearly tripping over her own skirts several times, and felt equal parts annoyed and amused.