Chapter 63
Chapter 63: A Torn Hem
Doctor Wang stepped out of the Auspicious Cloud Residence with his medical case on his back, sweat still beading on his brow. When he looked up, he nearly collided with Old Madam waiting outside the courtyard.
His heart lurched. He bowed at once.
“Old Madam.”
“How is Qing Xuan?” Weariness edged her voice.
Doctor Wang didn’t dare delay. “Old Madam, don’t worry. Eldest Grandson Young Master’s wound has been stitched properly. Luckily it’s only a flesh wound—it didn’t hit anything vital. He should wake tomorrow. After that, he simply needs rest and careful recovery.”
Only then did the tightness in Old Madam’s face loosen, just a fraction.
She nodded, leaned on her coiled-dragon cane, and stepped inside.
The air in the room was heavy, dull with worry.
On the bed, Lin Qing Xuan lay pale as paper. A bandage cinched his forehead, and fresh blood still seeped faintly through the cloth, a sharp, ugly color.
Xiao Man sat at the bedside. She wrung out a cloth and wiped the cold sweat from his temple with painstaking gentleness, her focus so absolute it almost looked like devotion.
Old Madam’s gaze drifted downward—and stopped.
A large piece of pale blue-green fabric was missing from the hem of Xiao Man’s skirt, torn away with rough, ragged edges.
Higher: her bun sat slightly loose, stray strands clinging to her cheeks. Her eyes were red, swollen as if she’d cried until she couldn’t see.
Old Madam had lived long enough to read storms from a single glance.
Spring Wind Intoxicant… that kind of filth…
This girl had suffered.
She asked nothing. She only stepped closer and laid her wrinkled hand on Xiao Man’s shoulder, a light pat that carried more weight than a speech.
“Take good care of the young master.”
Simple words. Solid reassurance.
Not long after, Madam Wang arrived. She had just finished “handling” Zheng Xiu Yun’s matter and came in a hurry after hearing Lin Qing Xuan’s wound had been stitched and he was resting.
The moment her eyes caught the torn clothes, her mind flicked back to the drug—Spring Wind Intoxicant. Suspicion sparked, quick and sharp.
Had it… worked?
She studied Xiao Man’s swollen eyes, the fear and guilt trapped in her face, and a conclusion formed all too easily. Her expression didn’t shift as she spoke.
“Go back and change your clothes. Walking around like that is improper.”
Xiao Man answered softly and withdrew.
When the door closed, only mother and son remained.
Madam Wang looked at Lin Qing Xuan’s unconscious face and felt her chest tighten until it hurt. All her anger, all her schemes, all her pride—none of it mattered beside the pallor of her child.
What sin had she brought upon herself?
Night deepened.
When Lin Qing Xuan woke, the sky outside the window was fully dark. Lamps burned in the room, their dim yellow light pooling through the gauze canopy and stretching shadows long across the floor.
Pain flared in his forehead—dull, sharp, insistent—like a needle burrowing into bone. It dragged up every blurred memory from before he blacked out.
The teapot had been tampered with.
He had lost control.
He had hurt Xiao Man.
He shut his eyes hard, lashes casting a shadow that hid everything he couldn’t bear to show. He didn’t dare replay it. Didn’t dare look too closely at what he might have done.
Then he felt something in his clenched right hand—soft, rough, wrong.
Slowly, as if the movement cost him air, he opened his palm.
A piece of pale blue-green cloth lay there, quiet as a confession. Its edges were jagged, torn by force. Fine stitches formed a small winter jasmine bud, almost blooming.
And on that delicate flower, dark-red spots had soaked in.
Xiao Man’s blood.
The fabric had been ripped from her—by his own hands.
Something tightened in his chest like a fist closing. Pain flooded up so fast it stole his breath.
Again.
He had hurt her again.
Outside, wind stirred the trees. The rustle sounded, for one cruel moment, like laughter.
At the window, a mass of black mist curled and hovered, drinking in every trace of agony on Lin Qing Xuan’s face. It rolled with satisfaction, almost purring.
Hee hee…
Hurt, don’t you?
Regret it?
This was only the beginning. A fine prey deserved the finest seasoning.
“So it’s you again?”
The voice came from behind—cool, sudden.
The black mist jolted, nearly scattering. It twisted around and met Xiao Man’s clear, sharp gaze. At some point she’d moved close, arms folded, expression flat with disdain.
She looked like she’d been watching for a while.
The mist gathered itself into a tighter, defensive knot. “Y-you… what nonsense are you talking about?!”
Xiao Man’s eyes narrowed. “Zheng Xiu Yun is stupid, but not so stupid she’d drug Lin Qing Xuan with something that strong before she’d even secured her footing in the Heir Apparent’s Manor.”
Her voice cut clean. “Unless someone kept whispering into her ear. Unless someone fanned what was already rotten in her heart.”
“So what if you know!” The mist bounced in place, flustered and furious. “That was her own evil! Her own greed! Her own mind turning on her. What does that have to do with me?!”
It tried to sound righteous, flailing. “I’m just a small, innocent puff of mist! At most I said a few things I shouldn’t have, fanned a little wind by her ear. I didn’t pour the drug! I’m not taking the blame!”
With that, it whooshed—collapsing into a thin wisp and fleeing in a blink.
“Tch.” Xiao Man clicked her tongue and turned—
—and met Lin Qing Xuan’s open eyes.
He was awake.
A jolt of guilt shot through her, sharp and immediate. That gash on his head… she’d done that.
Self-defense, yes. Still…
She didn’t notice how Lin Qing Xuan looked at her—how the guilt in him ran deeper, darker, aching with a hundred unsaid apologies.
His lips parted. Words gathered—and died before they could leave.
Xiao Man drew a breath, forcing steadiness into her spine.
On the bed, Lin Qing Xuan gave himself the same order, ruthless and desperate: hold it in. Don’t break. Don’t frighten her.
He watched her try to look calm. He watched her eyes flick away for a heartbeat.
And the pain in his chest sharpened again.