Chapter 59

Chapter 59: The Pitch-Pot Promise (Part 1)

“Sister… Sister.”

Song Wei Chen drifted in and out of sleep. Someone kept calling to her, and a small hand clung to hers as if letting go might make her disappear. With effort, she forced her eyes open.

“Sister, you’re finally awake!”

A little girl of five or six hovered beside the bed—skinny, small, with eyes too big for her face, shining with worried hope as she stared at her.

A tear slipped from the corner of Song Wei Chen’s eye. She opened her arms, and the child lunged forward like she’d been holding herself back for hours. Song Wei Chen hugged her tight.

“Good Bao Er. You scared me to death.”

Bao Er lifted her head, baffled. “Sister, you’re the one who scared Bao Er to death. You looked even sicker than me, and you wouldn’t wake up no matter how I called you.”

She pointed over her shoulder. “Sister Gu Yu said I went up the mountain that night to see my mother, and the night dew chilled me sick. I’ve been asleep here for days, and everyone at home is worried sick.”

“In a bit, she’ll take me home first. And when Sister is better, you have to come play with me, okay?”

“Gu Yu…?”

Before Song Wei Chen could say more, Gu Yu stepped closer, voice gentle and careful. “Miss Sang Pu, this servant is a maid from Venerable Manor. A Dust Warden official sent me here temporarily to attend you. The Venerable also left instructions—he said he and Miss are old friends. If you need anything at all, just tell me. I’ll do my utmost.”

Song Wei Chen turned her head, taking in the familiar furnishings, and only then realized where she was.

The Sunless Residence.

Right… Bao Er was calling her Sister. Song Wei Chen glanced down at herself. No White Robe. That explained it.

“Gu Yu, please escort Bao Er home safely,” she said. “And bring her all the remaining chestnut cakes.”

Gu Yu agreed, but surprise flickered across her face. How did this Miss even know about the chestnut cakes?

It seemed her relationship with that lord in the manor truly was… close.

“Sister, I’m going home now,” Bao Er said, sweet as syrup. “You have to come see me.”

Song Wei Chen brushed the child’s hair back, her fingers lingering—tender, protective. “All right. Bao Er, don’t worry. From now on, you’ve got big brothers and big sisters from the Dust Warden Office backing you up. That stepmother of yours won’t dare lay a hand on you again.”

Bao Er nodded hard, then clung to Song Wei Chen for a long moment before Gu Yu finally coaxed her away. The child kept looking back until the door closed.

Silence settled over the room.

Song Wei Chen lay there with her eyes closed, remembering the look Xiu Niang had given Bao Er. The memory tugged up another one—her own parents, and the home she could never go back to. Tears flowed again. She didn’t even wipe them, letting them soak into the pillow.

A soft brocade cloth brushed her cheek. A familiar voice, gentle and teasing, said, “Crying again? You really are made of water.”

The moment she heard him, Song Wei Chen broke completely. “Wuwu… I want to go home. Can you help me go home…?”

Mo Ting Feng went still, thrown off-balance. In his memory, this little girl rarely cried. Not when danger loomed, not when she was framed and bullied, not even when she was bleeding and half-dead.

And now she was a storm.

He could only lift her up and hold her tight, patting her back as if he could smooth the ache out of her bones. “Don’t cry, Wei Wei. I’ll give you a home, all right?”

She heard nothing. Bao Er had finally gotten to go home, and the price of that comfort came crashing down on her. She cried until her body went limp, and then sleep dragged her under again.

In her heavy sleep, Song Wei Chen dreamed a long dream.

A knock sounded at the door. A servant boy’s voice drifted in, muffled but clear. “Miss, Young Master Mo has come. He wishes to invite you to look at the site for the sacrificial ceremony.”

Young Master Mo…?

When Song Wei Chen opened her eyes, she was no longer herself.

She was Sang Pu, in the quiet midday hush of the Annex Villa, half-reclined on a beauty couch, drowsy with idleness.

“I’m not going,” she said without lifting her head. “I’d still have to beg Madam for permission. I can play my music anywhere. I don’t need to see any site.”

“Madam has already been informed.” Mo Ting Feng’s voice came from outside the door, unhurried and composed. “Miss Sang Pu may go out with me whenever she wishes.”

Sang Pu stared at the ceiling, her face calm to the point of frost. For a moment, she seemed to be weighing something no one else could see. Then she rose and opened the door.

Mo Ting Feng stood there in dark blue trimmed with pale jade, his eyes smiling, bright as clean wind and moonlight. He looked like someone who’d never been touched by dust or smoke—a man from a different world.

“Young Master arrives without an invitation, makes decisions for me, and even arranges everything in advance.” Sang Pu smiled, but her words carried a chill. “One look tells me you understand exactly how people like us live. We don’t get to choose a single thing for ourselves.”

She turned and went back inside, twisting her waist lightly as she returned to the couch, half-reclining again as if he weren’t there.

Mo Ting Feng didn’t bristle. He followed her into the Sunless Residence. The servant boy shut the door and withdrew.

Mo Ting Feng sat in a chair beside the couch, still wearing that gentle smile as he studied her.

“Miss,” he asked, “have you ever played pitch-pot?”

Sang Pu blinked, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“If you want to land an arrow every time,” he said, “there’s a trick. When you throw, don’t fix your eyes on the mouth of the pot. Look a little farther past it. Your aim steadies, and the arrow goes in.”

Sang Pu rested her cheek in her palm, gaze flat as if to say, And then?

“And then,” Mo Ting Feng said, smile deepening, “my throw today has already hit.”

Sang Pu’s brows rose a fraction.

“My purpose was only to see Miss,” he continued. “Whether you go out or not isn’t important. That’s just the bit of distance you focus on when you throw.”

For a heartbeat, Sang Pu’s smile softened—beautiful, fleeting as a flower that blooms in the dark.

“If that’s what you mean,” she said, “then I’ll insist on going out, just to make your pitch-pot miss.”

Mo Ting Feng’s eyes crinkled. “Then why don’t we truly play a round?”

“Miss can write down things you want to do but have never done. Whatever slip we hit, we go and make it happen.”

“Young Master Mo,” Sang Pu asked lightly, “won’t you be delaying serious business by wasting time on me?”

“Important things are always measured against each other,” he said. “For me, Sang Pu is my most important business.”

For the first time, something like expectation surfaced in her expression. “Fine. We’ll play pitch-pot. But if it’s something I want to do, you’ll help me fulfill it—truly?”

“You once used a line from the Dao De Jing to remind me,” Mo Ting Feng said, gaze steady. “‘Those who make light promises rarely keep faith.’”

“So this time, I won’t promise. We’ll move as we act.”

While Mo Ting Feng and the servant boy prepared the equipment, Sang Pu sat at the table, brush hovering.

She didn’t write for a long time—not because she lacked wishes, or because she had too many, but because no one had ever asked her the question at all.

What do you want?

In her life, she had always been the one arranged, the one carried along, with no room to choose. She lived each day as if she had no self—though in Madam’s eyes, and the eyes of the other misses, she’d already “chosen too much.”

In the end, she lowered her brush and wrote eight things on eight slips of paper. She folded each one with care, neat to the point of reverence, like a believer handling something sacred.

Only she knew what those eight slips held.

A life she had reached for—and never once been allowed to touch.