Before long, Xi Yu finished his bath, dressed in an inner robe with his hair loosely draped behind him. He stood beside Que Zhi, his features delicate and strikingly beautiful—hair like a cascading waterfall, lips full and rosy, like some enchanting spirit that could steal one’s very soul.
Que Zhi’s gaze shifted to Xi Yu. He picked up the wooden comb from the table with his other hand and said, “Turn your head around.”
“Why?”
“You were out in the wind all afternoon at the hunting grounds. Your hair is tangled. If you brush it tomorrow morning when you wake up, it’ll snap.”
“Let it snap, then. I have plenty of hair anyway.”
Que Zhi let out a low, muffled chuckle at that, his eyes brimming with tender indulgence. He rose and shifted closer to Xi Yu.
His tone carried a hint of helplessness, but it was impossibly soft: “No matter how much hair you have, it’s not worth the pain of it being yanked.”
Without waiting for Xi Yu to argue further, he reached out, gently took his shoulders, and softly turned him around. His fingertips accidentally brushed against the skin of Xi Yu’s neck—cool to the touch—making Xi Yu shiver with a shy flinch.
Que Zhi took a damp lock of hair and patiently worked the comb through it, starting from the ends and slowly smoothing it out. His movements were gentle and deliberate, careful not to pull.
The night breeze slipped in through the window crack, stirring their hair. The room was silent, save for the soft, rhythmic whisper of the comb passing through silk-black tresses.
Xi Yu’s heart gave an inexplicable tremble. He sat obediently with his shoulders relaxed, letting Que Zhi tend to him, a faint blush stealing across his cheeks. His heart felt warm and soft; he didn’t want to move at all.
Growing up in the Cold Palace, no one had ever combed his hair. Old Zhou dared not overstep, and the maids never set foot in his door. The one time a braid had tied into a stubborn knot at the end, Que Zhi had crouched in front of him and picked it apart strand by strand with his pinky finger.
Back then, Xi Yu had thought it was just awkwardness. Now he knew—this was what it felt like to have someone comb your hair. The fine, tingling sensation through the comb’s teeth, as if every taut door inside his body was being gently pried open, one by one. He could close his eyes and let that person leave a comb’s mark—so light it barely counted as a touch—upon his head.
Xi Yu rested his chin on his knees, his voice muffled: “Be gentle. My scalp is still cold.”
Que Zhi’s left hand curled behind his ear, gathering the fine hairs at his temple. His fingers passed through that black hair, finer than cashmere—
The hand that gripped a blade was steady as if brushing over a freshly quenched, thin edge. His fingers wove through the strands, gathered a small lock, and drew the comb from root to tip. When he hit a tangle, he stopped, worked it loose with his fingers, and combed through again. After finishing one section, he swept the smoothed hair over Xi Yu’s left shoulder and moved on to the next.
“Now that we’ve confessed our feelings to each other, from now on, you are my betrothed.” Que Zhi’s voice suddenly broke the silence.
Xi Yu’s back stiffened slightly, the tips of his ears flushing pink. His long lashes lowered as a wave of sweet warmth spread through his heart.
He leaned obediently against Que Zhi, his voice soft and tender, and gave a gentle reply: “Mm.”
That soft hum was like cotton—docile and sweet.
Hearing that response, Que Zhi’s heart filled with a soothing warmth, and an imperceptible smile lifted the corners of his lips. His combing grew even gentler, his fingers occasionally brushing lightly through Xi Yu’s hair. His voice was tender and solemn: “From this day forward, I will protect you well. I will never fail you, for all my life.”
“Here on the grasslands, a man takes only one wife in his lifetime, and loves only one person. I will never break my word.”
The flame of the bronze crane lamp beside the low couch flickered gently, casting their two shadows side by side upon the wall.
He finished combing all the hair—not tying it up, just letting it fall loose, like freshly washed black satin spilling from the nape of the neck all the way to the couch.
He set the comb beside Xi Yu’s knee, his fingers still lingering at the ends of his hair. It used to be tied up; now loose, it was even longer.
Xi Yu touched the ends of his hair falling past his shoulders. It had indeed grown much longer since the Gobi.
He casually remarked that he should trim it tomorrow—it was too long and wasted water when washing.
“Don’t cut it. I’ll comb it for you. From now on, every morning, if you don’t feel like combing it, just leave it—if it splits, call me; if it tangles, call me; if you don’t want to bother, call me. I’ll draw the water. There’s still half a pack of soapnut left—the one we bought at the market.”
Xi Yu held the wooden comb in his hand and listened to this string of words—from tangles to split ends, from soapnut to water amount—each detail, Que Zhi remembered more clearly than he did himself.
He buried his face in the crook of his arm, the back of his head resting against Que Zhi’s knee.
“My legs are sore. I don’t want to move.” His voice was muffled, sweet.
Que Zhi pulled over the soft cushion from the edge of the low couch and tucked it under Xi Yu’s head, then lifted his legs onto his own lap.
He bent down to massage Xi Yu’s calves—starting at the ankles, his thumbs pressing gently along the sides of the Achilles tendon, his palms wrapping around the slender muscle and kneading slowly. His touch was so light, as if afraid of hurting him. His fingers found a faint red mark on the bony side of Xi Yu’s ankle—a cut from the grass in the hunting grounds that day.
His thumb paused over that red mark, not pressing, just covering it, as if to shield it from the wind.
Que Zhi looked down at the slender, pale ankle resting on his knee, his thumb pressed into the hollow of the ankle bone. This person, with his ink-black hair spilling across his shoulders, lay sprawled across his lap—
From the very first day, when he was still that scholar with his hat brim pulled low at the inn entrance, Que Zhi had already been watching out for roadside pebbles and the wheel clearance of carriage gates for him.
Xi Yu lay there, his head buried in the soft cushion, relaxed from the tips of his hair to his toes, enjoying Que Zhi’s kneading of his calves and ankles.
After a while, he mumbled a complaint—the wild rabbit the old Khan had roasted at the hunting grounds that day was too tough, and his jaw ached from chewing. He didn’t want grilled meat for breakfast tomorrow.
“Then what do you want?”
“Do you still have those dried apricots you grabbed from the hunting grounds kitchen last time? I want those.”
“Dried apricots are a snack. Breakfast should be proper. The Liangzhou melons are out of season—but the kitchen has sweet melons. I’ll have them cut and brought to you.”
“Sweet melons need fermented milk. The kind Batu mentioned at the market last time—with the fermented milk poured on top, and a couple of raisins sprinkled on it. The rabbit was too tough—you pick all the meat off for me, and then pour the fermented milk over the melon.”
Xi Yu lifted his face from the pillow and shot Que Zhi a sideways glance, the tear-shaped mole at the corner of his eye lifting slightly with the tilt of his brow.
“Eat the sweet melon first, then I’ll pick the meat.”
“Then remember to pick it. I’m afraid of getting it stuck in my teeth.”
Early the next morning, the people in the palace saw their young master walking alone through the corridor.
In his left hand, he carried a bowl of sweet melon cut into small pieces; in his right, a plate of cheese curds drizzled with fermented milk and sprinkled with raisins.
His pace was slightly quicker than usual. At the corner, he paused to switch hands—moving the plate in his right hand farther from the wall to keep it from brushing against dust.
As he passed by the old Khan’s study, the Khan was having his morning tea. Through the half-open window lattice, he caught a glimpse of his son’s back.
The hand holding his tea paused, the cup hovering mid-air. The wrinkles at the corners of his eyes slowly relaxed—not because of the hearty breakfast his son was carrying, but because the bracer on his left wrist was still there, exactly the same as yesterday’s.
He took a sip of his tea, set the cup down, and turned to his attendant beside him: “Go to the kitchen and tell them—from now on, prepare some dishes in the Central Plains style. Properly receive the guest our young master has brought home.”
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