“Oh, that,” Ning Zhao lit up, eager to show off. “Smells good, doesn’t it? I’ve gotten compliments all day! Everyone says this scent suits me perfectly—they all wanted to know where I bought it. Heehee…”
Ning Yan cut him off with a sharp look. “Where did you get it.”
“From the Bai family’s eldest daughter. So generous of her! I didn’t even do anything special, and she still sent me a gift. I almost feel bad about it…”
Despite his words, Ning Zhao’s beaming face betrayed not a shred of guilt—clearly, he was delighted.
“What progress on the ballad?”
His giddiness vanished at once. He blinked, wide-eyed and innocent—but a subtle tension wrapped itself around Ning Yan, something dangerous humming just beneath his calm surface.
That instinct for survival Ning Zhao relied on kicked in hard. He straightened up at once, sheepish and deferential. “No clear lead yet. But I’ve traced it to a certain scholar in Xuancheng—still working to confirm exactly who.”
The question hung heavy. The ballad had spread through Xuancheng like wildfire, spring breeze one day, a city-wide chorus the next. Every trail Ning Zhao followed seemed to vanish just before he reached the source. He’d reported this before, and Ning Yan hadn’t pressed for results—just told him to keep digging, see what he could find.
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Wasn’t that tacit permission to take his time? Why the sudden deadline?
Ning Zhao stiffened. “Ten—ten days?”
“Five. Fail, and report for punishment.”
Miserable as a wilted weed, Ning Zhao slinked off, head hung low, a far cry from the smug peacock of moments before.
Ning Yan still held the scroll in his hand, though he hadn’t turned a single page.
His memory was excellent. He remembered the scent Ning Zhao wore—it was faint, something he’d caught in passing, but scent had a way of lingering deeper than most impressions.
The first time he met Bai Qingqing, just outside the Embroidered Guards’ office, she had spoken timidly of her gratitude and handed him a sachet of fragrance. It was this exact scent.
He had told her he didn’t care for it. After that, she changed it to another.
And now, after all this time, she'd given that original blend to Ning Zhao.
To be fair, it did suit Ning Zhao. He seemed genuinely fond of it. As if the fragrance had always been meant for him.
A hint of amusement touched Ning Yan’s lips.
If he remembered correctly, that day outside the office, Bai Qingqing had asked after someone—“Lord Ning,” she’d said. At the time, he’d assumed she meant him.
But could it be… she had actually meant Ning Zhao?
The notion formed, then was immediately crushed.
Impossible. What use would someone like her have for that blithering idiot?
Still… at the time, there hadn’t been any notable connection between him and the Bai family.
His fingers tightened around the document in his hand, creasing the parchment.
The matter from the Duchess of England’s birthday banquet—he would need to handle it himself, make sure nothing had been left unresolved. With Ning Zhao busy chasing songs and shadows, he might as well make the trip personally.
At the Bai residence, Ning Yan was welcomed with the utmost courtesy—treated not as a mere guest, but as an honored noble.
Bai Yan had taken special leave just to receive him, every word and gesture laced with careful respect and genuine gratitude.
“It’s thanks to Your Lordship,” he said with a deep bow, “that our family saw that man’s true face. A pity he refused to name his master. Bit through his own tongue and died on the spot.”