Mo Hui and Bai Zilan

That night, the moon hung dark and silent, not even the faintest starlight visible. The hour had passed deep into the late night, yet Gu Fei remained seated in the flower hall, her white inner garments gleaming in the gloom, her dark hair tumbling down her shoulders. She sat as if sculpted from marble, unmoving and silent, only the occasional night breeze stirring her robe to reveal a sliver of luminous skin, casting a soft, ethereal glow in the lamp-less hall.

When Old Ma returned, dressed in her coarse grey linen, she paused upon seeing Gu Fei in this state. Then, she turned and struck a tinder to light the oil lamp, speaking in a low voice, “Miss, why haven’t you retired yet?”

The lamp’s flame danced in Gu Fei’s black eyes, gilding them with a sculpted brilliance. Her reply was soft, “I was waiting for you.”

Hearing this, Old Ma’s drooping eyes narrowed with a smile, the fine lines at the corners lifting. She stepped to Gu Fei, picked up a thin robe from the couch, and draped it over her shoulders. “Don’t worry, Miss, I’ve handled everything. But you mustn’t stay up so late. Your health is only just recovering; you can’t afford to catch cold.”

Gu Fei did not interrupt, listening to Old Ma’s rambling as if it were a distant melody, her thoughts drifting and never quite settling.

Old Ma knew when to stop; she never expected Gu Fei to heed every word. Her face grew solemn as she turned to business. “Just as you guessed, that priest met a peculiar end.”

Gu Fei arched a delicate brow, her eyes bright with a burning light. “What do you mean by peculiar?”

“Please take a look.” Old Ma moved the brass lady’s lamp closer to Gu Fei, then pulled a silk handkerchief from her bosom. Unfolding its corners, she revealed several strands of curled hair.

Gu Fei leaned in to examine them, noting that one or two strands were lighter in color, clearly belonging to someone else.

Old Ma spread the handkerchief on the table, pointing. “These I pulled from the priest’s corpse; these others I found on him.”

The latter were the lighter strands. Gu Fei, unafraid, picked one up and inspected it closely, but found nothing remarkable.

“Finding someone else’s hair doesn’t prove anything,” Gu Fei said, separating the distinct strands, twisting them together at her fingertips, then rolling them into a small ball.

Old Ma shook her head with a faint smile. “Don’t underestimate these hairs, Miss.”

Gu Fei looked at her, puzzled.

Old Ma’s expression was inscrutable, the silver threads at her temples gleaming in the lamplight. “I’m certain these strands must have been snared by the priest’s clothes when the killer checked if he was truly dead—and I’m sure they belong to a woman.”

“Oh?” Gu Fei’s interest was piqued.

“Just now, when you twisted those hairs, did you notice how unnaturally smooth they were? If you follow the root, your fingers will feel a trace of oiliness,” Old Ma explained gently.

Gu Fei’s gaze brightened; Old Ma’s words struck her like a bolt of lightning, sparking something hidden within her mind.

“The slippery roots are because women often use orchid pomade on their hair,” Old Ma continued.

Realization dawned on Gu Fei. She thought for a moment, then lifted the bundle of hair to her nose and sniffed, pondering in silence. “It’s the scent of osmanthus orchid pomade—so familiar. I must have smelled it on someone before.”

Old Ma had no doubt. Others might not know, but she was intimately acquainted with Gu Fei and her keen sense of smell—a gift and a unique advantage.

“No need to rush; it’s late. Let me help you to bed,” Old Ma said, taking the hairs from Gu Fei and returning them to the handkerchief, reaching for the wheelchair.

But Gu Fei leaned back instead, fixing Old Ma with an unwavering gaze, making no move to sleep.

Old Ma’s smile froze, her actions halted, and she stared at Gu Fei for a long moment, unable to utter a word.

A tense silence spread between them, unseen but turbulent.

Old Ma lowered her hands, heavy shadows cloaking her waxen face, her expression unreadable for some time.

Gu Fei grew colder, until ice and snow seemed to flicker in her eyes. “Old Ma, you know what I want to know!”

Old Ma’s hand trembled. She raised her head slowly, speaking so quietly she could barely hear herself. “Miss, I know what you want. I’ve found the truth, but…”

“But what?” Gu Fei’s voice was crisp and sharp, like jade beads clashing.

Old Ma answered with a sigh, stepping into the light, her expression grave. “I will tell you, but promise me you won’t act on impulse, nor harm your health.”

Gu Fei pressed her lips together, the light and shadow crossing beneath her pale lips. She lifted the corner of her mouth and agreed, “All right.”

Only then did Old Ma continue. “The ones you asked me to find… are gone…”

Gone?

The phrase echoed endlessly in Gu Fei’s mind. She gripped the wheelchair tightly, expending great effort, unable to believe it. “Gone? What do you mean, gone?”

Old Ma’s face betrayed no emotion. Her hands clasped, eyes cast down, she spoke bluntly, “Gone means… dead.”

Dead… dead… dead…

It was as if she had been thrown into an ice cellar. Gu Fei felt cold from head to toe, her legs throbbing with pain—a pain so suffocating she could barely breathe. She gritted her teeth and asked, word by word, “Are you saying the two I asked you to find are dead? My birth parents are both dead?”

Old Ma looked up abruptly, shocked. Just days ago, Gu Fei had only asked her to find two people in Yizhou, never mentioning they were her birth parents, nor anything else.

“Are you sure their names are Mo Hui and Bai Zilan?” Gu Fei pressed, her voice shrill and uncontrolled.

Old Ma’s lips moved a few times, sorting through the clues she had gathered, answering with certainty. “Yes. Mo Hui from the Mo family in Yizhou and the common woman Bai Zilan. They died eight years ago…”

“No…” Gu Fei screamed, her long sleeves sweeping across the table and sending the teacup crashing to the floor, water splattering everywhere. “Who told you they were dead? Who said so?”

Old Ma looked at the shattered teacup on the ground, its sharp fragments reflected in the puddle—mirroring Gu Fei’s utter despair. “South of Yizhou’s outskirts, two solitary graves. I visited myself. The Mo family said the two were killed by bandits while traveling.”

With that, Old Ma watched Gu Fei anxiously. Her explanation was crude, suitable only for deceiving children. Anyone with sense could see the oddities.

“Impossible,” Gu Fei’s voice was dark, her black eyes tinged with red, her whole being seething with rage. “My mother suffered from an old illness, her vision always blurred, and she preferred quiet. Father would never take her traveling. Though I haven’t been home in ten years, we exchanged letters every year…”

She left the rest unsaid, abruptly cutting off as though the thread had snapped, then burst into eerie laughter.

Her laughter was desolate and fierce, like a cuckoo crying blood, piercing the roof and shooting into the night, startling the stars and moon hidden behind the dark clouds.