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No. Absolutely not. Falling for him was a death sentence, in this kind of story the ones who fell in love always died first. Yu Wanyin shook her head. Xiahou Dan, a little drunk, seemed to sense her thoughts anyway, and his dark eyes swept toward her. She looked away at once. Xiahou Dan blinked, his old habit of playing to an audience kicking back in, and propped his cheek on one hand. "My beloved consort, were you staring at me just now?" Yu Wanyin pursed her lips and stood to leave. "I'm going to wash up and go to bed." Xiahou Dan kept his cheek propped on his hand. "Together? I'd like to watch a bit more." Yu Wanyin froze, then turned her head slowly, trembling. Xiahou Dan burst out laughing and waved her off. "Go on, go on." By the time she had gone, Xiahou Dan sat alone in the hall. He was still lifting his cup as if toasting someone, but the smile at the corners of his mouth had begun to fade. With no one left to drink with,...

Shang Zhitao got on the bus early. The city had just woken up, and the bus rolled through the morning mist. She put in her earbuds and watched the streets slide by outside the window. The people here worked hard, she thought. Even at this hour, the roads were already full of people heading somewhere. She was one of them too, just another passerby, hurrying along. She wore a white shirt dress today, cinched at the waist with a thin, light brown belt, her hair pulled up, no makeup on. Even so, she carried the kind of confidence only youth can give. She sat quietly, composed, like the well-behaved neighbor's kid everyone talked about. Good, but not so good that anyone would remember her name. Shang Zhitao had been this kind of person since she was a child. Her grades were solidly upper-middle. Her looks were solidly upper-middle. Close enough to average that even her diligence and humility couldn't lift her out of the pack. So she'd learned, early on, to comfort herself wit...

That year Beijing saw more rain than usual, more even than the south Shang Zhitao had just left behind. Rain dripped steadily from a sky heavy with strange, low-hanging clouds, and it was hard to say whether the scene looked like a watercolor painting or simply looked cold. Shang Zhitao was wrestling with her two suitcases, one packed with books, the other with clothes and shoes and nothing else. She had come from Nanjing to Beijing. At twenty-two, this was the first time in her life she had moved anywhere entirely on her own. Sweat beaded on her forehead and cheeks, and her face flushed pink with the heat. She felt like she might melt on the spot. She'd need to buy a fan tomorrow, she noted to herself. The narrow room felt even more cramped with both suitcases crowded into it. Through the wall she could hear the girl next door on the phone. "I'll come to your place this weekend, okay? The room next to mine just had someone move in and the walls aren't soundproofed ...