Chapter 292 — Turmoil
Purple Streets of Chang'an · Page 2 of 4
Wang Qinghai did not dare dawdle; he hurried forward and helped the Earl of Donglin into the carriage.
The Earl of Donglin took his leave of Song Yan.
Wang Qinghai cast Wei Fan an apologetic look, as if to beg his pardon for not being able to leave alongside him.
Wei Fan put on a smile uglier than weeping, and gave Wang Qinghai a stiff nod to say it was all right, and that he should go serve the Earl of Donglin well.
Wang Qinghai breathed a sigh of relief. When the Earl of Donglin had finished his farewells with Song Yan, he climbed into the carriage.
The carriage rolled slowly forward.
Yet the Earl of Donglin, who a moment before had seemed drowsy with wine, suddenly opened his eyes, utterly sober, and ordered the driver: "Quick. Turn the corner and stop at the corner by the Drunken Immortal Pavilion."
The driver was puzzled, but without a moment's hesitation did as the Earl of Donglin bade, turning the corner and bringing the carriage to a halt at the corner by the Drunken Immortal Pavilion.
The Earl of Donglin drew back the curtain, and Wang Qinghai saw Song Yan go straight to his carriage without so much as a glance at Wei Fan, then raise his whip and drive off down the Drunken Immortal Pavilion street.
The Earl of Donglin closed his eyes and said mildly to his son-in-law: "Dahai, in future you had best keep your distance from the Marquis of Jining. The man will never amount to much, and I fear he'll drag you down with him."
Wang Qinghai's heart churned like a storm-tossed sea. He had not imagined the rift between Song Yan and Wei Fan had grown so wide, and still less that his father-in-law would turn back deliberately just to point it out to him, to make him witness it with his own eyes.
He gave a sound of "Mm."
His tone was puzzled and lost, with more than a little helplessness in it.
The Earl of Donglin did not press him. He closed his eyes and let the swaying carriage carry him back to the Earl of Donglin's residence.
Song Yan was quite satisfied with the day's meeting.
With this little performance of his, the whole capital would surely be talking tomorrow in every street and alley about his profligate airs, and he could take the chance to soften, for a while, the murderous reputation that clung to him. There was a bonus besides—good news never leaves the door, but bad news travels a thousand li. After tonight, nine in ten in the capital would know that he and Wei Fan were on bad terms, and in future, whatever trouble befell the Marquis of Jining's household, they would surely not drag him into it.
As though he had flung off a heap of mud, his spirits at once felt light and unburdened.
And once again he gave thanks to the Bodhisattvas of the Western Paradise that Wei Fan had, back then, acknowledged Dou Ming.
Had Dou Yan been married to him instead, he feared he would have been heartsick and restless for the rest of his life.
Thinking of this, Song Yan—fresh from washing and dressing—looked at Dou Yan, slumbering beneath the glimmering lamplight like a lotus blossom, and could not resist throwing himself upon her: "Shouyuan, Shouyuan..." He kissed her at random, wanting to wake her, wanting her to respond to him with ardor, to laugh and romp with him, to let him know that she was in his arms and glad to be with him... as if by so doing his heart would feel more secure, more at peace.
Dou Yan, unable to breathe under his weight, woke with heavy, sleepy eyes.
"Song Yantang! What do you think you're doing?"
The quilt was thrown into disarray, her robe fallen open on all sides; one plump breast he held in his mouth, the other shifting into every shape beneath his fingers, and mingled with it all was a faint, smarting pain.
"What's gotten into you?" Dou Yan was caught between laughter and tears.