Chapter 418 — An Explanation
Purple Streets of Chang'an · Page 1 of 4
Song Han was helped aside, given a change of clothes, and taken to his study next door.
The study was quiet.
Wuyi was attending Song Yan as he practiced large-character calligraphy.
Song Han lifted his head, and out of the corner of his eye caught the full-length dressing mirror.
In the mirror he was neatly dressed, and apart from a slight pallor and a certain listlessness in his expression, he looked no different from usual.
Only now did he truly understand what "leave no trace" meant.
If he had died just now, would he not have looked exactly like a man who had drowned by accident?
Song Han's whole body went cold, his teeth chattering, yet still he flung himself at Song Yan. "Brother, brother, this wasn't your idea, was it? You only meant to frighten me a little, didn't you?" He burst into tears. "It's not that I didn't want to tell you—I was afraid. I was afraid that once you knew, you would hate Father even more... I was caught in the middle, torn both ways... I didn't do it on purpose... otherwise I never would have told you that Father and Mother had quarreled... There were several times I wanted to tell you, but you were either with Gu Yu or gone to the palace, and I never had the chance... so I could only pray you would find out sooner... I never thought you really would find out... and then I didn't know how to tell you..."
Song Yan seemed not to hear him. He did not even raise his head, letting him pour out his grievance, and finished the last stroke with care. After studying it a while, he set down the brush, took the handkerchief Wuyi handed him and wiped his hands, then looked up and said with a smile, "So you've come! Sit down and let's talk."
It was as though the torture just now had been a dream.
Song Han could not stop trembling.
He had seen Song Yan like this before—politely and distantly making small talk with people he did not care about in the least. But he had never imagined that one day he himself would become one of those people Song Yan did not care about in the least.
Or perhaps he had imagined it.
He had imagined it when Jiang Yan was first brought back.
But when he saw that Song Yan did not pursue the matter, he had deceived himself and simply stopped thinking in that direction.
Song Han stood frozen before the desk.
Lu Ming respectfully seated him in an armchair some distance from Song Ke, his face utterly devoid of the coldness and savagery with which he had interrogated him moments before, like some humble servant.
Hypocrisy!
Utter hypocrisy!
The whole lot of them, a pack of hypocrites!
Song Han stared at his face. It felt as though a fire were burning in his chest, about to burst out.
But he did not dare.
The agony of suffocation still lingered vividly in his senses.
The man before him was outwardly courteous, mild and amiable, yet at heart cold and ruthless, his methods vicious—no longer the brother who had doted on him.
He sat there, his legs gone weak.
Wuyi offered him a cup of hot tea.
He murmured his thanks, and was answered only by a cold, contemptuous curl of Song Yan's lips.
He thought of the old days. What a personage the Second Master of the Yingzhenguo Estate had been! Never mind thanking a servant—if he so much as smiled in satisfaction at those who waited on him, the serving women would be overwhelmed with flattery, feeling it an honor beyond measure. And Song Han had understood this from childhood, proud as a peacock, seldom deigning to thank anyone.
But now, stripped of the identity of Second Master of the Yingzhenguo Estate, he was nothing but a lowly common man.
The sight of him made Song Yan sick to his stomach.
How had he ever been so blinded by grease, to misjudge his father? And to misjudge him as well?