Chapter Twenty-Nine: Stitching Nineteen Thousand Living Souls, Su Tangyi and Swallow’s Misunderstanding

The Soul Calming Lamp cast a light no larger than a bean, illuminating only a small patch of space. One side of Song Mo’s face was bruised.

“You should have made yourself clear,” Tang Yi said, glancing at Song Mo with a hint of embarrassment, though he found the situation amusing and struggled to hide his smile.

“How was I to know you’d be so heavy-handed? Weren’t you the one who spoke that way just the other day?” Song Mo retorted, fuming. This was clearly a case of the magistrate being allowed to set fires while the commoners were forbidden to light lamps.

“Can you really stitch up the knife scar on my back?” Tang Yi asked, his eyes revealing a sliver of hope.

“I can’t,” Song Mo replied coldly, his face expressionless.

“Then forget it,” Tang Yi said, as if he hadn’t expected much from him in the first place.

Seeing Tang Yi’s nonchalance, Song Mo suddenly became competitive. He picked up a piece of calligraphy paper from the table, threaded a needle, and in less than the time it took for half an incense stick to burn, an exquisitely lifelike butterfly emerged on the paper. Just as the day before, the rice paper remained unbroken, with no trace of threads or needlework to be seen.

“How’s that?” Song Mo asked, feigning modesty with an air of mystery.

“Not bad,” Tang Yi nodded. He was genuinely surprised by Song Mo’s handiwork.

“If it weren’t for the fact that you took a blade for me, I wouldn’t—” Song Mo began to boast.

“I’m not letting you stitch it,” Tang Yi interrupted before Song Mo could finish showing off.

…

After much persuasion, Tang Yi finally undid one side of his robe and lay face down on the cold couch.

Tang Yi’s half-bare back hardly resembled that of a constable, nor even a man; it was pale and supple, as if sculpted from white jade, reminiscent of lotus roots and fragrant snow, delicate as clouds and willowy as young willow shoots. The only flaw was a savage knife wound, seven or eight inches long, marring the beauty of his back.

Song Mo dipped the new silver needle in strong spirits, disinfected it over the lamp flame, then began to thread the needle and suture the scar on Tang Yi’s back.

“Brace yourself. This might hurt,” Song Mo warned softly before the first stitch.

“Alright,” Tang Yi replied in a small voice.

Song Mo’s hand gently traced the scar on Tang Yi’s back. Instantly, Tang Yi’s body tensed as if struck by electricity.

“Relax. If you stay tense, the stitches won’t settle properly and it’ll look unsightly,” Song Mo chided, giving Tang Yi’s backside a light slap.

He couldn’t help but notice—it was rather springy.

Completely focused on the task, Song Mo’s gaze never left the scar as he worked. He failed to notice Tang Yi, prone on the cold couch, biting his lip and blushing crimson.

The silver needle pierced Tang Yi’s flesh, meeting a resistance so different from a corpse’s that Song Mo realized stitching the living was much harder than working on the dead.

For one, after death, a body’s skin and muscles relax completely, while the living can never do so entirely. Then there was the psychological difference—the dead never complain, but the living certainly do.

Indeed, Tang Yi kept shooting him murderous glances, clearly calculating which part of Song Mo’s flesh he’d carve off first later…

The night passed in silence. Song Mo’s needlework was as wondrous as blooming flowers, and by dawn, Tang Yi’s back was smooth again, the scar vanished without a trace.

With the first rays of morning and the fifth watch bell ringing, Song Mo carefully snipped off the last thread and, feeling dizzy with exhaustion, lay down on the other side of the cold couch beside Tang Yi.

Tang Yi had suffered greatly through the night; the silver needle had pricked him over nineteen thousand times, each one a pain to the bone.

“This brat…” Tang Yi muttered as he put on his robe, glancing at Song Mo lying on the couch, a mix of resentment and helplessness in his eyes. Remembering that slap, his cheeks flushed all over again.

Seeing Song Mo sound asleep, Tang Yi turned away and gently peeled the false skin from his face…

…

The sun was already high when Song Mo finally awoke from the cold couch. At some point, the door had been opened, letting sunlight pour into the room, not in sharp beams but diffused like mist.

This was the lingering yin energy of the mortuary trade, gathered in the rafters and beams, notoriously difficult to dispel.

Tang Yi was at a table not far away, toying with a two-inch-long flying needle. At the sight, unpleasant memories flashed through Song Mo’s mind.

“You haven’t left yet?” Song Mo asked, packing away the Soul Calming Lamp he hadn’t had time to put away earlier.

“I’m here to investigate a case,” Tang Yi replied. With a flick of his hand, the flying needle vanished, hidden somewhere unknown.

“What quick hands. It’s a pity you don’t do magic tricks,” Song Mo thought to himself.

“A young lady was here looking for you just now,” Tang Yi said abruptly.

Song Mo didn’t need to ask to know who it was.

“Come on.” Song Mo, after a quick wash, beckoned Tang Yi.

“Hm? Where to?” Tang Yi asked in confusion.

“Breakfast is on me,” Song Mo said, and walked out of Mortuary Room Seven.

He led Tang Yi to Old Man Lin’s breakfast stall on Old Street. At this hour, only a few late risers lingered, and the tables were much sparser than usual.

They chose a spot in the back. Yan Zi came over to greet them.

For some reason, Song Mo noticed that Yan Zi no longer treated him as warmly as before. Though she was still friendly, something seemed missing.

Soon, their table was laden with food. After last night’s toil, Song Mo felt he could eat like an ox. By contrast, Tang Yi only picked at his food, as if he found it unappetizing.

After breakfast, they did not hurry off, but began discussing the events of the previous day.

…

“You’re telling me Mi Zige left with Second Sister Qin in high spirits?” Song Mo said in disbelief. In Jian’an, for someone to escape unharmed from the Northern Garrison’s encirclement was utterly unimaginable.

“Mi Zige has some tricks up his sleeve—we underestimated him. That strange bird on his shoulder is actually the legendary Azure Luan,” Tang Yi mused, his eyes deep in thought.

“Azure Luan?” Song Mo was unfamiliar with tales of gods and demons, and his confusion showed.

“In the Classic of Mountains and Seas, it is written: ‘Two hundred and twenty li further west lies Mount Sanwei, where three blue birds dwell, called the Azure Luan,’” Tang Yi intoned.

“But the Azure Luan only ever serves the Master of the Dao. Why would it follow Mi Zige?” Tang Yi trailed off, the secrets unknown to him, and even more so to Song Mo.

“By the way, was that foreign girl, Su Jin, rescued?” Song Mo asked.

Tang Yi nodded, but his face remained grave, and Song Mo tactfully refrained from prying further.

After a long silence, Tang Yi spoke first.

“Have you heard about the disappearance of Li Zheng, the mortician from Room Six?”

Song Mo smiled wryly; so, this was why Tang Yi had come.

“I’ve heard, but I doubt I can be much help,” Song Mo replied.

“Did you hear any strange noises or see anyone odd the night before last?” Tang Yi pressed.

Song Mo shook his head. “I embalmed an imperial physician’s corpse that night. Besides, who would dare come to our place?”

He laughed at himself.

Suddenly, a memory flashed in Song Mo’s mind: that night, Li Zheng had clumsily bumped into him. What had he said then?

Song Mo’s mind raced, and soon he remembered Li Zheng’s words from that night.

He had said: “Fox, fox, so beautiful.”

Could there be a fox spirit haunting the southern mortuary?

Song Mo hurriedly recounted this to Tang Yi, who frowned deeply upon hearing it.

By late morning, Old Man Lin and Madam Wang began to pack up their stall.

Song Mo stood, drew a carved wooden box from his sleeve—the jade hairpin he had bought the day before.

Yan Zi was helping to clear tables. Song Mo handed her the box. “Yan Zi, here.”

She glanced at the box, inside which a green jade hairpin lay quietly. Her eyes flickered with a hint of joy, but she quickly returned the box and, pointing at Tang Yi, said calmly, “I don’t want it. Give it to him.”

Song Mo stared in disbelief. Give it to Tang Yi? A jade hairpin, to a man?

Suddenly everything made sense—Yan Zi’s sudden coldness, the misunderstanding when she had visited that morning and seen Tang Yi in his room.

Jian’an was no stranger to such affairs between men. Yan Zi had gotten the wrong idea!