When Ye Fan returned to the inn, the copper bell at the corner of the eaves was chiming softly in the evening breeze. He unfastened his outer robe and hung it on the rack, his fingertips brushing against a trace of powdered sugar on his cuff—the sweetness of the tanghulu he had just eaten still lingered on his lips, but Qin Wanhuang’s blood-stained carrier pigeon message was like an ice needle, sending a chill down the back of his neck.
"Ah-Ye."
The moment the door was pushed open, a woman in a moon-white dress walked in carrying a sandalwood box, the silver hairpin in her hair gleaming coldly in the candlelight. As she set the box down on the desk, half a roll of yellow silk slipped from her sleeve—it was none other than the message from moments ago.
Chapter 132