Zhi Lan had never been inside the tribunal of ayamenbefore. She had a feeling this would be her last time, for better or for worse.
Shao Qing knelt beside her, looking sick to his stomach. He had still been dry heaving when the guards dragged them into theyamen—which only made her more worried for him. She almost wished he was back to his old soulless self.
Magistrate Bu slammed his desk. “Nong Zhi Lan. You have brought a criminal into my home. You have assisted this thief with his crimes against me after I have shown you and your master nothing but generosity. Do you plead guilty?”
She could plead whichever way and it wouldn’t matter. Magistrate Bu was the sole prosecutor and judge, and it was within his power to rule however he pleased. But Zhi Lan would say her piece no matter what.
She raised her chin stiffly. “I do not, your lordship. I have not assisted a thief in any crime against you.”
She had assisted Shao Qing in a crime against another magistrate. But that was neither here nor there.
Magistrate Bu narrowed his eyes. “Do you deny bringing this vermin into my home today? I have asked my guards. He is the same man you were seen with on the day you left.”
Zhi Lan pressed her lips together. This she could not deny, even though she wished to be contrary. Hopelessness crashed over her. She had gotten herself into deep, deep trouble—but she couldn’t bring herself to regret anything she had done that led up to this moment.
The magistrate took her silence as admittance.
“Nong Zhi Lan. You are charged with deceiving an official. According to imperial law, you deserve fifty strikes and five years of hard labor,” Magistrate Bu said, his eyes glittering dangerously. “Unless you wish to plead guilty and repent for your crimes. I am not an ungenerous man.” He looked at her with meaning.
Zhi Lan clenched her jaw. He was offering again. Disgust roiled in her gut.
“Nothing will compel me to share your bed, magistrate,” Zhi Lan said, unable to hold this back. She was proud her voice didn’t waver. “I will take whatever punishment you deem fit.Exceptthat.”
Magistrate Bu’s face grew beet red.
“Preposterous! I suggested no such thing, you fox spirit!” He pounded his desk and pointed at Shao Qing. “And you. What is your name?”
“Shao Qing,” he said hoarsely. He still looked sickly and pale.
“No family name?”
“No, your lordship.”
“Unsurprising,” the magistrate said with a sneer. “You’re the thief who stole from me. Do you plead guilty?”
Shao Qing’s breaths were shallow. He looked almost...afraid. Zhi Lan wished she could comfort him.
“I do, your lordship,” Shao Qing said, lowering his head.
Zhi Lan started at this. She had not expected him to confess—in fact, she had hoped he would lie and weasel his way out somehow. Had his soul made an honest man out of him?
What rotten luck.
Magistrate Bu smiled smugly. “Thieving from a bureaucrat is a capital offense. You’re to hang at dawn.”
Zhi Lan couldn’t breathe. She looked to Shao Qing, who merely closed his eyes at the sentencing.
This was her fault.
If she hadn’t insisted on getting his soul back, he would have never returned to Magistrate Bu’s manor and fallen into his clutches. Now Shao Qing was to die—and feel every torturous moment leading up to it.
“I’m sorry,” Zhi Lan said, her vision blurring with tears.
Shao Qing met her gaze, his eyes a warm, dark brown. “Don’t be.”
Magistrate Bu scoffed. “Drag Miss Nong outside for her beating.”
Two guards grabbed her arms, pulling her from her knees. Zhi Lan noticed that they held the thickest of the bamboo rods. She felt faint. How was she going to survive fifty strikes ofthat?
