With the advent of spring, life maintained its tranquil rhythm.

Over a month ago, Mrs. Derby began preparations for the annual spring gathering. From the vibrant array of lanterns hanging in the trees to the elaborate selection of pastries and the deftly arranged decor, even the most discerning critics found nothing amiss.

"Never imagined our madam was so capable," Mrs. Pure remarked candidly behind closed doors. "She's getting ideas she shouldn't."

Local customs didn't favor elevating a concubine to the position of a wife's equal, but the precedent for recognizing a woman as the First Lady did exist. During discussions about the new First Lady, many women in town indulged briefly in grand dreams—until they quickly shattered.

In such scenarios, the reality of Mrs. Black granting shared rights among his women didn’t merely offer a symbolic dream but a substantive shift.

Within the city, wives, regardless of their standing, were merely partners—not in the autonomous sense of the word. The role of the female head was strictly reserved for the First Lady—at least in theory. To redistribute those rights among his partners essentially turned them into partial female heads. This redistribution carried far greater weight than any title promotion.

With the announcement, Mrs. Derby’s and Mrs. Pure's residences quickly became the hub of social activity.

Initially just a partner, Mrs. Pure never dreamt of being elevated to First Lady status. Gaining rank and shared rights filled her with initial elation, then trepidation, leading to restless nights. In contrast, Mrs. Derby, as one of Black's earliest companions and the first sanctioned by the former leader—a status secured despite the downfall of Mary, the defunct First Lady, and the demise of Lady Helen—held out hopes most couldn’t discount.

"Our madam has blinkers on," Mrs. Pure laughed wryly. "Doesn't she see what Madison House has become?"

For months, Black had retired nightly to Madison House without fail, sometimes multiple times a day, sharing meals and closeness almost unstoppably, an affliction that unnerved Mrs. Pure.

"This town knows the ephemeral nature of affection and the transient sway of power. Once-prominent figures now serve as housemaids—nothing is forever." She mumbled to herself, "I fear he may have truly fallen."

Such commitment, if rooted in true affection, posed the most daunting specter for the town’s other women—a favored one above all meant 2,999 unchosen ones waiting anxiously.

As if foreshadowing her fears, it seemed the situation leaned in that direction.

On the day of the spring festival, the women spared no effort vying for attention. Yet, contrarily, despite Mrs. Derby’s faultlessly organized gathering, the man everyone awaited wasn’t even in town.

That morning, Black had taken Scarlett out of town.

"It’s springtime, let's stretch our legs out there," he proposed, forgetting completely the town’s event in his concern for Scarlett's possible cabin fever.

Happily consenting, Scarlett donned casual attire alongside Black, setting off together.

Spring was the ideal time for picnicking. The streets teemed with cheerful civilians, dressed modestly and smiling. A wiry young boy darted past like a monkey, earning a scolding from his father.

Shops lined the roads, their flags adorned with colorful patterns fluttering in the breeze, while the fragrant whiff of sweets wafted from bakeries, rendering children immobile with delight.

“There's a touch of prosperity in the air,” Scarlett remarked.

Black shook his head. “Words too soon spoken. Unclaimed territories remain lost, the town still shelters homeless, and countless perish in distant quarters. We've barely ensured their sustenance and stability—hardly anyone’s vision of prosperity.”

"It’s certain, just a matter of when," she replied confidently.

"Appease me if you wish." Black, however, allowed a smile to breach his lips.

As Scarlett’s laughter joined his, she noticed her feelings toward Black shifting. Initially, curiosity drew her. Black’s distinctiveness piqued her interest, which gradually bloomed into fondness—eventually, intimacy followed, a novel yet familiar journey for her.

But now, it was different.

Truthfully, Black wasn't an exemplary lover. Despite claims of exclusivity, his company wasn't constant, absorbed largely by political responsibilities. He’d inquire about her day, her meals, any displeasures, yet he could grow resentful, demanding her cajoling.

He didn’t revolve around her as past partners did, and that surprisingly contented her.

Perhaps this dynamic was real. Previously, her relationships followed a distorted exchange—whether questing others or being courted herself—interest dictated affairs, apportioning them seven parts interests to a shade of personal sentiment.

In here and now, Black asked nothing of her, and she nothing of him. They gave wholeheartedly for sheer enjoyment and affection. Love over lust.

Black turned, caught by her radiant gaze, stifling laughter: “What’s that look for?”

“Just admiring. Can’t I?” she smiled, her expression teasing.

“Allowed. Watch boundlessly,” Black grinned, “Let's go flower viewing later.”

Scarlett's grin broadened, regarding him until his sheepishness showed. Pointing at a nearby shop, she declared: “What’s that place?”

“It’s a theater,” Black informed, “Hosting plays.”

Infectious curiosity captured Scarlett: “Can we check it out?”

“Where’s the harm?” Black clasped her sleeve. “Follow me.”

Unlike common taverns or tearooms, the theater was closely fenced with planks, entry granted solely through a lone door. Inside, hawkers hustled seat tickets—blue, white, and red representing lower, middle, and upper tiers respectively.

Black purchased two red token pieces, guiding Scarlett to second-floor seating that offered a direct view of the stage, deemed the best spot.

Settled, a waiter brought forth tea and refreshments, with the courtesy of two slips containing the day’s bill and cast.

“What tale is unfolding today?” Scarlett queried, unfamiliar with the script.

Black paused, thoughtfully responding: “The Tale of the Seeker.”

Scarlett paused, momentarily struck.

The performance began promptly.

The narrative’s outset depicted the protagonist missing accolades from a city exam—though redoubtably not due to inadequate gumption. However, corruption engulfed the examination—the affluent bribed for solutions, the protagonist refused succumbing to such stains.

Results unveiled, the protagonist lambasted political treachery, ranted as his sack and left. During his return voyage, he encountered Lotus Fairy amidst her water-bound voyage—unimaginable in beauty—and instantly enraptured, penned a poetic serenade to her allure.

Likewise, the Fairy admired the promising youth; their brief acquaintance transitioned seamlessly into a single, shared night.

Come morn, the Fairy vanished, leaving the protagonist riverside, eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Ah, sister—your distant silk robe’s wave-bound sway leaves me heart riddled, longings tangled in shared reveries, spring's accolades akin nothing to the celestial’s private cocoon,” he lamented.

Onstage, the youthful performer sang sweetly with such clarity, evocative in moving stages, his garment tear-stained, emotive.

Even Black was stirred, stealing a sidelong glance at Scarlett, pondering the futility of fictional emotion against his tangible experiences—her arrival from elsewhere gracing him with folly. Despite her ethereal origins and mysterious amnesia, he often dreaded her departing just as the Lotus Fairy.

The tale persisted onwards.

The protagonist’s lakeside vigil found no Fairy’s return—his political disillusionment drove renunciation, fully swayed by spiritual pursuit.

He embarked on wandering renowned landscapes in quest for divine ascent. By chance, he saved the side-character—a centuries-old fox spirit. Soliciting her for immortality guidance, she urged he forgo:

“Sir, this celestial journey charts no easy course. Mountains stretch endlessly, waves cease never. Climbing heaven's thousand steps leans upon stacked bones. Such roads—who knows from where lies Eden? Better cherish the world, counting mornings with me.”

Yet, resolute, the protagonist declined, desiring both enlightenment and his cherished love. The fox, consequentially, offered guidance—directing him towards a sky-ladder stretching ninety-nine thousand meters—folklore bound one who summits there receives divine ascendance.

Fuelled, he embarked the arduous climb. Mere meters from his goal, exhaustion bested him, perilously teetering. There, his savior arose—the fox herself—perishing instead.

Only then did he comprehend her guardianship up the ladder. But vain lost opportunities don’t return.

Eventually, he conquered the ladder, attained immortality, and at the ethereal garden reunited with the Lotus Fairy. Alas, the charming fox, enduring and relentless, was forever doomed.

Scarlett was startled by this oddly reminiscent narrative, an echo of roses and foxes, white lilies and moles. “Quite the imaginative playwright,” she commented wryly. “If it were you, would you choose enduring love with a fox or persistently pursue the Fairy?”

Black pondered quietly, “The protagonist's heart was enslaved by the Fairy, not affection for the Fox—plainly weighted. Yet, what if…”

“What if?”

“If the Fairy was equally enthralled,” Black remarked tenderly, “Should she have stayed? Lingered beside like that romantic fable’s heavenly connection? How more joyous it would be.”

Scarlett perceived his intent, issuing a languid sigh: “Preferring kindred companionship to otherworldly pursuits, correct?”

“Is divinity truly superior?” Black asked simply. “Prophecies tell of ‘immortal’ ones—still lustful, conniving—a variance from the mundane?”

Scarlett faltered in response.

“Scarlett, I wish you remain—whether blissful comforts or pivotal prestige, whatever’s granted, it’s yours. My provision knows no bounds: whether your spiritual studies matter, unhindered I'd assist, creating sanctuaries, immortal shrines. Should a child bless us, I’d yield everything. If a daughter arrives, it’s challenging, but I can pass the mantle down—none would defy.”

Underneath the theater’s discordant symphony, the fluid cadence interspersed Black’s every weighted word.

Faced with his earnestness, Scarlett found speech constrained. She understood the magnitude behind Black’s avowal—the proposal meticulously forged through contemplation, not caprice.

No grander, soul-moving promise exists. Lifelong bliss, fervent devotion—should she affirm, it assured perpetual joy till her end.

But if immortality eludes? Not all seekers ascend. Perhaps not. Trials lay rife in mystic realms, peril and hardship born daily. Within, a nascent adept bears challenges unknown; here, she attained what a lifetime couldn’t proffer.

Lavish grandeur once sought—here, procured. Love anew—secured. What more could she ever seek?

Happiness lay for the taking, the future impossible to predict, stark choices clear-cut. The single “yes” hovered on her lips, but...

It remained unsaid.

“I need time to ponder,” she deferred.

“Alright,” Black concluded patiently, “A lifetime facilitates waiting for your answer. That'd make a splendid reply.”

Sharing laughter with him, Scarlett retorted, “You wove an alluring future.”

“Where sincerity triumphs, immensity unbolts. Oh, it might indeed,” he chuckled.

Scarlett sidestepped deliberate replies, deflecting, “It’s late. We best return.”

Black dared not press, fearing compounding her discomfiture, nodding in accord: “Right, next we gaze upon the lanterns.”

Under the enveloping night sky, festivalgoers multiplied; on these celebratory occasions, curfews lifted, revelry unfettered. Trees draped with lanterns adorned the streets; at a distance, aglow like celestial rivers.

From bridge pillars, young women clustered, suspending sachets from branches, their intricately ornate pouches sheltering fervent hearts.

Scarlett lingered in admiration, sparked in Black an idea: “Want one?”

“Absolutely.”

From a local vendor, they procured a peony sachet, Black inscribed wishes upon colored paper, coiling it inside.

Scarlett spotted fourteen characters, assuming a poetic couplet—“What did you wish?”

“It’s a secret,” Black jested, tying the pouch high in the branches.

Scarlett shot a look: “I’ll take it down and peek.”

“But these earthly characters elude you,” Black feigned confidence, unfazed.

Scarlett scoffed, undeterred, countering: “I’ll consult others. Reveal it, or you’re abandoned near the outskirts while I return.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll spill,” he feigned defeat, eyes locked tenderly upon hers. “Finite life, boundless love, shareful moonlight eternally.”

Much later, in farreach memories, Scarlett recalled this incident—a singular instance during endless years, where her heart had truly teetered.

Between eternal life or ephemeral beauty, one choice endured.