Light, cheerful footsteps broke into Xue Yunyi’s reverie. She looked up to see Xue Qingzhi gliding over, leaning on Qingdai’s arm. She beamed as she asked, “What do you think, Imperial Sister? Does this outfit suit me?”
It was a ceremonial robe of exquisite workmanship. Xue Yunyi had seen only one garment to rival it, back in Phoenix Peace Palace: the auspicious attire Empress Jiang had worn on the day of her own enthronement.
Golden threads gleamed like flowing light, embroidered with subtle phoenix patterns amid dark flowers, woven with iridescent feathers from birds of five colors, and studded with lustrous pearls and jade.
How could it not be stunning?
“Father Emperor instructed the palace maids in the Brocade Weaving Bureau to make this especially for my investiture ceremony,” Xue Qingzhi said as she settled unhurriedly into a chair. She smiled. “It took no small effort. Please capture every detail of the patterns, Imperial Sister. On the day of my investiture, I’ll be showing it off to everyone.”
Xue Yunyi said nothing. She simply picked up her brush and dipped it into the prepared vermilion ink.
Xue Qingzhi’s smile didn’t waver at the silence. If anything, she grew bolder. Her gaze lingered on the frost-white gauze skirt draping Xue Yunyi’s form. “As the Eldest Princess, Imperial Sister, why do you wear such plain clothes day after day? I have plenty of new outfits I haven’t even touched. Have Qingdai take you to pick out a few later. Take whatever catches your eye.”
“The Empress Mother has passed. Naturally, I wear mourning to honor her and fulfill my filial duty,” Xue Yunyi replied evenly. Her brush tip met the paper steadily, undisturbed by the words.
“It’s been three months since the Empress passed,” Xue Qingzhi countered. “That’s long enough, wouldn’t you say? Your investiture is almost here, little sister, and if you go around dressed so plainly, people might think you’re unhappy about my new title.”
Xue Yunyi’s wrist paused for the barest moment, but her voice stayed calm. “By the Southern Frontier Ancestral Laws, the death of an empress calls for national mourning—three full years. I’ve worn plain clothes for a mere three months. Can’t you bear that much, little sister?”
Three years of mourning had been decreed, but the Emperor had never cared for the Empress. He had rushed through her funeral rites and interred her coffin in the Imperial Mausoleum with little fanfare. He had gone further, commanding the court officials not to breathe a word of her death on pain of execution. The people beyond the palace walls believed she was merely gravely ill. Many had even gone to the temples on their own to burn incense and pray for her recovery.
Xue Yunyi knew why. The Emperor didn’t want word of his empress’s death reaching her uncle, stationed far away on the border.
Years ago, the Late Emperor had sired four sons, and the current one had been the least remarkable. Without the Jiang Family’s backing, the throne would never have been his. They had elevated him to crown prince and then to the dragon seat itself, asking only that he wed their legitimate daughter, Jiang Yuanruo, as his empress.
The Jiang Family had always commanded formidable troops, and their influence soared even higher after that. Jealous, the Emperor had quietly cultivated a new cadre of loyalists. On the pretext that their power threatened the throne, he had dispatched the Jiangs to guard the frontier in Chilly Province, forbidding their return without an imperial edict.
Xue Yunyi could still picture it: Empress Jiang clasping the hand of her six-year-old self at the palace gates, watching the Jiang Family’s vast caravan rumble down the long avenue until it faded to a distant speck beneath the city walls.
Dust clouded her eyes. Heart aching with reluctance, she had asked when they might see Uncle again. Empress Jiang made no reply. She only stroked her hair and murmured warmly, “If you miss your uncle, write to him.”
She had missed him terribly and sent letter after letter to Chilly Province. They had all sunk without a trace.
Empress Jiang had soothed her, saying he was simply too busy to reply. Xue Yunyi had nodded, unhappy, but from the corner of her eye she glimpsed her mother’s eyes—red-rimmed. Was she ill?
Only later, as she grew older, did she understand. It had been grief, not sickness.
She had watched the Emperor lead Noble Consort Jiang by the hand, his features soft with tenderness. She had seen him cradle the young Xue Qingzhi to his chest, his eyes brimming with fatherly love.
Phoenix Peace Palace, though, had stood cold and empty through the years.
Even in the Empress’s gravest illness, the Emperor had lingered in Noble Consort Jiang’s Qixia Palace, never once coming to her bedside.
It was only when terrified servants stammered that the Empress might not last that he stormed out of the consort’s bedchamber, face like thunder.
By then, Empress Jiang could no longer speak. The Emperor stood with hands clasped behind his back at her bedside and asked coldly if she had any final words.
Xue Yunyi watched, frozen, as her mother—who had lain comatose for days—snapped her eyes open. They were bloodshot, veins bulging with fury.
Never had Xue Yunyi seen such raw terror in her gentle mother’s gaze.
Trembling, Empress Jiang raised a hand. Stunned, Xue Yunyi snatched paper and brush from a servant and held them out.
Empress Jiang seized the ink-laden brush.
The Emperor frowned, expecting a deathbed testament. Instead, eight crude characters sprawled across the white page:
“Palace walls face north, Chilly Province unseen.”
Xue Yunyi would never forget that look her mother turned on the Emperor. Empress Jiang clutched the brush like a lifeline as two lines of tears traced silently down her cheeks, splattering the paper.
She hated.
Hated a life confined within these palace walls—denied a husband’s love, denied reunion with her kin.
Xue Yunyi knew her uncle’s temper. If he learned how her mother had suffered all these years, he would march on the Capital City at the head of his army, heedless of the charge of treason, solely to avenge her. But the Jiang Family had been exiled from court for years now. The officials were all the Emperor’s handpicked men, their mouths sealed by obedience. Thousands of miles separated Chilly Province from the Capital City. With a single harsh decree from the throne, not one dared whisper the truth.
On the Emperor’s orders, no one but Xue Yunyi had dared wear mourning white for the Empress—not even her closest attendants. The palace carried on with its celebrations as if she yet lived. Only in Phoenix Peace Palace had the white plums all shed their blossoms overnight, blanketing the ground like bolts of silk.
At the thought, Xue Yunyi’s grip tightened unconsciously on her brush.
Xue Qingzhi, though, beamed all the brighter. “What are you saying, Imperial Sister? Your position is so exalted—you may do as you wish. I know how dutiful you are, but you must take better care of yourself. You’ve been far too austere these past years. That jade hairpin—didn’t the Former Empress give it to you two years ago? Father Emperor just granted me a fine collection of jewelry. Pick whatever you like to take home. Consider it a small thanks from your sister for the painting.”
“No need,” Xue Yunyi said, eyes downcast. “I want for nothing. Please be still, little sister, and say no more.”
Xue Qingzhi met only rebuff. She tsked in irritation, clamped her mouth shut with poor grace, and waved irritably for Ah Xiao to come knead her shoulders.
Xue Yunyi drew a steadying breath and forced her mind back to the paper before her. She pushed aside the sorrow and focused on her work.
An hour slipped by.
She set down her brush and rubbed her aching wrist. “We’ll end here for today,” she told Xue Qingzhi.
Xue Qingzhi leaned in to inspect the work, but Xue Yunyi had already rolled up the painting, guarding it jealously. She let the matter drop and rose. “Allow me to see you out, Imperial Sister.”
The wheelchair rolled past the screen, and Xue Yunyi glanced up to see Wu Lang kneeling beside the low table. The youth’s head was bowed, his slender frame quivering ever so slightly, frail as if a mere gust might scatter him. Her brows knit. Her hands clenched the armrests without thinking. Only up close did she make out the pair of pearl step-shake hairpins beneath his knees.
Her heart seized.
Wu Lang was long past endurance. He hadn’t touched food or water all the previous day, and sheer stubbornness alone kept him upright now. To keep him from slouching during these punishments, Xue Qingzhi always added some “incentive” under his knees—a pair of silver chopsticks, perhaps, or shards of porcelain, or a hairpin yanked from her own coiffure.
Xue Qingzhi adored pearls above all. The Emperor had granted her this pair just days ago, each strung with sixteen flawless orbs of snow-white luster. She fondled them constantly.
If he crushed even one, Wu Lang shuddered to imagine her wrath. And so he endured, legs screaming and on the verge of cramping, refusing to yield an inch.
Sweat beaded on his face, great drops plummeting silently to the floor and pooling there.
His thin lips had gone ashen. Agony twisted every line of his face.
Only the rumble of wooden wheels on stone roused his glazed eyes to some dim awareness. Dazed, he stared at the wheelchair halting before him.
Xue Yunyi’s chest felt packed with sodden cotton, each breath a painful tug.
That cramped nook beneath the table might have been a dungeon cell, the youth caged within. She longed to pull him free—then remembered she was no different. They were both prisoners, bound fast.
Xue Yunyi drew a deep breath and turned to Xue Qingzhi trailing behind her. “You mentioned gifting me jewelry earlier, little sister. Does that offer still stand?”
Xue Qingzhi was momentarily stunned, then burst into laughter. “Of course it counts. If Imperial Sister takes a fancy to anything, just take it.”
She had only said those words to show off in front of Xue Yunyi. Xue Yunyi had always been aloof and proud—how could she possibly accept her things? Besides, her palace was filled with treasures. Even if Xue Yunyi truly wanted something, Xue Qingzhi could simply treat it as an act of charity.
As Xue Qingzhi mulled this over, she heard Xue Yunyi say, “I really like this pair of Pearl Step-Shakes. Would my little sister be willing to part with them?”
Xue Qingzhi froze. Following Xue Yunyi’s gaze, she realized that the item in question was none other than the Jade Butterfly Pearl Step-Shakes she had obtained from Father Emperor just a few days prior.
The pearls inlaid upon them had been offered as tribute by Langzhou Prefecture. They were exceedingly rare Moon Pearls, each one worth a fortune. Originally intended for Consort Jiang, Xue Qingzhi had pestered the Emperor for days before he finally relented and gave them to her instead.
How could she possibly hand such a treasure over to Xue Yunyi so easily?
“What’s this? Is my little sister unwilling?”
Xue Qingzhi clenched her sleeves tightly and forced a stiff smile. “How could that be? They’re just a pair of Step-Shake Hairpins. If Imperial Sister likes them, take them by all means.”
Xue Yunyi bent down and gently retrieved the Step-Shakes from beneath Wu Lang’s knee. The young man’s body shuddered violently. Xue Yunyi had no doubt that had she been even a moment later, he would have collapsed before her, drained of strength and deathly pale.
In his line of sight appeared a hand as white as snow, its nails neatly trimmed with perfect crescent moons. It was this hand that finally freed Wu Lang. Those pearls—worth far more than his worthless life—no longer tormented him.
Wu Lang quietly caught his breath, though he didn’t dare relax in the slightest. Drenched in sweat, he lifted his eyes and discovered that Xue Yunyi was watching him.
His heart suddenly beat a little faster.