Night had fallen deep when Cui Cheng entered to serve the medicine.
The hall lay in deathly stillness, not a single lamp burning. Without His Majesty’s decree, no one could come or go freely—not even the maids meant to light the lamps.
By the moonlight, Cui Cheng knelt before the imperial couch and held the medicine bowl aloft with both hands. “Your Majesty, please take your medicine.”
Silence emanated from within the couch.
Just as Cui Cheng was about to lift his head for a sneaky glance, a voice sounded from not far behind him.
“Cui Cheng.”
His heart leaped into his throat. He turned his head stiffly.
Helian Jin stood there, holding a small lit lamp—he knew not when it had been kindled—right before a massive portrait.
The painting hung at a distance, facing the imperial couch directly. Moonlight from the window and the glow from the emperor’s lamp revealed the Late Empress standing with downcast eyes, phoenix crown upon her brow and rosy cape draped over her shoulders, her vivid red robes steeped in the profound darkness of night.
Clink—
The medicine bowl shattered at the foot of the couch from Cui Cheng’s hands. He wheeled about and kowtowed, not daring to utter a word.
Overstepping bounds! Every item in the hall pertaining to the Late Empress was an overstep!
Five years earlier, when Helian Jin had taken up residence here, the palace servants had been far less discreet than they were now. Gossip had seeped into the outer court, sparking a furious uproar.
Helian Jin had granted those ministers—self-proclaimed paragons of loyalty, chastity, and defenders of propriety—their wish: death.
Some, terrified out of their wits, recited a few mawkish poems and retired to the countryside in disgrace. Others went resolutely to their graves, earning enduring renown.
So much had transpired in the years since that everyone came to see His Majesty’s minor transgression in mourning his departed wife as utterly trivial. Besides, the Crown Prince was prodigiously gifted and hale of body; the line of succession was secure. No one troubled themselves with palace affairs anymore.
Before that portrait, Helian Jin’s towering frame seemed diminished, like a pious devotee beholding a colossal idol, his gaze tender and lingering.
“Do you still remember the Late Empress’s face?”
Cui Cheng replied, “It is identical to Selection Consort Yun’s.”
Helian Jin lifted the small lamp, casting its light upon the figure in the painting.
“And compared to this portrait?”
Cui Cheng raised his eyes and peered at it, discerning only a vague similarity in spirit. He dared not venture a reckless answer. “The palace painters could not capture even a fraction of one ten-thousandth of the Late Empress’s likeness.”
Helian Jin let out a scoff.
“You’ve followed Zhen for over a decade.”
Cui Cheng felt as if Helian Jin were grinding his heart to dust. He answered truthfully. “To Your Majesty: this servant has attended you for nineteen years.”
“Nineteen years.” Helian Jin at last turned from the portrait and approached Cui Cheng. “You know Zhen intimately. And you know her intimately.”
Cui Cheng shook like chaff in the wind, the rasp of his robe hem against the golden bricks tolling like a dirge.
“This servant dares not!”
“What is Wei Shan’s origin? From whence came Yun Jichu’s jade pendants? Cui Cheng, you show remarkable audacity.”
“Ah?”
Cui Cheng floundered into a stammer. “Y-Your Majesty, this servant dares not! How could this servant have plotted such schemes?!”
“You’ve even schooled her demeanor and poise to match so closely. Cui Cheng, your machinations run deep.”
The hem of the emperor’s robe halted before Cui Cheng’s eyes. He longed to clutch it and weep bitter tears, yet he dared not.
“This servant knows not what Wei Shan whispered to Your Majesty! This servant is wronged!”
Silence blanketed the grand hall, the prior tension dissolving like mist on the breeze. Helian Jin paced before Cui Cheng.
“Get out.”
Cui Cheng had never heard sweeter words. He lurched to his feet and scrambled toward the exit, legs buckling beneath him in a tumble, yet he dared not glance back.
Helian Jin returned to the portrait and murmured, “Ah Chu, someone seeks to harm our child.”
~~~
For seven straight days, Yun Jichu remained confined to the side hall. Under the tyrant’s very nose, she dared not stir.
Provoking that lunatic Helian Jin into skewering her with a sword—blood spraying everywhere—simply wasn’t worth the risk.
In that time, neither the princess nor the Crown Prince paid a visit, as though the palace servants had clean forgotten the Selection Consort Yun quartered in the side hall.
In truth, the imperial palace slumbered in daily gloom, but beneath the surface, it buzzed like a kicked hive.
“Did you see her? She looks exactly like the Late Empress!”
The petite palace maid, clutching an empty dish, shook her head. “I’ve never laid eyes on the Late Empress. No idea if she resembles her.”
“Nor I—not even the portrait.”
“Servants in Zichen Hall keep their mouths sealed tighter than tombs. Not a whisper escapes.”
The petite maid pressed onward with her dish. “Enough of that. Mind your heads—stop gossiping.”
“What’s there to fear? His Majesty’s taken a new consort. Who knows, we might share in some blessings soon.”
“You’re spouting nonsense again. Likeness to the Late Empress aside, that beauty in the side hall is peerless. Get back to sweeping and quit your daydreams!”
The two parted in a huff.
Head bowed, the petite palace maid entered the imperial kitchen and collided with Cui Cheng, his face drained of color. She hurried to curtsy.
Cui Cheng appeared a decade older, his gaunt frame like a withered twig, his face creased and puckered like a salted plum.
“Where have you come from?”
“Side Hall of Zichen Hall.”
Cui Cheng glanced at the empty dishes. Clearly, the hall’s occupant had developed quite the appetite lately.
How miserable! He was the only one in the world who lay awake at night and choked down his food!
“Has food been sent to that Wei fellow yet?”
The palace maid paused for a moment before realizing he meant the Wandering Daoist, whom His Majesty had once held in high regard. She shook her head. “No, it hasn’t.”
Cui Cheng flicked his sleeve, his face darkening. “You rest. I’ll go myself!”
Yun Jichu tied her sleeve around her slender forearm, baring a stretch of pale, luminous skin. It was hardly proper, but with no one around to chide her or stand by with brush in hand to record her every move, she paid it no mind.
She outlined the forms, blended the shades, and let the ink dry slowly. At last, Yun Jichu straightened with a creak from her weary back. Her poor spine.
Prolonged sitting at her desk job had already been hell on it; now hours on her feet piled on the agony.
She dropped back into the chair in a hurry and rubbed gently at the ache.
This was the ancient world—no health insurance, no such thing as workers’ compensation!
Still, she had gotten the painting done.
She gazed at it: the pond’s surface gently rippling, willow branches swaying slender and fine, two children in hot pursuit of each other as they flew kites on the spring breeze.
Adorable. Utterly adorable.
Her lips curved into a smile without her realizing it. Moments later, she came back to herself, clapped both hands to her cheeks, and glanced around.
Thank goodness no one was there. Being caught grinning like an idiot at a mere painting would have been mortifying.
If only life could freeze like this—tending the side hall day after day, eating and sleeping her fill, devoting the rest of her time to painting.
Yun Jichu leaned back against the broad chairback and tilted her head, staring up at the ceiling’s elaborate patterns. For an instant, she felt transported back to those grueling training camp days.
But before the memories could take hold, the soft sound of the door easing shut pulled her from her reverie. Yun Jichu rose with a smile and stepped toward the entrance. “Lady Shuxiu—”
“Hel… Your Majesty.”
Her legs gave out beneath her, and she crumpled to the floor with a thud—kneeling, or close enough to it.
Rainwater dripped from the hem of Helian Jin’s robe, leaving dark wet trails across the ground.
Yun Jichu pressed her palms to the chill of the golden bricks, watching the water spread in meandering paths that mirrored the vermilion doorframe like spilled blood.
Pressure clamped down on her chest once more, stealing her breath.
Helian Jin said nothing. He shrugged off his sodden outer robe and tossed it carelessly aside before striding to the desk where Yun Jichu had worked.
He appeared to be studying the painting.
Yun Jichu stole a glance upward. Helian Jin’s lashes shadowed his eyes, stripping away his usual ferocity. He looked… like what? Like a great docile hound with its fangs sheathed.
The thought died as quickly as it formed. Was she out of her mind? This was the evolved form of Helian Jin—
Even calling him a wolf would slander the species.
“Who’s in the painting?” Helian Jin’s voice sounded smoother than it had back in Zilan Hall.
“This humble woman overstepped… It’s the Two Little Highnesses.”
Helian Jin let out a laugh. A cold one.
Yun Jichu bristled like a startled cat, every hair on her body standing on end, cold sweat slicking her spine.
“Cui Cheng’s taught you well.”
“Huh?” Yun Jichu jerked her head up in shock, meeting a pair of appraising eyes.
Cui Cheng? That ungrateful wretch who’d pocketed over a thousand taels of her silver across the years and now wouldn’t lift a finger to help her?
“Come here,” said Helian Jin.
Yun Jichu rose to her feet, only then noticing her sleeve was still bound up. She fumbled hastily with the silk tie, letting the fabric fall loose before approaching the desk at a cautious pace.
All the while, Helian Jin never so much as glanced her way.
“Do you play Go?”
Yun Jichu shook her head.
“The qin, then?”
Another shake of the head.
The fathomless depths of Helian Jin’s eyes gleamed with no light at all—like an abyss smeared thick with charcoal. He laughed again, colder still.
“Learned to the hilt. Not a single deviation.”
In a sudden motion, Helian Jin surged to his feet, the painting clutched in his hand. He advanced on her step by inexorable step.
Yun Jichu had no idea what had set him off. She stumbled back in panic, only to slam against the towering bookshelf. Several protruding scrolls jabbed into her spine.
She lurched forward, nearly tumbling into Helian Jin’s chest, but he seized her shoulders and shoved her back.
Her back throbbed fiercely…
Like the blunt pommel of a sword grinding against her bones through a thin layer of flesh.
Impatience twisted Helian Jin’s features. “Did you truly believe that becoming her perfect double would soften Zhen’s heart and spare your wretched life?”
He rent the painting to shreds. “Zhen nearly fell for your scheme.”
The abrupt violence left Yun Jichu’s eyes brimming with tears. “What?”
Helian Jin was a madman!
In the next instant, his hand clamped around her wrist like a vise, threatening to pulverize the fragile bones.
Helian Jin carried Xuluo Clan blood in his veins—towering in stature, freakishly strong. His mere looming presence alone choked the air from her lungs; when his fury ignited, crushing that narrow span of bone required no effort at all.
A touch more pressure, and he could shatter her.
Right hand! Her right hand…
What if she could never hold a brush again?
Might as well grant her a swift end!
Yun Jichu’s urge to log out reached its absolute peak. Enough was enough—she couldn’t survive another day of this constant heart-pounding dread. What difference was there between Helian Jin crushing her wrist bone and simply taking her life?
To hurt her while wearing the face she loved most… Nothing could wound her more deeply.
Tears welled up from the pain as the frustrations she’d bottled up for days erupted alongside her newfound resolve to die. “Helian Jin! Get out!”
~~~
The Grand Hall fell silent for a moment, and to Yun Jichu’s astonishment, she saw outright shock on Helian Jin’s face.
“What did you say?” Helian Jin’s anger seemed to ebb by half as he tilted his head to regard her.
Tears streamed down Yun Jichu’s face. She wiped them away haphazardly, yanked her right hand free from Helian Jin’s grip, and hurriedly massaged it with gentle care.
Damn it… Her right hand was safe, and suddenly she no longer wanted to die.
But spoken words were like spilled water—they couldn’t be taken back.
The etiquette she’d drilled into herself over the past month had one practical use: it taught her exactly what offenses meant certain death and what meant only lesser peril.
Insulting the Emperor and addressing him by name—
Death. Utter and complete.
She tentatively clenched her right fist, then released it. She flexed her fingers, desperately searching for any sign that her hand was ruined beyond holding a brush—so she could at least face death with composure.
Unfortunately, her wrist bone and fingers moved with perfect flexibility. Only a ring of red swelling marred the skin around her wrist.
Sorrow twisted in Yun Jichu’s heart.
She paid no heed whatsoever to the ever-shifting expressions flickering across Helian Jin’s face as he stood before her.
Suddenly, her wrist was seized once more.
Was this ever going to end?!
Before she could unleash her fury again, Helian Jin pinched her right middle finger and began examining it closely.
Yun Jichu quietly curled her other four fingers into a fist.
“What caused this mark?”
Yun Jichu followed his gaze. There, on the side between the first and second knuckles of her middle finger, was a layer of callus. It looked like a deformed joint at first glance, but a squeeze revealed it was merely thickened skin.
She answered honestly. “From holding a brush while painting.”
Something flickered in Helian Jin’s eyes. He pressed further. “Zhen writes with a brush year-round and has never seen such an injury.”
Of course a writing brush wouldn’t cause it!
Yun Jichu replied, “The brush I use is different from Your Majesty’s.”
The Grand Hall plunged into utter silence.
Helian Jin’s eyes rimmed red. He clasped Yun Jichu’s fist in his own, his thin lips trembling as he whispered softly, “Ah Chu?”