Yirong thanked her, dampened the cloth with rainwater, squatted down, and began wiping the chair.
She had never done such menial work before and felt awkward at first. But with her hands busy, her mind had no room left for worry.
Yirong wiped the bed frame back and forth several times too. Her arms soon ached from the effort, too sore to lift.
She rinsed the cloth clean and returned it. After a moment’s thought, she addressed the four girls in the room. “If any of you have handkerchiefs or pouches you’d like made, just give me the threads, and I’ll do them for you.”
In this world, the shameless scoundrels and the sanctimonious hypocrites all thrived comfortably.
She, Lu Yirong, could do the same.
–
The air in the mountain woods after the rain was exceptionally fresh.
Yet the ground remained slick and treacherous—hardly suitable for a hunt.
Prince Ning could not fathom why the Emperor, after delaying a day through that stormy night, still insisted on riding out of the city to hunt. He stole a glance at the Emperor’s expression and joked, “Imperial Brother, you should find me a sister-in-law soon.”
“How so?”
Prince Ning replied, “Yesterday, Marquis Pingyang sent someone to ask me what offense his daughter had committed. If you had consorts, the womenfolk would inquire among the sisters-in-law. Why bother asking me? I have no idea what wrong Eldest Miss Qiao did.”
He couched it in jest, though genuine curiosity lingered.
Gao Fuliang, the Emperor’s trusted eunuch from before the throne, had personally gone to the Qiao Family villa to reprimand them for failing in their daughter’s upbringing, even granting her a round of slaps. By the time Prince Ning heard of it, the tale had spread like wildfire. They said Eldest Miss Qiao’s face would not be seen in public for quite some time.
In future, she would likely have no face left to show anyone.
Prince Ning did not take the Emperor for a man who meddled in his subjects’ womenfolk—unless Eldest Miss Qiao had offended the Emperor himself.
The Emperor scoffed. “Marquis Pingyang can’t even figure that much out?”
His expression cooled at once as he flicked his riding crop.
Prince Ning asked, puzzled, “What exactly did she do, to merit you sending someone for punishment?”
The Emperor replied coldly, “A trifling matter. Not worth mentioning.”
The two brothers rode slowly through the rain-kissed woods, trailed by throngs of guards and eunuchs. Leaves brimmed with dewdrops; a breeze sent them pattering down like fresh rain.
Prince Ning fell silent for a stretch, then could not resist speaking up again.
In his youth, the Emperor had been close to several cousins, but years apart had eroded their familiarity. Now, as the Emperor’s sole surviving younger brother, Prince Ning stood nearest to him.
Many sought him out, hoping he would intercede or pass along messages.
The topic raised most often concerned the Emperor’s harem.
His imperial brother had declared at court assembly that there would be no selection of consorts, yet those coveting the rear palace remained legion. In the Yan Dynasty, tradition held that the Empress’s father might be enfeoffed among the Three Dukes and her mother as State Madam. Even bereft of real authority, such honors were boundless.
Their shared aunt, Grand Princess Changchuan of Linchuan, wished to wed her daughter into the imperial house. Unable to broach it directly with the Emperor—and with no suitable palace ladies to plead her case—she had turned to Prince Ning.
“How go things with that certain Madam?” Prince Ning asked thoughtfully. “Your harem stands empty a single day, and the schemers circle like vultures.”
The Emperor’s face darkened in an instant. “Speak of it no more.”
Prince Ning started at his words.
If the Emperor had tired of her, he could simply say so outright. To refuse even mention—could it be that the enigmatic beauty still held out?
Several disparate events suddenly clicked in his mind. He murmured, “I know who she is.”
No sooner had he spoken than he regretted it bitterly, wishing he could slap his own mouth. The Emperor had just forbidden the topic, and here he had blurted it out.
The Emperor glanced at him coolly.
“Is it the former Sixth Young Madam of Duke Qiao’s house?” Prince Ning ventured hesitantly. “The Qiao Family are her maternal uncles, aren’t they? Their relations seem strained.”
Zheng Yan closed his eyes, on the verge of rebuking Prince Ning to hold his tongue and drop the subject. But Prince Ning pressed on. “Now that I think of it, I glimpsed her once by chance. It was at my wife’s birthday banquet last year. While idling in the garden, I saw a girl of around ten weeping piteously. Madam Lu knelt down, mended the tear in her skirt hem, and soothed her not to cry.”
He dared not admit how that vision of kingdom-toppling beauty had stirred his heart time and again. Though she bore the look of a wedded woman—the child had called her “sister-in-law”—he had inquired afterward about her house all the same.
The Emperor remarked inscrutably, “You have quite the memory.”
Prince Ning offered an awkward smile and fell silent.
Moments later, the Emperor’s interest had utterly evaporated. The grand retinue turned back toward the Imperial Retreat Palace.
The palace servants were efficient; the arrangements in the sleeping hall had been entirely overhauled.
The finely trimmed floral displays once adorning the tables were gone. The crimson-pink bed curtains had been replaced with golden ones, and the books she had perused were nowhere to be seen.
Her little silver mirrors for daily use, the soft cushions… all had vanished.
The chamber had reverted to its former state, suited to his solitary living.
He walked to the bed and sat upon its edge.
The bedding was changed daily and now steeped in heavy incense, masking the faint, lingering fragrance that had clung before.
In the murky light, the bed curtains hung hazy and indistinct. A breeze stirred them, rippling like water. Beneath his keen gaze, whites gleamed whiter, reds burned brighter. She reclined at his side, her eyes luminous. As she spoke, her jade earrings swayed gently against her cheek, trails of light weaving a fluid, graceful arc.
The vision flickered and was gone.
Twilight deepened across the Imperial Retreat Palace, bathed in the glow of sunset. The bloody hues of the dying sun spilled into the half-emptied sleeping hall, majestic yet laced with an unexpected desolation.
Anger flared in the Emperor’s heart.
He stood motionless before the bed.
The eunuchs held their breath, not daring to make a sound and disturb him.
“Burn this bed—never mind. Prepare a new sleeping hall,” the Emperor decided, reconsidering. Burning it would be too extravagant, but neither did he wish to use it again.
“Your servant obeys.”
Gao Fuliang signaled the palace servants to ready a new sleeping hall. After a moment’s hesitation, he reported, “Your Majesty, as for Madam Lu—”
The Emperor shot him a cold look before he could finish.
With a mocking half-smile, he said, “Who asked you?”
Gao Fuliang kowtowed hastily in atonement. He had seen the Emperor’s mood today as no different from usual and had grown bold enough to mention what Madam Lu had done that day.
Zheng Yan strode away and took a seat in the study. Out of habit, he reached for the memorials to review, only to find them already approved and dispatched.
He picked up a classical text from the edge of the desk and leafed through it idly.
It was a volume he had read before. The Emperor turned the pages swiftly until his eye caught a notation in a hand clearly not his own.
Her handwriting.
The Emperor let out a sudden scoff.
After all these days, she had adapted so seamlessly to life in Central Harmony Hall. Had she never once considered leaving a mark behind?
Zheng Yan ordered the book burned, banishing all thoughts of that woman from his mind. He then summoned several ministers, including Zhang Jiaheng and Linghu Yuan, to discuss releasing the Xiling captives.
This territory lay in the southwest, seized more than a decade ago by a neighboring state of Great Yan. The generals under Zheng Yan’s imperial father, Emperor Xuan, had struggled to breach the city walls at first. Only after recapturing it with great difficulty did Emperor Xuan decree that all the people of Xiling be reduced to slaves.
Zheng Yan had long intended to pardon them and let them return to productive farming, but after so many years, it was no simple matter that could be arranged with a few words.
He had conferred with his key ministers several times already, and a formal decree would be issued any day now.
—-
After Yirong finished speaking the night before, the palace maids in the next room exchanged uneasy glances.
They were all rough-duty servants who had never laid eyes on Yirong and had no idea what status allowed her to occupy a room alone. Yet her delicate fingers and smooth skin marked her as no ordinary palace hand.
In the palace, one didn’t pry into unknowns.
One of them politely brought silk thread and asked Yirong to help embroider a handkerchief.
Yirong worked on the needlework by lamplight for a while before lying down on the small bed she had wiped spotless with her own hands.
In her eighteen years, she had never slept on such a cramped and shabby pallet, yet to her surprise, she slumbered deeply.
When she awoke, breakfast was waiting on the table: two flatbreads.
Yirong took ages to finish them. After wiping her mouth, she startled herself by realizing she had zoned out again.
She stepped outside and, as before, asked the maids next door where to fetch water. Once her hands were clean, she resumed her stitching.
When she finished, she noticed the next room was still occupied, so she simply sat down for a chat.
Yirong said nothing of her own identity, and they didn’t ask. Girls had endless topics between them. They began with the patterns Yirong had embroidered, then drifted to daily meals…
By noon, the maid she had been talking with wolfed down her lunch and hurried off to her duties. Yirong made a point of glancing over; their portions were identical.
She had no chores of her own. Around mealtime, the area stirred with activity, but no one dared raise their voice.
Yirong lay on her side, eyes closed in repose, when someone gently patted her shoulder.
It was Zhu Jin.
Yirong sat up and gestured to the chair. With a bright smile, she said, “What brings you here, Miss Zhu Jin?”
A sudden thought struck her. “Has Your Majesty punished you all?”
Zhu Jin shook her head. “I just heard you were chatting with the maids. I feared they might offend you.”
Yirong’s expression cooled faintly.
The women next door were all proper named servants, while she herself now lacked any title. She didn’t have to labor like a slave, yet being parked here left her bored out of her mind.
“Nothing of the sort.”
“Do you have any plans, Madam? If there’s a message for Your Majesty, this servant can relay it to Eunuch Gao on your behalf,” Zhu Jin said earnestly.
Yirong smiled and turned the question back. “Can I leave this place?”
Zhu Jin shook her head with vigor. “Madam, you mustn’t even entertain the thought.”
“Then I have none,” Yirong replied airily.
She seemed in fine spirits.
Zhu Jin watched, astonished. When Yirong inquired after Shuilian, she promptly recounted the situation.
In her view, Shuilian was faring even better than Madam Lu these days.
She pressed on. “What if Your Majesty forgets you entirely? Will you stay cooped up here forever?”
Yirong blinked in surprise. “Didn’t you say the imperial procession would return to the capital soon?”
Zhu Jin replied, “Even without Your Majesty here, the Imperial Retreat Palace has guards posted by palace staff. If you’re left behind, that would be the end of it.”
Blinding sunlight poured through the window. Yirong’s gaze drifted, and she suddenly laughed. “Zhu Jin, Gao Fuliang sent you to talk me around, didn’t he?”
Xingxiang was closer to her, sharper too, yet managed only smuggled notes. Zhu Jin and Dan Liu plainly took their cues from Gao Fuliang, never deciding anything for themselves—yet here Zhu Jin was, visiting her in the lowly maids’ quarters.
And urging her on relentlessly.
Why did everyone push her to make peace with the emperor?
Of course. To some, imperial favor was the greatest of fortunes. As a child, Yirong had heard a tale: a noble lady once spotted a village woman and took a liking to her. The husband eagerly offered his wife, pocketed a fortune in silver, and she traded daily drudgery for silks and delicacies.
That was the story as she knew it—seemingly a happy ending.
Zhu Jin gave an embarrassed smile.
“You should go,” Yirong said. “I have nothing more to say. Thank you for stopping by.”
After seeing Zhu Jin off, Yirong sat quietly for a spell. She considered dropping into the next room, but found one maid lying down, looking ill. Yirong offered a few words of comfort and heard her ask for hot water.
Yirong froze. She had never boiled water in her life, and the jug from lunch had gone cold.
She asked how it was done, then followed directions to another room and begged two pastries from its occupants.
Directed by the maid, Yirong boiled the water, let it cool slightly, and helped her drink.
That afternoon, she embroidered patterns on two undergarments for the women next door, tidied their room, and that evening fell asleep the moment she touched the bed.
The next day, she sought out more tasks for herself.
Without work to occupy her, she would surely go mad in that empty little room.
Zhu Jin and the others never returned.
In the blink of an eye, it was the eve of the imperial procession’s return journey.
In the waning days of summer edging into autumn, a chill night breeze slipped through the cracks into the study of Central Harmony Hall, setting the candle flames to dance.
Zheng Yan read a military treatise by candlelight, jotting notes as he went. He set down his brush, lost in thought for a moment, then spoke abruptly.
“Where is she?”