Yirong knew at once that something was amiss. She shot to her feet and retreated several steps, cautiously raising her eyes from beneath her long, feathered lashes.
She met the Emperor’s deep, fathomless gaze.
The Emperor pointed to the cushion beside her. “Young Madam Cui, sit.”
Yirong sat down primly, her eyes lowered.
This was a far cry from the poised young beauty she had seen that day in the Imperial Garden, so carefree and content.
The Emperor slid the cup of tea she had sipped toward Yirong and asked casually, “What reason did Zhen’s palace servants give for inviting the Young Madam here?”
“Your Majesty knows full well,” she said.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than Yirong regretted them bitterly.
She had seldom crossed paths with the Previous Emperor, but she knew the protocols for an audience with the sovereign. How could she possibly talk back to him?
Yet today her decorum had shattered time and again.
The Emperor chuckled softly. When he did not smile, he exuded majestic sternness; when he did, a noble young lord’s easy grace emerged, like ice melting and snow thawing.
“Zhen also knows of your fondness for studying bronzes and inscriptions at home. Zhen recently came across a Bronze Talisman whose age proves difficult to pinpoint. Would the Young Madam care to examine it?”
Yirong looked up, her eyes widening in astonishment. “Who told Your Majesty that? This subject wife only embroiders flowers and sews garments at home. She can barely read a handful of characters—how could she possibly assist Your Majesty?”
The Emperor arched a brow. “Is that so?”
“This subject wife truly knows nothing of the sort.” As she spoke, Yirong nodded to herself for emphasis.
What a beauty—lively and utterly endearing.
Her lashes fluttered as she spoke, and the Emperor could tell at a glance that she was lying.
He had no desire to press the minor offense of deceiving the sovereign. “Drink the tea.”
Yirong lifted the cup to her lips but merely wet them.
“Zhen put no poison in it.”
She had no idea how he knew—she had concealed the cup behind her sleeve—yet the Emperor had seen plainly that she had not drunk.
Yirong stole a glance upward. The Emperor was frowning, apparently displeased.
Truly unpredictable in his moods, a bold and irreverent thought flashed through her mind. “This subject wife has sinned,” she said.
Her head was bowed as she spoke, and her moonstone earrings swayed gently.
Inexplicably, the Emperor felt as though one of those earrings had brushed lightly against his cheek.
“Never mind. Even if you know nothing of such matters, have a look at the Bronze Talisman.” The Emperor smiled faintly, certain she would be intrigued.
He had already ordered it prepared and now rose to retrieve it himself.
The moment the Emperor stirred, Yirong yanked a red-gold hairpin from her chignon without a second thought and pressed it to her throat. “This subject wife refuses to become a harbinger of calamity,” she said, each word deliberate. “If Your Majesty insists on detaining her, then death is her only recourse.”
The Emperor regarded her trembling hand and let out a speechless laugh.
Yirong met his gaze with seething resentment, her eyes flashing with startling brilliance. She dared not linger. Seeing him calmly sipping his tea, she gathered her skirts and bolted through the wide-open doors without a care for decorum.
She clutched at her disheveled collar, terrified it might slip open. Unfamiliar with the place, she ran blindly ahead. Palace maids and eunuchs stood stationed along the flower grove on either side, utterly ignoring the woman who had burst into flight.
Her wits began to return.
These palace servants, indifferent as clay idols and wooden puppets, filled her with mounting dread.
Clothes askew, hair in disarray, she dashed madly through the inner palace as if her life depended on it. In ordinary times, someone would have seized her, scolded her roundly, or solicitously helped her straighten her appearance.
Yirong scarcely dared imagine how many people knew of this. Gasping for breath, she fled the vibrant expanse of the flower grove. As a child, she had often accompanied her parents on outings through the mountains and rivers of Yue Prefecture and had always been adept at committing routes to memory. After stumbling along at random for a stretch, she oriented herself toward the palace gates.
But she could not simply leave like this.
To the Emperor, it might be a mere trifle; to her, discovery would spell utter ruin.
The image of Cui Cheng’s heartbroken, furious face rose in her mind—divorce and confinement to a temple for life, or worse, forced to end it all. Tears spilled unbidden down her cheeks. Yirong halted, glancing back in trepidation. The palace path stretched empty behind her, nothing but green trees shedding leaves in the spring breeze with a rustle.
The Emperor had sent no one in pursuit.
Her knees buckled, and she nearly collapsed to the ground. Only by clumsily clutching a roadside tree did she manage to stay on her feet.
She had never run like that before. After pausing to catch her breath, she resolved to find a pavilion where she could tidy her clothes and hair. She recalled a small one just around the next bend. Wiping away her tears, Yirong pressed on.
At the corner, she collided headlong with a palace servant and cried out, stumbling back two steps.
“Young Madam Cui!” The servant gasped in surprise, then lowered her voice. “What has happened to you?”
Yirong recognized Consort Gu’s trusted maid, Su Qiu, and could not suppress a bitter inward smile.
“I took a tumble just now,” she explained.
Su Qiu noted the absence of any attendants at her side, her hairpins askew and tresses in chaos—something was clearly amiss. But one did not pry in the palace. “This servant will escort you to the pavilion ahead to freshen up,” she said with a smile.
Yirong thanked her. “And your mistress?”
“Consort Gu has been abed since the Previous Emperor’s passing; otherwise, she would have invited you for a chat ages ago.” Su Qiu supported her to the pavilion and, with deft hands, swiftly redid Yirong’s hair while she spoke.
Even after so many encounters, Su Qiu still marveled inwardly at the peerless beauty of the Empress Dowager’s sister-in-law.
Su Qiu finished quickly. Yirong rose, thanked her profusely, exchanged a few pleasantries, and departed. It was the hottest part of the day, the sun blazing mercilessly. Yirong dragged her leaden legs onward until she encountered a familiar female scribe. Noting her pallid complexion, the woman enthusiastically summoned a sedan chair.
Yirong thanked her repeatedly. But once settled inside, she recalled the scribe’s manner—deferential far beyond what was due an official’s wife.
A sharp pang pierced her heart. She understood now.
Overcome with shame, Yirong buried her face in her hands.
Upon reaching the Cui residence, no sooner had she boarded the carriage than Shuilian, noting her ashen face, whispered, “Young Madam, are you unwell?”
“I need to rinse my mouth,” Yirong said curtly.
The carriage was stocked with all necessities. Shuilian poured tea and produced a spittoon. Yirong snatched the cup, rinsed her mouth meticulously, then spat.
Still unsatisfied, she thrust it back. “Another cup.”
Shuilian hastily poured more hot tea, but Yirong seized it halfway.
She spat out the warm liquid once more. The Emperor had said there was no poison, and she believed him—yet unease gnawed at her heart.
She rinsed again and again, retching into the basin until she brought up bile.
Unbidden, the memory surfaced of her wedding night with Cui Cheng: the candlelit bridal chamber, his eyes closed as he kissed her inexpertly, licking her lips like a child savoring candy until she could not help but open her eyes and laugh.
Tears streamed down her face as she stared blankly ahead.
Shuilian’s lips parted and closed soundlessly at the sight of her mistress’s bloodless visage. At last she blurted, “Miss, what on earth happened? You’re frightening this servant…”
“The Emperor,” Yirong spat out the two words.
Shuilian froze. Her mistress’s reaction left no doubt: His Majesty had received her.
What comfort could she offer? How had such a calamity befallen them—especially since they had entered the palace together with the Eldest Young Madam! Heaven forbid the lady learned of it and gossiped back at the residence; her young mistress would be ruined.
Yirong’s hand drifted unconsciously to her chest. In a daze, she murmured, “I must tell Cui Cheng.”
She could hide it no longer. Yirong could devise no plan to escape the Emperor entirely; perhaps Cui Cheng could.
Yet the thought of confessing that the Emperor had summoned her alone gave her pause.
No man could abide his wife being coveted. Would Cui Cheng mind?
She brooded the entire journey home. Only upon reaching her chambers did she recall that she must first pay respects to Madam Chen. She hurried over at once. The Eldest Young Madam was there too, sneering that Yirong had lingered too long chatting with Consort Gu.
Yirong’s thoughts were a whirlwind. Normally she would have offered some defense, but today she merely sat in a stupor, even nodding along with the barb.
It was just as well; the Eldest Young Madam detected nothing amiss.
Yirong’s uncharacteristic meekness stirred pity in Madam Chen’s heart. She beckoned her forward, took her hand, and remarked on how thin she had grown. She instructed a maid to go to the kitchen and have some nourishing soup prepared for her.
Yirong mustered a smile and thanked her repeatedly before finally withdrawing to her room. In ordinary times, she kept busy with reading, embroidery, making scented powders, or tending her flowers. Lately, however, she spent her hours gazing vacantly out the window.
Dusk deepened, and lamps flickered to life in the courtyard.
The maids had laid out supper, but only then did Yirong sluggishly recall Cui Cheng’s parting words that morning: he would dine with friends that evening and return after the first watch.
She had an hour and a half to decide how to broach the matter of the Emperor.
Absentmindedly, she picked up a morsel of steamed Rice Wine Duck placed before her—one of her favorite dishes. The slick, cloying texture registered at once, dragging her mind back to that cup of tea before the Emperor.
He knew her private affairs all too well—even the little pleasures of her boudoir.
“Urk—” Yirong vomited up the duck and its sauce in a rush, her stomach twisting violently.
The maids cried out in alarm. Shui Zhi rushed forward to dab at her mouth, snapping, “What negligence in the kitchen! This servant will give them a piece of my mind at once!”
Shuiyun ventured hesitantly, “Could the Young Madam be expecting?”
Yirong’s stomach still churned. Shuilian served her a cup of hot tea to clear her mouth, and she felt somewhat better. Shuilian chuckled. “The Young Madam’s courses came eight days ago—forgotten already?”
At that, Shui Zhi and Shuiyun laid the blame squarely on the kitchen and made as if to march off and settle accounts. Yirong waved them weakly away. “It’s not their fault. Take it and share it among yourselves.”
“Young Madam, you really ought to eat something,” Shui Zhi urged.
She felt listless and drained. “Let’s just have a bowl of noodles later,” she said.
Yirong cited an upset stomach as her excuse, but she truly was exhausted. She dismissed all the maids.
Should she tell Cui Cheng?
The urge to confess wavered once more.
She had seen it clearly in the daytime. When she gripped the golden hairpin and made as if to end her own life, the Emperor had merely smiled. That indifference—bordering on disdain—made it plain that His Majesty had simply taken a passing fancy to her.
Perhaps it stemmed from his years on the battlefield, where women were a rarity in the army camps, and the palace beauties were all widows left by the Previous Emperor. That must be why he had set his sights on her.
But whatever the Emperor’s intentions, she and Cui Cheng were meant to be together for the long haul.
Just as he loved only her, she held only him in her heart.
At the thought, Yirong’s lips curved into a sweet smile. But then she reconsidered: if she told Cui Cheng, would he make such a fuss that even the Duke Qiao couple found out? Would he storm into the palace to confront the Emperor…?
The maid arranged the bowl of noodles Yirong had requested on the table, along with eight exquisite side dishes—everything fresh and flavorful, as befitted Duke Qiao’s Mansion. She served the young mistress with utmost respect, rousing Yirong from her reverie to come and eat.
Yirong finished a bowl of plain noodles. Her stomach settled, and her mood lifted with it.
That night, Yirong reclined on the bed, perusing a travelogue. A patter of rain began outside the window, growing into a steady downpour. She set the book aside and instructed the servants to wait at the courtyard entrance ahead of Cui Cheng’s arrival.
The rain intensified, and Yirong could no longer sit still inside. She slipped on her embroidered slippers and stepped out of the inner chamber. Shuilian hurried after her with an umbrella.
In the courtyard, the rain fell like a curtain of bouncing beads, pattering relentlessly. Yirong stood beneath the covered walkway, her clothes and hair inevitably misted with dampness. She gazed out at the night rain, lost in thought. It was some time before Cui Cheng finally arrived at Guanxian Courtyard, supported by a young pageboy.
Yirong immediately gathered her skirts and hurried from the shelter of the walkway. She took hold of Cui Cheng’s other arm. A faint scent of wine clung to him, and she frowned as she helped the not-quite-sober Cui Cheng into the inner chamber. She bustled about, arranging hot water for his bath.
After all the effort, Yirong at last guided him onto the bed. With an exasperated huff, she thumped his chest.
Cui Cheng caught her hand and smiled. “That was my fault. I didn’t mean to wear out my Rongrong like this.”
Yirong’s cheeks colored faintly. She sighed softly to herself.