The Qi people had no coming-of-age ceremony for girls; after their fourteenth birthday, they were considered eligible for marriage discussions.

The Qi family’s aunts weren’t freeloaders; they helped manage household affairs. Hai Lan had been reviewing account books since she learned to read. Her father managed the Emperor’s treasury—though not a high position, it was certainly lucrative. When Beijing residents mentioned the Cang Suo family, they’d give a thumbs up, describing them with just two words—wealthy! Few treasury officials who handled gold daily remained uncorrupted. Who wouldn’t want to live well? Her father was a cautious man who kept two sets of books—one official, one private. Hai Lan, being more clever than Hai Hui, helped her father copy new entries, specifically managing the private ledger.

People tend to compensate for what they lack. Her family had wealth in abundance, but her father’s official rank wouldn’t rise. They didn’t dare buy higher positions for fear of being caught—ending up with neither a higher office nor their fortune intact. Her father was pragmatic, often saying one should hold a position matching one’s abilities; he was meant for accounting, not being a Grand Secretary. Since he couldn’t advance further, he placed his hopes on the next generation, believing they must marry into proper official families; otherwise, they’d remain mere storekeepers forever.

Power and money are inseparable—the wealthy seek protection, and the powerful seek financiers. Her father had a friend in the Ministry of Revenue who, after visiting their home for dinner and seeing the two sisters, said they were quite lovely and offered to arrange marriages. He matched Hai Hui with the son of an Imperial Guard Commander, and Hai Lan with the third son of a Censor from the Censorate.

The third son was named Ru Jian. His family had an interesting naming convention—their surname was Wen, with siblings named Wen Liang, Wen Gong, Wen Jian, and Wen Rang. Unfortunately, they miscalculated the last child—a daughter arrived, leaving the name “Rang” unused. As the son of a second-rank official, he was destined for the Imperial Guard from birth. Having grown up studying and practicing martial arts alongside the princes, older boys were typically assigned duties away from the palace, with naturally promising careers ahead. Hai Lan was worried, initially strongly opposing the match, fearing they were aiming too high and would face contempt for their merchant background—afraid of offering warm feelings only to be coldly rejected. But her concerns proved unnecessary; the two families got along splendidly and planned to finalize the engagement after Hai Lan’s birthday.

On the day of the small engagement ceremony, Hai Lan saw Ru Jian for the first time. He wasn’t like the showy, pretentious young masters she’d imagined. He stood straight as a pine tree with good posture. Like those trained in martial arts, he had a steady temperament, with determined eyes. He looked at people straightforwardly, with a warm smile. Though only a year older than her, despite his attempts to appear mature, he blushed when they passed each other.

Hai Hui felt somewhat envious, “The Wen family’s third son is quite good. I think he’s an excellent person, unlike the match they’ve arranged for me—that son is fat and dull-witted, which I don’t find appealing.”

Hearing this, Hai Lan felt secretly delighted, but demurely replied: “What’s so good about him? He’s just ordinary. A bit of plumpness is a sign of good fortune. Once he starts managing his household, he’ll naturally lose weight.”

However, comparing the two marriages side by side, anyone could see which match was superior. Ru Jian was more attentive than Hai Hui’s match, regularly visiting after the engagement. He’d bring fruits and ice in hot weather; when it turned cold, he sent lamb and sea cucumber, knowing well how to please his future parents-in-law.

When he visited, they would occasionally meet. In the back garden, on the corridor by the water, one sitting, one standing, facing each other awkwardly.

Men were expected to take initiative, so he forced himself to speak with her: “I’ll be accompanying the Emperor on the autumn hunt. There’s a hunting ground in Chengde with abundant game. What would you like me to bring back for you?”

She smiled subtly, “I don’t want food. Please bring me a small rabbit; I’d like to keep one as a pet.”

He agreed, and later brought back two in his coat, saying one would be too lonely, but two could keep each other company.

Young love is most beautiful. Sometimes she felt their wedding day was set too far away, yearning to be with him every day. When he visited frequently, just seeing him from afar gave her a sense of security. Once while she was practicing Wang Xizhi’s calligraphy, he watched beside her and, with no one else around, stole a kiss on her cheek.

There were no dramatic waves in their relationship; their interactions were like any other couple’s. They couldn’t meet often—premarital propriety had to be maintained. He said: “Every day after my duties, I’ll pass through the hutong. You can watch me from upstairs. Even just seeing each other once is enough for me.”

Her heart warmed, and holding his hand, she murmured: “Just two more months.”

He teased her deliberately, “What’s happening in two more months?”

She laughed and gave him a gentle punch, “In two more months, the crabapple flowers will bloom.”

He knew she was also eagerly awaiting their wedding day. Young lovers’ feelings were truly poetic.

As he promised, every day after his duties, he would take a long detour to Qin Lao Hutong. They would gaze at each other from a distance; even seeing only a blurry silhouette was enough to satisfy their hearts.

But one day he didn’t appear. She thought he must have been delayed by something, but that night her father told her that the Wen family was in trouble—all four men, father and sons, had been arrested.

Her mind was in chaos, not knowing how bad things were. When she asked her father, he just shook his head, “It doesn’t look good. I’m afraid they’ll fall this time.” After smoking silently for a while, he glanced at her and said, “Let go of your feelings. Who knows what will happen next? You’re fortunate this happened before the wedding. If it had happened after you were married, your entire life would have been ruined.”

She cried all night in her room. Let go? How could she let go? Hai Hui came to comfort her, and leaning against her sister, she said: “I want to wait for him to be released. He’s in my heart. If this engagement is broken, I won’t marry anyone else in the future.”

She kept hoping for a resolution, but then the imperial court rendered its judgment: his father was sentenced to beheading with reprieve, and the three sons were banished to Changbai Mountain. This news struck her like a bolt from clear skies. She wanted to see him, to send him off, but her father locked the door and wouldn’t let her out. This regret would later linger in her heart. She was a pampered daughter with a stubborn temperament—the more they restricted her, the more she thought of him, and this thought persisted for more than a decade.

More than ten years passed in a daze. The family experienced some misfortunes—Hai Hui passed away, dying quietly from illness. Her parents had only two daughters; with one dead and the other unwilling to marry, it was a tremendous blow to them.

The Suo family was wealthy, with only one surviving daughter. Suitors nearly broke down their door. But she was stubborn, refusing everyone, adamant about not marrying. Her mother cried, “This won’t do. You may not feel it now, but you’ll surely regret it when you’re older.”

She wouldn’t listen, “If I regret it, that’s my concern. If you keep forcing me, I’ll jump into a well!” People are like that—sometimes those closest to us cause the deepest pain. She also blamed herself for being selfish, not considering her parents’ feelings, bringing them countless sorrows.

Her devotion was unwavering, from age fourteen until twenty-seven.

Thirteen years, waiting until she almost forgot herself. But one day, a young lady arrived, young in years, attended by the steward of the Chun Prince’s mansion, sitting formally in the main hall. When she entered to pay her respects, she felt a sense of déjà vu in the visitor’s eyes, thinking perhaps she brought good news.

Indeed, the young lady was Ru Jian’s sister, the youngest daughter of the Wen family. She said Ru Jian was returning to Beijing. Hearing this, Hai Lan felt both sorrow and joy. All these years of waiting hadn’t been in vain; he had finally remembered to come back.

Days passed like years—the more she longed, the harder it was to endure. Once she had lost hope, she had just lived one day at a time. Near the end of the year, on the twenty-second day of the twelfth lunar month, while she was checking the New Year’s goods purchased by the servants, her mother came to tell her that the side consort of Prince Xian had summoned her to their mansion. The Seventh Prince was their banner lord, and they couldn’t refuse a summons from their master.

She changed clothes and went to De Nei Street. Entering the Seventh Prince’s mansion was just passing through; she was then escorted out through a side gate. Confused, she was taken to Dongfushun.

It was an inn—what would a young lady do at an inn? She felt uncertain. It was the steward from the Twelfth Prince’s mansion who told her from behind a curtain, “Just wait here; someone will come to see you shortly.”

She asked who, and the steward replied, “Don’t worry about it. You’ll know when you see them.”

She had a vague guess—it must be Ru Jian who had returned. Their family’s niece was married to the Twelfth Prince, so the palace steward must be acting on behalf of the prince’s consort.

Her heart pounded loudly, her ears buzzing, her mind unable to think clearly, feeling dazed. After a while, she heard footsteps, hurried at first, then slowing near the door. She could only see a silhouette projected on the Korean paper window. She stood up, tightly clutching her handkerchief, forcefully holding back tears, not daring to speak for fear that tears would flow once she opened her mouth.

Finally, the door curtain was lifted, and the person outside stepped in. He had grown taller and stronger, no longer appearing as he once did. She tried hard to squint at his face. As he came closer, he called her with a trembling voice, “Hai Lan…”

Her heart jumped—the voice was right, she still remembered it. Looking at his features, they faintly matched her memories. It was him!

“Third Brother…” Forgetting propriety, she rushed forward and embraced him. Her tears flowed endlessly as she buried her face in his chest, saying, “Why did you take so long to return? I waited for so long…”

He apologized, “I had no choice, but I thought of you every day.”

Their feelings, having been refined through hardship, needed no further explanation—they understood each other. After crying for a while, they gradually calmed down and sat together, with her pouring wine for him. Looking at him through a thin veil of tears, she saw that his features hadn’t changed much, except for a constant furrow between his brows. A young face, but with eyes that had seen much suffering.

She reached out to hold his hand, “Now that you’re back, you won’t leave again, right?”

He nodded, “I won’t leave. Little Jujube and you are here—where else could I go?”

He still blushed easily. She didn’t tease him, saying softly, “Everyone thought I shouldn’t wait, but I waited and succeeded. I didn’t make a mistake.”

Ru Jian knew it hadn’t been easy for her. Even now, she showed no complaints, only gratitude. He clasped her hand in his palm, calmed his emotions, and said, “Once this matter is resolved, we’ll marry. I’ll be with you every day. We’ll go boating, see peach blossoms, and make up for all the time we’ve lost.”

Now that they were reunited, everything else could be less important. As long as they were together, why should they care about anything else? But this was a woman’s thinking—men were different. For men, family honor was more important than life itself. She listened as he spoke firmly about the Wen family’s old case. In his eyes, his father had been a good official; even if he sometimes mixed personal feelings into his cases, he shouldn’t have met such a fate.

“I must clear my father’s name and seek justice for my two brothers. The suffering in Changbai Mountain all these years was too great, watching them die one by one—you can’t imagine that feeling.” Tears glistened in his eyes as he lowered his head and said, “Hai Lan, I’ve wronged you in this lifetime. You waited for me for so long, even I couldn’t have imagined it. When Little Jujube told me, I was shocked. I thought you had married long ago; I never expected you’d still be waiting—that’s my good fortune. But I carry too many burdens. Only when the real culprit is punished can I walk with my head held high. If—I’m just saying if—we can’t have a happy ending, then blame me bitterly. Don’t think of me anymore; find a good man and marry him.”

Her tears fell into the wine cup, creating ripples. Wiping them with her handkerchief, she said, “I didn’t wait for you to hear these words. Promise me you’ll be well. How many thirteen-year periods does one have in a lifetime? Don’t fail me.”

He came over and embraced her, with too many words in his heart to express, only sighing despondently, “You’re so foolish.”

Yes, foolish, but appropriately so. She knew countless thorns lay ahead, but he had returned. No matter how many obstacles there were, they would surely overcome them together.

Like a precious treasure lost and found, she felt she was no longer empty inside—she too had a man now. She tilted her face to kiss him, but he was so tall that she could only reach his chin. His face grew redder, but he obediently lowered his head, covering her lips with his own.

Hai Lan was overjoyed, kissing him tenderly. Due to her inexperience, she was somewhat clumsy. His kisses were gentle, not aggressive. She felt his breath gradually becoming unsteady—surely he was also moved by emotion!

He pressed her down onto the couch, looking at her with entranced eyes, like obsidian stones submerged in water, rippling gently as they struck her heart. His hands traced her curves; even through her thick padded jacket, she could feel his strength. He kissed her earlobe, his teeth lightly grazing over it. She moaned softly, calling his name in a melodious voice.

She thought something more would happen, but it didn’t. He lay down beside her, his face pressed tightly against her neck.

“Let’s wait a little longer, until our wedding night,” he said, firmly holding her hand, his palm burning hot. “Hai Lan…”

She kissed his eyes, “I’ll wait for that day.”

He said, “Next time, embroider something for me—a blade of grass, a flower, anything will do. Let me carry it with me as if you were by my side.”

She agreed and later prepared a set of undergarments for him, embroidering two butterflies on the corner, with colorful patterns and curled antennae.

Happiness is hard to come by, yet can slip away as easily as turning over one’s palm. On New Year’s Eve, he was taken away by the Nine Gates Infantry Commander, charged with defying imperial orders by escaping from exile. On the first day of the New Year, someone came to pay respects and mentioned in passing, “You probably haven’t heard yet—the Wen family’s third son escaped back from Changbai Mountain but was caught last night and transferred to the Ministry of Justice. I remember that Wen’s third son was once your future son-in-law. This situation is quite difficult.”

Her father completely distanced himself from the matter, “That was all over a decade ago. Whether he’s returned or been captured has nothing to do with our family.”

She was desperately worried. After the visitors left, she begged her father, “Please think of something to help him—he is your son-in-law!”

Her father scolded her, “A grown woman like you should know better! What son-in-law? That was ages ago—why bring it up now? We’ve tried to find you matches, but you refuse to marry. What are you thinking?”

At this point, she no longer cared about saving face. She said, “I’ve met with him, last time at the inn… I am already his.” Seeing her father’s astonishment, she knelt and kowtowed several times. “All these years I haven’t married, it was all for him. Now that he’s returned, I would rather die than miss this chance with him. Father, you can beat me if you’re angry, but you must find a way to save him. If he dies in there, I won’t be able to live either.”

Her father fumed, exasperated with her. It must have been a karmic connection from a previous life—they had only met a few times, yet it had led to wasted youth and inseparable attachment. Later, efforts were made, calling in favors everywhere. But the Ministry of Justice was too strict, stating he was a serious criminal of the state, and no outsiders were permitted to visit. When she saw him again, he was already a corpse, lying stiff on a mat.

She couldn’t believe it. At that moment, she felt her heart torn to pieces, her entire being in bloody disarray. He was dead—what remained in her life now? Before, he had been exiled, and she still had hope. But now? Reality had slapped her mercilessly, forcing her to wake up.

She knelt before him, touching his cold face. “Third Brother…” He made no response. She smelled the scent of death, a helpless desolation gripping her throat. She couldn’t help but wail loudly. No matter how she shook him, he wouldn’t wake. She felt her own life ebbing away, ready to follow him at any moment.

Her family couldn’t bear to see her like this and persuaded her to return home. Sitting in the sedan chair, she suddenly vomited blood, staining the front of her clothes red.

From the viewing of his body to the funeral procession, she was present throughout. Though heartbroken, she found she could no longer cry. Often, she would sit alone beside the coffin, murmuring to him. Outside, the cymbals crashed loudly, and she couldn’t even remember what she had said.

The day he was buried, watching the coffin sink into the deep, cold grave, she felt as if she too was entering it, and couldn’t help but tremble. The tomb was quickly built up, leaving only the headstone, hollowly inscribed with “Tomb of Wen Ru Jian.”

She couldn’t remain in this mortal world any longer; every additional day felt unbearable. She went to Hongluo Temple to become a nun. Perhaps a life of quiet meditation by the ancient Buddha was more suitable for her. In a place far from the secular world, she might find peace!

This was selfish, she knew. She only thought of herself, not of her aging parents, never considering how they would manage in their old age. Her mother cried heartbrokenly, almost kneeling before her, “Your father and I are no longer young. How can you bear to leave us without support in our old age? What sin have we committed for Heaven to punish our Suo family so harshly? One daughter dead, the other becoming a nun—this will be the death of your father and me!”

In the end, she couldn’t harden her heart. The tonsure ceremony didn’t happen; she could only practice her faith with uncut hair. She spent over half a year in peaceful time at the temple, until Ding Yi came to get her. She left the temple to meet her, seeing her with such a large belly, having quarreled with the Twelfth Prince and living alone in the old residence—truly pitiful. For Ru Jian’s sake, she couldn’t neglect her, so she returned to the city to care for her daily needs. She hadn’t returned to her own home, feeling too ashamed to face her parents.

Ding Yi gave birth to a son named Xian’er. The child was beautiful; she loved him. Sometimes, holding him, she suddenly found a purpose in this fleeting existence.

The Wen family compound had a wall covered with vine flowers that bloomed even in autumn. She liked to take Xian’er there for walks. Occasionally, they would meet Xia Zhi, Ding Yi’s senior martial brother, a rather lively person. Concerned for his marital sister, he often visited, bringing food and small trinkets.

Women tend to be sensitive to certain things. Whether it was her imagination or not, she always felt that Xia Zhi behaved oddly toward her. When he came to play with Xian’er, asking the child to call him uncle, her heart would involuntarily tremble. If Ru Jian were still alive, he would be Xian’er’s true uncle.

These little things showed in subtle ways, difficult to articulate clearly. Ding Yi, worried about the Twelfth Prince, hurriedly went to Khalkha, asking her to send Xian’er to Langrun Garden. She didn’t think this was good for the child. Though the Noble Consort at Langrun Garden was the Twelfth Prince’s birth mother, how could someone who lacked enthusiasm for her son properly care for a grandson? She kept Xian’er with her, caring for him along with the wet nurse and nanny, until Xian’er was eight months old when she received a letter from Ding Yi. The letter said they couldn’t return—the Twelfth Prince had been effectively exiled by the court, given the title of Khalkha Prince, and stationed there. In the future, they could only visit Beijing as relatives, not reside there permanently.

There were many examples of “when the birds are gone, the bow is put away.” This outcome wasn’t the worst—at least they were together and alive. Only poor Xian’er was left in Beijing, essentially as a hostage. Soon, someone came from the palace to take Xian’er into the imperial household, to be raised alongside the Seventh Prince under the Empress’s care. Hai Lan couldn’t bear to part with him. Xian’er was somewhat aware now, clinging to her and refusing to let go. Separated from her, he cried day and night. The Empress had no choice but to bring her into the palace as well.

In her youth, Hai Lan had been considered for imperial selection. As the daughter of a fourth-rank official, at most, she could have been kept as a palace maid. At that time, her father had used the money to have her name removed from the first round. Little did she expect that after so many years, she would eventually enter the Forbidden City with Xian’er.

The Empress was a remarkable person. Despite her noble status, she maintained a pure heart. She knew their story. Once, while at Xianruo Hall to worship Buddha, after offering incense, she turned to ask, “Do you believe that husband and wife can be reunited in the next life?”

She thought for a moment and said yes. The Empress smiled faintly, “If you have a connection in this life, you can find him again in the next. If there’s no connection in this life, you wouldn’t even recognize his face—why long for the next life? That person has gone far away; don’t dwell on him anymore. Destined to meet but not to walk together—he is not yours, and your persistence won’t change that. While you’re still young, find another path for yourself. You should have a family, a husband, and your children. They say those who die young have no foundation; they can’t even retain memories of this life. You could guard his memory your whole life, but in the end, it would be futile. Seeing couples everywhere, thinking of your solitude—doesn’t it make your heart ache? Find someone, regardless of whether he’s good or bad, to care for you and warm your heart.”

She lowered her head, fidgeting with the tassels on her beaded bracelet. She still couldn’t accept this advice, merely responding perfunctorily: “Your Highness speaks of destiny. Perhaps my destiny hasn’t arrived yet, or maybe this is just how my life will be—fated to be alone.”

She wouldn’t agree, and the Empress didn’t force her. Two more years passed quietly.

Xian’er gradually grew up, becoming quite clever and lively. The Empress cherished him, with few restrictions in daily life. He enjoyed watching the princes study, going to the study hall and the princes’ quarters. Not yet three years old, he would be captivated by listening to teachers discuss Confucius and Mencius. She would hold him in her arms, smiling and asking if he understood. He would say, “I understand a little.” Just this response alone greatly surprised her.

Often walking in the imperial court, sometimes she would encounter the Emperor. Lower-ranking palace servants were not allowed to face the Emperor directly; even lowering one’s head and kneeling wasn’t permitted. When the royal entourage approached, they would quickly turn to face the wall—this was the rule. Once, while taking Xian’er along a corridor, they happened to meet the Emperor returning from the military affairs office. Without thinking much, she held Xian’er and stepped aside. The child, resting on her shoulder, spontaneously called out “Amuqi” (uncle).

The Emperor was very kind to children. Since Xian’er was raised in Yikun Palace, their uncle and nephew were quite familiar. The Emperor beckoned, and Xian’er struggled free from her arms. Naturally, she had to watch over him, bringing him forward, and meeting a pair of smiling eyes. The Emperor pointed to someone accompanying him, “This is First-Rank General Fu Xiang, who achieved great merit in defeating the Dzungars. Tonight the palace will host a feast, with the Empress entertaining Fu Xiang and the elder princess. You should assist your mistress.”

Hai Lan crouched in acknowledgment, inwardly sensing that the Empress’s matchmaking urge had surfaced again.

Indeed, as she suspected, this National General had come specifically for this purpose. Fu Xiang’s grandmother was a clan sister of the High Emperor, now considered a distant relative, belonging to the red ribbon rank. As a man, he was a simple military officer, but his manner wasn’t flamboyant—rather, quite respectful. With many people at the banquet, they had little interaction, only meeting again later. He was very sincere, earnestly saying, “I won’t deceive you. I had a previous consort who died of illness three years ago. I was deeply attached to her and hadn’t planned to remarry, but my family’s pressure became too great. I know you’ve had a similar experience, and honestly, I greatly admire you for it. For a woman to dedicate her youth to another person—you are a remarkable woman who values loyalty. But life is too long; living isn’t just for oneself, but also for one’s family. If you don’t mind… let’s keep each other company! I don’t care if he remains in your heart. Your honoring him shows your true feelings.” He carefully observed her expression. “Hai Lan, only those who have experienced similar hardships can truly empathize. Why not give me a chance, and yourself a chance too?”

She hadn’t cried for a long time, but now she couldn’t help it. Perhaps it was his understanding that, for the first time, made her feel less burdened—that she could finally rest.

She married him—a thirty-year-old spinster who shouldn’t have hoped for much, unexpectedly finding such fulfillment. Her parents were greatly comforted. Sometimes she felt regretful, suddenly remembering Ru Jian and feeling she had betrayed him. However, Fu Xiang was a good man. She could share her innermost thoughts with him, and he would listen attentively—more like a trusted friend than a husband.

She wrote to Ding Yi, who reportedly lived in a place of extraordinary beauty, though the journey was so far that messengers took two or three months for a round trip. As seasons came and went, by the time she received Ding Yi’s fourth reply, she was pregnant. Coincidentally, Ding Yi was also expecting a child. In her letter, Ding Yi expressed concern for Xian’er, saying that next spring she would submit a memorial to the court, requesting permission for them to return to Beijing to visit relatives.

By calculation, they had been in Khalkha for five years—just a turnaround and five years had passed.

She stood under the eaves watching Fu Xiang practice martial arts. He was now very attentive to her condition, often looking back at her after completing a set. She sighed. This life had its ups and downs, but now the dust had settled. To call it happiness would be an overstatement—it was more like sharing a life. After all, Ru Jian remained unforgettable, as he was before and would continue to be. But the memory was buried deeper now; to bring it up again would require cutting open her heart with a knife.