From constantly being exposed to wind and sun while caring for animals, Hu Shanwei had grown darker and thinner. Her hair was piled high in a topknot covered with a black mesh headcover. For convenience in riding and feeding deer, she wore plain bamboo cloth round-collar robes that obscured her gender.
Yet in Mu Chun’s eyes, Sister Shanwei was the most radiant bloom among the plum blossoms, proudly flowering on withered branches. A flower need not be delicate—spirit and character were also forms of beauty.
Mu Chun seemed unchanged, returning from a year’s campaign still the spirited, roguish youth with both charm and mischief.
Mu Chun’s ardent gaze enveloped her. Hu Shanwei felt her body temperature rising. This was the Xiaoling Mausoleum, Empress Xiaoci’s resting place—she couldn’t be reckless.
Hu Shanwei cleared her throat, restraining her expression and tightening her grip on the reins. “It’s good you’re back. Many didn’t return from this Southern Expedition.”
Mu Chun replied, “Yes, my father didn’t come back either.”
Hu Shanwei looked at him quietly. Mu Chun suddenly grasped her meaning and slapped his forehead, honking like a goose. “Oh, oh, oh! I misunderstood—you meant those who died in battle. My father’s still alive.”
Father-son affection, thin as paper.
The scene grew awkward as impatient deer began nudging the bamboo basket on Hu Shanwei’s horse with their antlers, begging for food. One deer missed its target and nudged her leg.
Mu Chun moved faster, extending his long arm to grab the antler while warning it, “You lustful deer, where are you poking? Keep this up and I’ll roast you for dinner.”
This was an adult deer with great strength. Grabbed by its antlers, it struggled uncomfortably, shaking its elegant neck to break free. How could Mu Chun let go? He simply jumped from horseback onto the deer’s back, gripping both antlers. “Submit or not? Do you submit?”
It did not. The large deer began running and leaping, trying to throw off the stranger on its back. Mu Chun held tight, refusing to let go. The clever deer ran toward the mountain forest—at this speed, the tree branches could skewer Mu Chun like meat on a stick.
Just as a branch was about to pierce his eye, Mu Chun chose to surrender, leaping from the deer’s back to the flower bed. Following his falling momentum, he rolled, crushing a patch of hydrangeas.
Hu Shanwei rode over to find Mu Chun standing up against a tree, pointing at the “fleeing culprit” deer. “Sister Shanwei, you must avenge me—starve it for one meal.”
Looking at the now-ruined hydrangeas, Hu Shanwei’s joy at their reunion instantly vanished. “Nine days from now is Empress Xiaoci’s first anniversary memorial. The imperial family and ministers will all come to pay respects at the Xiaoling Mausoleum. Can you resurrect these flowers within nine days?”
Realizing he’d caused trouble, Mu Chun quickly said, “I’ll go to the flower market right now to buy hydrangeas to replant.”
As Mu Chun went to buy flowers, the deer herd surrounded her again. Feeding the deer one by one, Hu Shanwei suddenly understood why she liked the Xiaoling Mausoleum’s deer—because these deer resembled Mu Chun. Beautiful in appearance, pleasing to behold, insatiably greedy, roguishly demanding food, liking to stay close to her, circling around her, chasing after her.
And always causing minor troubles that made her angry, yet she couldn’t bear to scold them. After complaining a few words, she’d end up cleaning up their messes—these deer also loved destroying flowers and plants, eating fresh blooms for variety.
Mu Chun returned with a cart full of blooming hydrangeas to the Xiaoling Mausoleum, pulling up the ruined flowers to replant new ones. Hu Shanwei brought a food box to feed him, plus an incense box to repel mosquitoes.
“I only have simple fare here—make do with what you can,” Hu Shanwei opened the food box revealing one fish, one bowl of fox nuts, one bowl of lotus seed soup—all freshly caught and picked from the mausoleum’s ponds—plus a pot of rice.
Looking at the simple food, Mu Chun felt deeply moved. “You’ve lived quite austerely this year.”
Hu Shanwei replied, “Princess Huaiqing and others occasionally send things. I have enough food and warmth here. But guarding a mausoleum requires looking the part—living simply, naturally incomparable to the palace’s extravagant luxury. Besides, I came from a small household and don’t find it bitter.”
Mu Chun squatted to eat, as naturally as when he used to squat on street corners eating noodles.
Hu Shanwei couldn’t help recalling when she first met Mu Chun on the day of her female official examination, which was also her birthday. After finishing the exam and returning home, completing bookstore work, with no food prepared for her at home, she went to a restaurant to celebrate her birthday alone. Mu Chun, who often came to read free books at the bookstore, was squatting outside holding a bowl of noodles. She’d assumed he was a poor student.
Yet this “poor student” had silently paid for her meal.
Later, Hu Shanwei learned that Mu Chun’s street-corner noodle eating was a peculiar habit. Rebellious and unrestrained, unloved by his father and uncle, having a family yet feeling homeless, squatting on streets to eat noodles and blending into common life somehow comforted him.
Seeing her watching him eat intently, Mu Chun casually asked, “Did you make this?”
Hu Shanwei nodded. “Haitang picked the fox nuts and lotus seeds. I caught the fish this morning with a bamboo trap left underwater. I cooked all three dishes—I didn’t control the heat well, so the fish skin broke.”
In four years of acquaintance, this was the first time eating a meal Sister Shanwei had prepared. Mu Chun quickly said, “The break is good—I like it broken. Broken… um, absorbs flavor better.”
Mu Chun ate enthusiastically, finishing even the soup, leaving only inedible fish bones clean as if licked by a cat.
After the meal, Haitang came to collect bowls and food boxes, tactfully lying, “I’m too tired today and want to sleep early, so I won’t help.”
Mu Chun dug holes while Hu Shanwei placed pot after pot of hydrangeas into them, then covered them with soil. As night fell and lanterns were lit, they continued replanting in perfect coordination.
Mu Chun, being strong, used a shovel to dig a row of holes, then ran over to plant flowers and fill soil with Hu Shanwei. Each time, under cover of loose soil, he employed his old tricks—using the excuse of filling earth to extend his hand and intertwine fingers with hers.
Through soft soil, their fingers intertwined. Just as that tingling sensation nearly reached her heart, they quickly separated to plant the second hydrangea. Refilling earth, warm fingers passed through soil layers, entangling and teasing again before separating.
Over and over.
The Xiaoling Mausoleum was heavily guarded—even at night, patrol guards passed by regularly.
Hu Shanwei’s heart followed the rhythm of their fingers, rising and falling, left and right, sometimes tense, sometimes joyful, but mostly both tense and joyful simultaneously.
The two planting flowers didn’t speak, didn’t even make eye contact. From the night patrol guards’ perspective, they were simply planting flowers properly, unable to see the tenderness beneath the soil.
All their bodily senses vanished, concentrated entirely in their fingertips. Only their fingers seemed to have sensation. Each touch was like splashing water into boiling oil—sizzling hot oil sprayed and exploded like fireworks, making their souls tremble.
Hearing Mu Chun’s increasingly heavy breathing, Hu Shanwei’s face flushed and heart raced. She didn’t know that seeing sweat beads from her temples roll down her neck to rest in the hollow of her collarbone, Mu Chun felt parched—that crystal droplet in her throat’s hollow was thirst-quenching elixir, so close yet untouchable.
When fireflies danced among clusters of newly planted hydrangeas, replanting was complete. Mu Chun carried two buckets of water for irrigation, ensuring these flowers would survive until the anniversary memorial on the tenth day of the eighth month.
“Finally finished.” Hu Shanwei crouched by the water bucket, washing soil from her hands—not wanting Mu Chun to see the blush on her cheeks.
Mu Chun now regretted: I should have rolled more, destroyed more flower clusters, so I could spend more time with Sister Shanwei.
Mu Chun departed with regret, sighing on horseback.
Hu Shanwei bathed in a wooden tub, often experiencing hallucinations of feathers brushing her fingertips. Reaching out from the water, she found nothing there.
Haitang helped wash her hair from behind, tentatively asking, “Master Mu… just left like that?”
Hu Shanwei replied, “The Xiaoling Mausoleum is sacred ground—outsiders cannot stay overnight.”
Haitang said, “Master Mu isn’t an outsider, is he?”
Hu Shanwei countered, “His surname is Mu.” Not being of the Zhu imperial family, staying overnight would be improper.
“Oh.” Haitang said, “What a pity.”
Hu Shanwei grew alert. “What nonsense are you thinking, girl?”
Haitang pretended not to see her earlobes red as drops of blood. “I was thinking it would be nice if Master Mu could help feed deer tomorrow—we could sleep late.”
Hu Shanwei looked worried. “I heard from Ji Gang that Master Mu will likely be enfeoffed as Marquis Xiping’s heir apparent upon his return.”
Haitang said, “Being enfeoffed as heir apparent is good news—why aren’t you happy?”
Hu Shanwei explained, “Marquis Xiping guards Yunnan with his beloved son Mu Sheng. But by regulation, when generals command troops in distant territories, family members must remain in the capital as hostages for control.”
Haitang was more puzzled. “But Marquis Xiping’s wife and several other children are already in the capital.”
Hu Shanwei said, “None of the Marquis Xiping household carries the weight of an heir apparent. So Marquis Xiping’s request for Mu Chun’s enfeoffment absolutely isn’t what Ji Gang claimed—fulfilling Empress Xiaoci’s wish—but merely going with the flow to demonstrate loyalty to His Majesty.”
The Hongwu Emperor and Mu Ying were first sovereign and subject, then father and son. Mu Ying had always been proper, clearly understanding his position and maintaining clarity. So when the Hongwu Emperor summoned Feng Cheng to replace Mu Chun, Mu Ying immediately grasped the hidden meaning and wrote a petition requesting Mu Chun’s enfeoffment as Marquis Xiping’s heir apparent.
It wasn’t that Mu Ying’s attitude toward his legitimate eldest son had suddenly changed, but that Mu Ying understood the times. Commanding heavy troops on the frontier and guarding the southwest, with his favorite legitimate second son Mu Sheng beside him, the Hongwu Emperor needed a weighty hostage remaining in the capital.
All noble hereditary families operated this way—the Mu family couldn’t be special. So however much Mu Ying disliked Mu Chun, he could only choose this detested legitimate eldest son.
Haitang suddenly understood. “You’ve been isolated from the world at the Xiaoling Mausoleum yet see things so clearly.”
Hu Shanwei sighed. “I can see it but cannot speak of it directly to him. Let it be as Ji Gang and others guess—that both Marquis Xiping and the Hongwu Emperor act to fulfill Empress Xiaoci’s dying wish. That way Mu Chun’s spirits will be better.”
Haitang said, “Master Mu is naturally carefree—does he care about such things? Anyway, he’s become heir apparent. Who cares why? Others lack even this ability.”
Does he truly not care at all?
Impossible. Ordinary hurts can slowly heal, even be forgotten and ignored. But family wounds last a lifetime, deeply affecting one’s character and future choices.
Mu Chun’s rebellious wildness also came from protective shells formed after family harm.
Hu Shanwei deeply understood this. When she told Mu Chun about growing one’s own shell, he immediately grasped her meaning.
So knowing this, she couldn’t bear to speak it directly to Mu Chun’s face—with Mu Chun’s intelligence, he’d figure it out eventually. If he didn’t speak of it himself, why pierce his pain?
Liking someone often isn’t easy. You become happy for their happiness, yet suffer even more intensely for their pain, magnifying it countless times within yourself.
Hu Shanwei reminded Haitang, “Speak little, do much. Don’t mention things unrelated to you, lest you bring trouble upon yourself.”
Haitang used a dry cloth to squeeze water from her hair. “I won’t mention Master Mu anymore… but speaking of yourself, you have two more years before leaving the Xiaoling Mausoleum. I’m an official slave—after two years I’ll definitely return to palace service as a palace maid. But what about you? You’ll be twenty-six in two years. What are your plans? When Director Cao came to the Xiaoling Mausoleum last time to cause trouble, insisting you hadn’t cleaned properly, it seems difficult for you to return as a female official.”
Haitang was kind, worried about Hu Shanwei’s future. With Director Cao blocking the female official path, where would Hu Shanwei go? The soon-to-be-enfeoffed Marquis Xiping’s heir apparent, Master Mu, seemed like a good choice…
Unable to tell Haitang about her secret alliance with Director Cao, Hu Shanwei spoke vaguely. “Reading while riding a donkey—we’ll see how it goes. First, do current tasks well. There are still two years—plenty of opportunities.”
Deep in the night, bright flowers and dim moon shrouded in light mist.
Hu Shanwei wandered barefoot with loose hair, her stockings stained green by moss between stones.
Green fireflies flickered all around, dreamlike and fantastical. Among hydrangea clusters where flower shadows overlapped and fragrant breezes stirred, that person indeed stood smiling within.
Hu Shanwei was both surprised and delighted, turning her back to him.
He said, “If you turn away, why do you hold a pillow?”
“I don’t have any…” Looking down, Hu Shanwei found herself indeed holding a pillow! This was the most embarrassing moment of her life—how had she confusedly brought out a pillow?
Sensing approaching footsteps behind her, so close she could hear breathing, a warm body pressed against her back. She felt the heartbeat behind her racing as urgently as her own, seeming ready to leap from their throats.
Sashes loosened, collars opened. Not daring to turn around, she buried her head in the pillow, speaking in muffled tones. “What are you doing?”
He whispered in her ear, “This is your dream, your territory—you make the rules. Whatever you want to do, I’ll do. Like this pillow—it wasn’t there before, but seeing me, you suddenly held one. You wanted me closer, so I came.”
Hu Shanwei refused to admit it. “Nonsense! You’re being forward and presumptuous. Leave immediately.”
“You say that with your mouth, but your heart thinks otherwise.” Something warm and soft touched the hollow of her throat. “This reveals your true thoughts.”
Her entire body stiffened—she dared not move. How terrifying! Was this person a parasite in her belly?
“No,” he said. “I’m a prisoner dwelling in your heart’s depths, trapped inside you, never able to escape. I know all your desires—just think it, and I’ll comply.”
The dream grew increasingly dangerous. I cannot have improper thoughts about him. Wake up, quickly wake up…
Hu Shanwei bolted upright. It was all a dream—on her sleeping platform, the pillow was somehow clutched in her arms, and even the hollow of her throat itched unbearably as in the dream.
Startled, Hu Shanwei reached to touch it, finding a small swollen bump in her throat’s hollow. Hearing buzzing sounds, she realized a mosquito had entered the bed curtains and bitten her.
Hu Shanwei relaxed yet felt strangely disappointed. She laughed self-deprecatingly: “Life’s regrets—paired in dreams, single upon waking.”