Their home was the old Prince of Qin’s Mansion.

After ascending the throne, Li Xuandu had not reassigned this former residence to anyone else — but he had also declined certain ministers’ proposals to renovate it.

The mansion remained exactly as it had been on the day of their wedding. The original steward still lived there, along with a few elderly cleaning women who tended it day to day.

They had been so consumed with affairs of state that half a year had passed since his accession, and the couple had not yet returned to this place even once.

Without noticing, the season had turned to autumn.

In former years, if deemed necessary, it was around this time that the court would begin preparations for the selection of new harem consorts — compiling candidate registries and conducting preliminary screenings, with formal selections to begin the following spring.

On this particular day, the Minister of Rites, Song Duan, joined by several other officials, submitted a memorial urging the Emperor to populate the imperial harem.

In presenting this memorial, they had, beyond the small private calculations that only they themselves knew about, what sounded on the surface like a very thorough and well-reasoned argument.

First, the Book of Rites stated that in ancient times the Son of Heaven’s consorts numbered six palaces, three ladies of the first rank, nine of the second, twenty-seven of the third, and eighty-one of the fourth.

Second, the direct imperial line now consisted of only the current Emperor’s branch. His Majesty was still young and had already established a Crown Prince — but to date there was only this one small Crown Prince, and the harem held only the Empress, making it effectively non-functional.

Therefore, whether viewed through the lens of ritual propriety or the necessity of ensuring a broad imperial succession, the establishment of a full harem was unavoidable.

Moreover, His Majesty had now been on the throne for over half a year, and the various matters of governance were gradually finding their footing. Raising the topic of establishing a harem at this point was hardly premature.

This jointly signed memorial was steeped in classical citations and expressed in earnest, heartfelt language — it nearly moved the Minister himself to tears. Yet after it was submitted, it made not the slightest ripple.

Seven or eight days passed with no response whatsoever from the throne.

This was distinctly unusual.

Since the founding of the dynasty, the Founding Emperor, both to encourage his ministers to speak frankly and to hold his imperial descendants accountable for diligence in governance, had established a rule: every matter raised in any memorial, whether adopted or rejected, must receive a reply.

In other words, His Majesty was required either to approve the memorial or to cross it out and send it back.

His Majesty had been on the throne for over half a year. Though his days were filled with ten thousand matters and memorials piled mountain-high on his desk, he rose before dawn and held morning court every day with exemplary diligence, never once violating the Founding Emperor’s decree — any memorial, at the very latest, received a reply within three days. For something to be left unaddressed for seven or eight days like this was entirely without precedent.

The Minister had no idea what attitude the Emperor actually held on the matter, yet did not dare presume to press for an answer. On this particular day, truly unable to contain himself any longer, he slipped away after the morning court session and went quietly in search of the Director of the Imperial Clan, to ask whether he knew anything of what was happening behind the scenes.

There was also another purpose in seeking out the Director of the Imperial Clan — the hope of persuading him to join the cause of urging the Emperor to expand the harem.

But the Director of the Imperial Clan professed ignorance on all counts. When pressed too insistently, he said, “If it is inconvenient for Brother Song to ask His Majesty directly, why not raise the matter with the Empress? The Empress is wise and virtuous — she would surely endorse your proposal.” And with that, he clasped his hands behind his back and walked away.

The Minister of Rites would never have dared to actually approach the Empress with such a matter. Yet unable to suppress his private hope of placing his own granddaughter — a young woman of exceptional talent and beauty, at precisely the right age — into the imperial harem, he waited another two or three days before, on a morning when he had joined the other officials in the Zichen Hall for court business, watching as the Emperor’s most trusted attendant Luo Bao escorted Duan Wang out of the hall after the session ended. He fell in behind them, and when Luo Bao had seen Duan Wang off and was returning, he contrived what appeared to be a chance encounter, lingering on the palace path for a casual exchange of a few words — all while angling for information about the fate of his memorial from ten days ago.

Luo Bao at first appeared utterly baffled. When the Minister reminded him it was a jointly signed memorial submitted ten days prior, Luo Bao slapped his forehead, gave a sound of recollection, and replied with respectful courtesy: “Ah yes, I remember now. When His Majesty saw it, he had me take it to the Empress, saying it should be handled according to her wishes. I delivered it to Her Majesty’s quarters, but did not find her in, so I left it there. A couple of days later, word came that a little pug dog the Empress keeps had come trotting over and — by some unfortunate accident — had carried the Minister’s memorial back to its bed in its mouth. By the time the palace maids noticed and retrieved it, it had been chewed quite beyond recognition. The Empress was greatly distressed. She said that Minister Song holds the rank of one of the Nine Ministers, a man of great virtue and distinguished service — that at his venerable age he still refuses to retire but instead toils day after day to ease His Majesty’s burdens, and that she is deeply moved by his dedication. As for the memorial being reduced to such a state by that oblivious dog, she felt it would not do to return it to you, lest you misunderstand and think His Majesty was slighting you. So she would send someone separately to convey her reply.”

He looked over at Song Duan with an expression of genuine surprise. “What? Has the Empress still not sent word to Minister Song?”

Song Duan’s aged face went crimson all at once.

He had in fact heard certain rumors before this — that the Emperor deferred entirely to the Empress in all things. He had half-believed it, half-doubted, and in submitting this memorial had harbored a small measure of wishful hope.

Now he understood. From the Emperor’s side, there was simply nothing to be hoped for. As for the Empress — she had preserved a measure of his dignity by handling it the way she did. He abandoned all his aspirations on the spot, murmured a few vague words in response, and slunk away.

Luo Bao watched the Minister’s retreating figure, allowed himself the smallest curl of the lips, and turned to go about his business.

The Princess Consort of Duan Wang’s fiftieth birthday was coming up in a few days, and Pu Zhu was determined to give her a proper celebration. She had been personally overseeing the preparations these past several days, keeping herself thoroughly occupied. She returned to the inner palace in the evening, around the hour of Hai.

Though it was quite late, ever since he had become Emperor, these past six months had established a pattern: at this hour he was generally still in the Imperial Study at the front of the palace, working through the night’s memorials.

She had been thinking she would check on their son first and then go to the front to keep him company — but tonight she was surprised to find he had already come back, and judging by appearances had been playing with their son in bed before she arrived. When she entered, she found him lying against the pillows with their son stretched out beside him, one small foot resting across his body.

Father and son were both asleep.

Pu Zhu knew how hard these past six months had been for him. Seeing that he was asleep, she had not the heart to wake him. She dismissed the palace attendants and tiptoed inside, gently moved her son’s foot off him, tucked the blanket over both father and child, then sat herself down before the dressing mirror.

As she was undoing her hair, she removed a gold-chased hairpin from beside her temple only to find a strand of hair had caught on it. Unable to see it clearly from this angle, she could not work it free, so she pulled open the bottom drawer of the jewelry case before her, meaning to retrieve a small pair of scissors.

As she reached in, her gaze paused for a moment on something else. She took out instead a small embroidered sachet that had been resting inside. She pressed it gently between her fingers. The corners of her lips curved upward without her noticing, and she fell into a moment of quiet reverie. She was just about to put it back when a pair of hands suddenly appeared from behind, silently wrapping themselves around her waist. Then a man pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, murmuring in a muffled, sleepy tone of complaint: “You’re finally back. I waited and waited — I actually fell asleep.”

Pu Zhu leaned back into Li Xuandu’s arms, and after a moment of sweet closeness, asked without thinking, “Why are you back early tonight? Fewer memorials than usual? I was actually about to come find you at the front.”

She had barely asked before he drew back from their closeness, let go of her, swept his wide sleeve with a flourish, and slumped against the edge of the dressing table with a sullen expression. “There is never a day when the work is done! I finish everything today and tomorrow another enormous pile arrives! Day after day without end! I’m exhausted. I don’t want to read another memorial!”

Pu Zhu turned and looked at him — one fist propping up his head by the elbow, his whole manner listless and deflated.

She did not believe he had simply decided out of nowhere to abandon his duties. She shuffled toward him on her knees and knelt before him, pressing him to tell her what was really wrong.

He said nothing at first, wearing the expression of a man who had lost all will to go on — until she began to lose patience and pretended to be annoyed, making as if to leave him and walk away. Only then did he pull her back into his arms and tell her: today he had received a memorial from Ye Xiao, sent from the Western Regions. The Princess Consort had successfully delivered a baby boy several months ago, and Ye Xiao was in no hurry to return. He wanted to wait until the child was a little older, and then bring both children and the Princess Consort back to the capital together.

On the day they had departed Frost Madam’s city for the capital, the Princess Consort had already been heavily pregnant. Ye Xiao, worried his wife could not withstand the rigors of such a long journey, had decided to stay behind in the Western Regions until after the birth.

“That’s wonderful news! Isn’t this something to be happy about?” Pu Zhu was genuinely delighted for Ye Xiao and his wife.

Li Xuandu gave a short, dismissive sound and said in a few clipped words, “It’s fine for him.”

Pu Zhu understood his temperament better with each passing day. Seeing his expression, she had only gotten halfway through his unspoken meaning before sudden comprehension dawned. Her eyes went wide. “My Emperor! Surely you’re not — surely you’re not jealous of Ye Xiao, feeling stung by this and in a sour mood, which is why you don’t feel like reading memorials?”

Li Xuandu said nothing.

Ye Xiao had once again gotten ahead of him — not only did he have children of both son and daughter, but over there in the Western Regions, Jiang Yi had now arrived and taken charge, leaving Ye Xiao free and unbothered.

Whereas he himself rose before dawn every day to prepare for morning court, outwitting and outmaneuvering that pack of officials with their various hidden agendas, managing matters of every variety, then staying up late into the night working through memorials arriving from every commandery across the realm — lying down at midnight only to open his eyes again to the pre-dawn call for morning court, day after day, in endless rotation.

All of that he could endure.

What truly vexed him most was that even the small windows of time when he and she could properly enjoy each other’s company were growing nearly impossible to find.

Even the pug she kept had a more comfortable life than he did as Emperor.

Pu Zhu was caught between laughing and exasperation. She thought to herself that if the ministers could see their sagacious and mighty Emperor in this private state of affairs, every one of them would surely faint.

She was just thinking she would coax his mood back into good temper and get him to rest early tonight when Li Xuandu caught sight of the small sachet she had left on the dressing table. He recognized it at a glance, picked it up, turned it between his fingers, and looked at her with a half-smile. “Zhuzhu — it was you once upon a time who wanted to be Empress, who sweet-talked me into becoming Emperor. Now you’ve seen it for yourself — I’m being worked to death. What do you intend to do to make it up to me?”

Pu Zhu felt her face go hot at the audacity of him using their old history against her.

“Fine — if you find it so objectionable, I’ll throw it away!”

She finished speaking and reached out to snatch it.

Li Xuandu gave a small flick of his wrist, and she grabbed nothing but air. Then he sighed and placed the sachet back himself.

“Never mind. Keep it. I won’t hold it against you.”

Pu Zhu, kneeling before him, slowly raised both hands and looped them around the back of his neck. She gazed into his eyes. Her soft red lips moved slowly to rest beside his ear, and in the most tender of voices she called to him: “Your Majesty… my Yuli’er…”

She felt his body give the faintest pause. She continued murmuring to him in a voice grown even softer: “I did want to be Empress. But I only ever wanted to be Empress to one person — to be your Empress, Yuli’er. Can you bear a little more hardship, for my sake?”

She bit her lip softly and let her yielding, pliant body press against his chest.

“Whatever you want, I’ll agree to. I’ll take very good care of you…”

Li Xuandu thought of her particular variety of “taking care” within the bedcurtains, and his entire body went weak and warm. The sullenness that had gripped him moments before vanished entirely without a trace.

His throat went dry. His throat moved as he swallowed, gritting his teeth against the desire that had surged up so suddenly. He glanced over at the bed where their son was sleeping soundly, then pressed his own lips to her ear and said in a low, husky voice brimming with suggestion: “Very well, I’ll carry on then. But Zhuzhu — becoming the Empress Dowager one day is quite out of the question for you. When I eventually abdicate and become the Retired Emperor, I’ll confer upon you the title of Lady Daoist. You’ll keep me company, and we’ll cultivate the Way together as a pair — how does that sound?”

Held and coaxed like this, Pu Zhu felt as though her very bones had dissolved. She melted against him in a daze of happiness, utterly lost — whatever he said was fine with her. She kept her eyes closed and responded with a soft, continuous murmur of assent.

Li Xuandu, his spirits thoroughly restored, broke into a grin and pressed his boneless, incomparably lovely Empress down against the dressing table. He lifted her phoenix skirts and was just bending over her, planning to have her thoroughly tonight in every fashion he could think of — so thoroughly that if necessary he would simply plead illness and skip morning court tomorrow — when disaster struck at the moment of greatest delight. Before he had even properly begun, his elbow accidentally knocked over a decorative beauty vase sitting on the dressing table.

The vase toppled to the floor and shattered to pieces. The sound it made instantly woke Luan’er on the bed.

He scrambled upright, searching the bed for his father and mother — finding neither, and with neither A’mu nor Luo Bao anywhere to be seen either — until at last he sat alone in the middle of the bed, rubbing his eyes, and began to wail miserably.

Li Xuandu had no choice but to release Pu Zhu and watch her abandon him and rush inside to scoop their son up and comfort him.

The moment Luan’er saw his mother, he stopped crying at once, tucking his small face against her chest, and slowly began to drowse again.

Li Xuandu stood watching, at a loss. After a moment he withdrew from the room. Shortly afterward, A’mu came smiling in, gesturing for Pu Zhu not to worry and indicating she would sleep with the little Crown Prince tonight.

Pu Zhu looked over at Li Xuandu, walked to him and asked quietly, “It’s so late — where are you taking me?”

Li Xuandu draped a cloak around her shoulders and fastened the ties, then settled a hat on her head before taking her hand, and with a smile said, “You’ll know when we get there!”

Pu Zhu asked nothing more. Like a princess slipping out on a midnight adventure, she followed him in a mood of light, happy anticipation as he led her out of the palace.

In the darkness of night, a well-curtained private carriage slipped out through one of the palace’s side gates and set off under a small escort of personal guards in the direction of Chengfu Lane in the capital. When the carriage stopped and Li Xuandu lifted her down, she steadied herself, pushed aside her hat, and caught sight of two very familiar gates. In an instant, everything became clear — and she turned to look up at him in delighted astonishment.

It was the Prince of Qin’s Mansion!

Li Xuandu lowered his face close to hers and murmured, “I suddenly remembered just now that we’re still missing one thing from our early days — our wedding night. So I brought you here.”

Pu Zhu’s heart leaped with warmth. He took her hand and led her inside, and at the sight of the familiar steward standing behind the gate with the household staff all lined up in smiling welcome, she found herself genuinely suffused with the feeling of being his bride for the very first time.

Perhaps he felt exactly the same.

They hadn’t even reached the old bedroom before Li Xuandu seemed unable to wait. He swept her off her feet, cradled her against his chest, and strode inside.

While they were still on their way here, Luo Bao had raced ahead on horseback with a team of staff to help the steward prepare everything for the Emperor and Empress spending the night.

Inside the room, a pair of red ceremonial candles burned high. On the great bed, soft crimson brocade covers had been laid out in readiness.

Li Xuandu carried Pu Zhu inside, swept aside the red bed curtain that pooled on the floor, set her down on the bed, and settled himself beside her.

The two gazed at one another. Their heads drifted slowly closer until cheek rested against cheek, lips met lips, and they kissed.

That night, beneath the crimson covers, they were completely and utterly lost in each other, both of them utterly content. After the second time, Li Xuandu held her as they dozed for a short while — but finding himself possessed of boundless energy, as vigorous as he had been in his youth, he woke quickly and roused her along with him.

She was still drowsy, her luminous eyes half-open and half-closed, languidly allowing him to do as he pleased with her in her haze — when she suddenly felt him pat her cheek.

She drew a quiet internal breath and made the effort to open her eyes properly. To her surprise, she found he had gotten up full of enthusiasm, dressed himself, and was now proceeding, without waiting to be asked, to help her into her own garments one by one — robes, shoes, and socks — all while grinning, before scooping her up and turning to carry her out.

Luo Bao walked quietly alongside them on the path, a palace lantern in hand, lighting their way through the night.

Pu Zhu was still a little sleepy, her face pressed against his chest, letting him carry her out of the bedroom and wander through the moonlit back garden.

Then suddenly she understood.

He was taking her to the hawk-release terrace!

At the thought of that place, every trace of sleepiness vanished from her in an instant. She opened her eyes at once, twisted in his arms, and broke free, landing on her feet before sprinting forward. She reached the courtyard gate, lifted her hand and shoved it open, and kept running.

Li Xuandu blinked — then understood. He burst out laughing, put his foot down, and immediately gave chase.

She ran ahead, skirts lifted. He ran behind. Like a pair of young lovers, they chased each other through the moonlight, laughing as they went.

“Hey — hey — Your Majesty! Your Majesty the Empress! Please be careful, mind you don’t trip—”

Luo Bao ran after them with the lantern, not daring to get too close, finding himself thoroughly put upon.

The overgrown weeds that had once spread across every path here had been cleared away during the past six months by the steward and the household staff. The trees had been trimmed. The night air was sweet and cool, carrying the faint drifting sweetness of osmanthus.

Pu Zhu ran all the way to the jade steps of the high terrace, lifted her skirts to keep climbing — and was grabbed from behind by Li Xuandu, who had covered the last three steps in two and caught up with her.

“Where do you think you’re going now!”

He proceeded to tickle her mercilessly, deliberately finding the particular spots on her waist that were most sensitive to the slightest touch.

She had run herself out of breath as it was, and now had to gasp and dodge and beg for mercy from his hands all at once. But there was no escaping them, and he showed not an ounce of mercy. Finally, laughing so hard she was on the verge of going limp entirely, she sank toward the ground — and only then did he relent at last, catching her up in his arms, climbing the remaining steps, and settling them both down at the very top.

Pu Zhu leaned against him to recover. Her breathing gradually returned to normal.

He stopped teasing her. They sat side by side for a long while. Pu Zhu tilted her head back and gazed up at the stars overhead, and all at once found herself remembering that night long ago — and even after all this time, she felt the warmth creep back into her face. She could not help but cover her cheeks with both hands.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked her softly.

That incident had been so embarrassing. She did not want him to recall it.

If he remembered, he would certainly tease her.

“Nothing!” She shook her head.

He drew her hands away from her face. The tip of one finger tilted up her pointed little chin. His face moved close to hers.

In the moonlight, his features were as fine and luminous as carved jade. He raised an eyebrow and said quietly, “I know. You’re thinking about how I still owe you something from that night up here. You want me to repay my debt.”

Pu Zhu was momentarily at a loss — but quickly understood what he was referring to, and felt her face grow even hotter. She shook her head hastily. “I wasn’t — don’t talk nonsense…”

“You were.”

Still grinning, he slipped off his outer robe and spread it on the flat ground behind them. Without further discussion, he laid her down upon it.

“Everything I owe you — tonight I’ll pay it all back…”

“No—”

This sweet refusal was less a refusal than an invitation.

Li Xuandu looked at her beneath the moonlight — eyes tightly shut, utterly enchanting — and felt the blood surge through him. The resolve he had already formed about most certainly missing morning court tomorrow crystallized into absolute certainty. He drew in a deep breath and covered her body with his own, warm and gentle.

Skin against skin, his senses spinning, lost in bliss — and then, suddenly, from overhead came the sound of wings beating. Something large had flown down and landed nearby.

Li Xuandu paused, slowly lifted his head, and his gaze fixed on what stood above them.

Perched at the very top of the hawk-release terrace was a jade-carved falcon.

The moonlight tonight was clear and bright. He recognized it at once. This jade-feathered creature was none other than the golden-eyed bird he had once released into the sky, years ago.

He had believed it would never come back.

And yet here it was, at this very moment — the golden-eyed bird, returned home, standing above them both.

Though at this particular moment, it was standing with cold and imperious dignity directly above the two of them, its two eyes fixed in a thoroughly direct and unblinking stare.

This made Li Xuandu distinctly uncomfortable.

What was to be done — stop, or press on regardless?

He was still locked in this internal debate, wavering, when Pu Zhu noticed he had stopped, opened her eyes, and caught sight of the jade falcon. She stared for a moment, then quickly remembered.

This was the jade falcon they had released during the autumn hunt all those years ago.

She recalled Li Xuandu telling her he had raised it since childhood.

“Golden-Eye! You’ve come back too!”

She cried out in delighted surprise and lifted her hands to push Li Xuandu off her.

Li Xuandu was deeply displeased. He pressed her back down and covered her eyes with one hand, issuing a low command: “Ignore it. We continue.”

Pu Zhu shook her head beneath him.

“No… it’s watching us…”

“Let it watch. It’s not embarrassed — why should I care!”

The golden-eyed bird had for some time been staring down at its master and mistress with an air of lofty disdain. After watching for a while, it apparently reached the limits of what it was willing to witness. With an air of resignation, it turned its head away and tucked it under one wing, out of sight, out of mind, and went to sleep.

That night, the Emperor eventually retreated back to the bedchamber, where he finally had his fill — after spending the entire night in absolute abandon with the Empress, he slept until the sun was high the following morning, missing morning court with magnificent completeness.

Since it was already missed, he might as well miss half the day too. In six months of restraint, to let himself go just this once — the sky would not fall.

Tomorrow, then. Tomorrow he would without fail rise before dawn, and for the sake of his Empress, make every effort to attend morning court and be a wise and capable Emperor of surpassing excellence…

The Emperor turned his head, glanced at his little wife still deep in blissful sleep beside him, stretched out at his ease with a long, satisfied yawn, rolled over, pulled her close, and closed his eyes — perfectly and completely content.

In the misty gauze of the bed-curtains, the crystal beaded screen swaying softly, deep within the jade screen, all was serene — the perfect hour for rest.

—

*End of Pu Zhu*