Ye Qinglan’s dash through the snowy night had not been in vain. After Luo Yong delivered the medicine, Madam Shen had already been on the verge of her final breath — she had been given a slice of ginseng to hold beneath her tongue, and Shen Yunze and Shen Biwei had both been kneeling at her bedside to receive her last words. Even the Duke of Yongguo had rushed over. It was Luo Yong’s first time seeing the man spoken of in legend as a war deity — though his hair and beard had gone white, he still carried an air of overwhelming dominance. Lord Shen, it seemed, carried some guilt on his conscience: he stood nearby with his hands folded and dared not say a word. The rumors, it appeared, had not been exaggerated.
But these were still his parents. The sorrow of white-haired ones sending off the black-haired was its own particular grief. The old Duke had not even brushed the snow from his shoulders. He sat in the outer hall like a bronze statue, and no one around him dared approach to offer comfort — until Luo Yong arrived.
Bearing Qinglan’s token of authority, Luo Yong pushed through three successive gates without pause. Lingbo received him like a treasure found after great searching, urging the maids to begin decocting the medicine at once. With Shen Biwei’s support and the Duke of Yongguo’s presence to lend authority, whatever Lord Shen attempted to say was immediately overruled — they pried open Madam Shen’s teeth and poured the medicine in. In less than a quarter of an hour, her fever had broken. A wave of jubilation swept through the Warm Fragrance Chamber. Thinking that Qinglan still had no news of the outcome, Shen Biwei took out a signal arrow and sent word. The message had barely been dispatched when she looked over to see Lingbo standing beside Han Yueqi, the two of them whispering together with conspiratorial expressions.
Shen Biwei could only sigh.
“Can you not rest even now?” she said with undisguised exasperation. “At this hour, of all times, you’re still scheming?”
“Nonsense,” Lingbo said with perfect self-righteousness. “We are clearly discussing whether someone should be sent to fetch our elder sister and Lord Cui from Qingyun Temple.”
She was savoring her triumph without the slightest pretense of modesty. She and Han Yueqi had been at work from winter into spring, plotting every last detail — and yet it was heaven’s own design that had prevailed: a great snowfall had trapped Qinglan and Cui Jingyu inside Qingyun Temple together, and by the time dawn broke, the ice would melt and the flowers would bloom.
It truly was destiny at work. All the painstaking effort to mend the red thread had produced no visible result — and yet in this moment when everyone was occupied with Madam Shen’s illness, seclusion together had been achieved.
The medicine, fortunately, was exactly what the ailment required. By that same evening, Madam Shen had improved considerably, and by daybreak was already able to sit up. Joy swept through the entire Shen household. When Cui Jingyu descended the mountain with Qinglan and announced their reconciliation — and spoke of formalizing their betrothal — the celebration was doubly complete.
As the two of them had been engaged before, all the necessary preparations were already in place from the previous arrangement. Even Lady Wei had been prepared for years, producing objects that had been set aside four years ago. Lingbo, too, had made no small number of preparations: while helping Han Yueqi ready things for the wedding, she was pulling out bolts of silk and brocade that had been stored from before, smiling as she said: “This is what they call the phoenix returning to the wutong tree — everything restored to its rightful owner.”
With Cui Jingyu’s betrothal formalized, word naturally reached the palace. It happened to coincide with the third day of the third month — the Shangsi Festival — when a royal banquet was held. All noble households and official families of the capital, along with titled ladies, were expected to attend. A palace banquet was naturally far more lavish and magnificent than the private Flower Announcement Banquet: officials attended in ceremonial dress, and the ladies and young misses were turned out in full formal attire according to their rank. In a blaze of gold and purple, the hall shimmered with radiance in an air of supreme splendor.
And the newly betrothed Lord Cui and the eldest daughter of the Ye family naturally became the target of every teasing remark at the feast.
His Majesty himself led the jesting. In rare good spirits, he called for Cui Jingyu after the third round of wine and laughed: “We hear that Lord Cui’s happy occasion is near at hand? We were just thinking of issuing an imperial decree of marriage ourselves — it seems the Ye family’s daughters are truly remarkable.”
Others in attendance might have felt some unease at those words, but Cui Jingyu knew well enough how much His Majesty relied on him now, and responded with composed equanimity: “Your Majesty flatters me.”
Perhaps the Grand Princess had spoken well on his behalf. Perhaps it was the fact that the Duke of Yongguo, being unwell, had not attended the banquet, which stirred something in His Majesty — seeing that the “Heavenly General” he had once guarded against day and night was now an old man, as though a tiger had grown ancient and stiff inside the very cage built to contain him. Murmurs had made their way through the capital — people said the Emperor was heartless, that so great a general had been left without an heir. It was said the Zhao family had no human feeling.
And so His Majesty had been less heavy-handed toward the Garrison of the North than before, and was particularly indulgent toward Cui Jingyu. He made jesting remarks about the marriage throughout the banquet — it was, after all, a rare weakness in the otherwise unassailable Lord Cui. He could endure the Emperor’s teasing well enough, but when the banquet ended and he came to escort Qinglan to the carriage and the assembled ladies all joined in with their jokes, he found himself rather less able to endure it.
Pei Zhao, admirable as he was, had a status that was somewhat too elevated, and had the Grand Princess as a senior presence keeping watch — so the ladies dared to tease, but not to excess. Lord Cui, however, was just right. And Qinglan’s disposition — gentle and cultured, known to all — coupled with four years of regret that many a lady had privately lamented on her behalf, meant that today, with good fortune at last confirmed, nearly everyone was happy for her, except for a few families on poor terms with the Ye household.
So when Cui Jingyu appeared, the ladies were already half-inclined to watch the spectacle unfold. When he draped the fox-fur cape around Ye Qinglan’s shoulders and extended his hand to help her into the carriage, they could no longer contain themselves and burst out laughing.
“They always said Lord Cui was cold and unfeeling,” Lady He was the first to laugh. “It seems we simply never caught him in the right moment.”
Her words carried a trace of sourness, admittedly — the He family had once eagerly tried to arrange a match between He Qingyi and Cui Jingyu, and had experienced his coldness first-hand. Yet here was today.
But the Ye family was riding high these days, and other ladies were quick to add their voices, turning it into the sort of gentle teasing senior ladies bestow on young ones: “Indeed, indeed — it seems a match truly is heaven-ordained, one thing always has its match.” “We have seen something today — there actually exists someone who can bring Lord Cui to heel.”
It was no wonder they jested so freely — Lord Cui was genuinely indulgent, showing not the slightest irritation, and even smiling faintly, without a word of protest.
By that point the banquet had let out and the ladies were all gathered at the palace gates waiting for their carriages. Qinglan was already seated in the carriage, and hearing their remarks, she smiled and said: “Please, ladies, do not tease us — we cannot bear such honor.”
Her precisely proper manner made her all the more irresistible as a target, and the ladies grew only more spirited after she spoke — had Lingbo and Han Yueqi not come along to pull them apart, there was no telling how long that pair would have been laughed at.
Outside there was merriment and celebration, but within the palace it was somewhat more shadowed. No one knew His Majesty’s true temperament as well as Zhao Yanze. It was a somewhat irreverent thing to observe, but in these moments of public festivity, when His Majesty appeared to be rejoicing alongside his people with an emperor’s gracious smile, his thoughts were in truth darkly opaque — and it was precisely at such times that the coldest edicts tended to be decided.
Fortunately, things were different now than before. With Zhao Yanze present, there was at least some ability to pull things back.
Zhao Yanze habitually absented himself from palace banquets, and with Shen Biwei not in attendance today, there was even less reason to go. His Majesty, however, stopped by to see him after the feast ended. Zhao Yanze had been suffering from a cough from willow catkins these past few days and was frequently staying within the palace. By the time His Majesty arrived, he had already taken his medicine and was reading. Hearing the eunuch announce the imperial arrival, he rose with a smile to receive him.
“Reading all day long is taxing to the spirit — what is the use of staring at so many books?” His Majesty said upon entering.
Zhao Yanze, who was entirely at ease before him, smiled and replied: “By Your Majesty’s reasoning, if reading is not good, is hunting better?”
A few days prior, at the spring hunt, His Majesty had insisted on bringing Zhao Yanze along, hoping that riding and archery would strengthen his constitution. Instead, two days in the wind had put him in bed for half a month upon return.
At the mention of this, His Majesty could only press his lips together and said: “The He family has never had any method to their affairs — utterly unreliable on the important matters. It is only a matter of time before they are replaced.”
On matters of state, Zhao Yanze was careful not to offer opinions, and only smiled, asking: “Has my imperial aunt returned home? A few days ago she had Yingzhen come into the palace to visit me and sent many things along — I haven’t yet replied with gifts in return.”
A palace maid brought tea. His Majesty had had wine enough at the banquet and was already half in his cups, and his words came out like a man talking in a dream: “After all, the two of your families are close. We are the outsider now.”
In any other attendant, such words would have prompted no small amount of alarm. But Zhao Yanze remained unperturbed. He smiled and said: “Your Majesty, what a thing to say. Are we not all one family?”
“Not everyone may wish to be family with us.” His Majesty said, with studied nonchalance. “We intended all along to bestow a marriage on Cui Jingyu — your imperial aunt pressed us on it and gave the girl to the Ye family. The betrothal is settled and she still wants us to preside over the ceremony.”
Just from these words, who could have guessed that it was His Majesty himself who had raised the matter of presiding over Cui Jingyu’s wedding at the banquet, drawing a full hall of officials to raise their cups and praise the Emperor’s grace — while behind that gracious gesture lay misgivings this deep.
Zhao Yanze only smiled.
“My imperial aunt cares only about Yingzhen’s sake,” he said. His words seemed meant to offer comfort, yet every sentence landed squarely on His Majesty’s side, even carrying the same coolness of tone. He lifted his cup and sipped his tea, eyes lowered, and said evenly: “The Ye family has no male members — being imperial relatives-by-marriage is the most ideal arrangement. They have grown close to the Shen family, but they are friends, nothing more. When the time comes to separate them, it will be simple enough.”
The words seemed seamless on the surface, yet His Majesty still studied his expression carefully — and when their eyes met, both men smiled at once. Each understood the other’s thoughts. And it was precisely because they understood that the trust between them ran deeper.
The imperial sons were grown now, like wolf cubs whose claws were beginning to sharpen. Only before Zhao Yanze did His Majesty still feel that particular sensation of regarding a cherished younger member of his own household — with a playful edge to it.
“Does Shen Biwei truly mean so much to Ayin?” His Majesty asked, half in jest, half in earnest.
Zhao Yanze only kept his eyes lowered and drank his tea, making no reply.
His Majesty, left to his own thoughts, continued.
“That old tortoise Shen Zhangling — push him and he moves, let go and he stops. His son is the same — completely soft, led around in circles by that Han girl. And yet his daughter is something different — she has the blood of the Duke of Yongguo in her. The Shen family, across how many generations, has never produced a single princess consort. Half the great clans of the five surnames and seven lineages are waiting in line for such an honor — and they would have it fall to the Shen family.”
Seeing that he had truly begun to calculate the matter out, Zhao Yanze finally laughed.
“Imperial Uncle, please don’t jest.” He said lightly. “With a constitution like mine, I would only be doing harm to someone. Better not.”
His Majesty was not the sort of man to listen to such talk.
“Nonsense — if we give the order, who would dare say otherwise?” After all, he was the Son of Heaven, and even a slight frown carried the weight of imperial thunder. “This would be the Shen family’s great fortune — something others could beg for and never obtain. Has their family said something to cause offense?”
Zhao Yanze only kept his eyes lowered and smiled.
“Imperial Uncle need not guess at this — it is my own wish. I have no desire to take a wife so soon.” He turned the subject away, still smiling. “If Imperial Uncle insists on managing my affairs, then I shall have to manage His Majesty’s in return.”
His Majesty was amused despite himself.
“And what of mine would you manage?”
Zhao Yanze’s expression grew serious.
“I have heard that Your Majesty has been ordering the Observatory to supply Cinnabar Pellets of late. The pellets are volatile in nature — while their effects may seem remarkable, they cause hidden damage to the body. I urge Your Majesty to discontinue their use.”
His Majesty looked rather sheepish and said: “Who takes Cinnabar Pellets all day long — I only use one or two when the demands of state leave me exhausted.”
“I know that Your Majesty is burdened this time of year, with many affairs pressing upon you. I know, too, that it is my own failure — I cannot share in your labors.” Zhao Yanze said with gravity. “But the busiest time has passed. If I hear again of Cinnabar Pellets being delivered, I will seek an appointment and come to take up official duties.”
Only someone as close as family could speak in such a way — staking one’s own wellbeing against another’s for the sake of that person’s health. Even before this most intimate of nephews, His Majesty yielded, and could only seek to smooth things over: “Very well, I will have the Observatory stop the Cinnabar Pellets.”
After talking for a while longer, His Majesty knew Zhao Yanze was not one who could keep late hours, and had his imperial procession return to the palace. Zhao Yanze personally escorted him down to the steps below — this was a mark of his filial devotion. His Majesty was a man who could act with great ruthlessness when occasion demanded, but found it difficult to speak a word of softness. Mounting the imperial palanquin, he looked back and saw Zhao Yanze still standing at the foot of the steps in his crane-feather cloak, smiling up at him, his face pale, his features bearing unmistakably the look of the late Seventh Prince — and a deep ache settled in His Majesty’s chest. He immediately resolved to have those censors who had been impeaching Zhao Yanze for still residing in the palace past the age of majority sent off to the south to vent his feelings.
As for Zhao Yanze himself, he felt nothing out of the ordinary.
He had been born with a constitution that was deficient from before birth. He had known from early on that nine parts out of ten of the world’s affairs do not go as one wishes, and that of every ten things one might say, only two or three can be spoken aloud. Some things in this world were not meant for him — it was fated, and could not be forced.
After the chaos of the Peach Blossom Banquet that day, Shen Biwei had been summoned to the palace for questioning. He accompanied her throughout, and His Majesty could do nothing but let the matter quietly pass. By the time the questioning ended, it was deep in the night. He escorted her to the Dowager Consort’s quarters to stay, carrying a lantern as they walked. The palace corridor was narrow between its walls, and they walked a long stretch together.
Shen Biwei had said to him, teasing: “No wonder they say Prince Rui is favored. As it turns out, the power here is truly sky-reaching.”
He had replied in kind: “Precisely — so being my princess consort is a very good arrangement.”
A good arrangement indeed — sky-reaching power, an early death, early widowhood, taking one’s place among the Dowager Consorts in their old age. It had only been a jest. But Shen Biwei went stiff at it, and he noticed at once, and smiled, saying: “Never mind.”
“Never mind what?” Shen Biwei asked him.
“If the person I care for is hoping for my death, I would be very sad,” he said.
This was a declaration of feeling, hidden beneath the joke. Shen Biwei understood perfectly — which was precisely why she felt obliged to reprimand him. “Do not say such ill-omened things.”
He had never truly harbored that thought — it had only been a jest. But a man of his position should not make careless jests.
He had long since made his peace with this particular regret. There were many fine things in the world, but not every fine thing was his to possess.
He had often wished he could be the sort of young man his elders could lean upon — like Huo Yingzhen, who, whatever had passed before, provided the Grand Princess a pillar of support for as long as he lived.
And he lay awake at night, anxious about the old shadows hanging over His Majesty — worried that one day they would burst into a torrential downpour, washing everything away in a tide of mud, with no one able to keep themselves intact.
He worried of course about the Grand Princess, about the many confused and muddled imperial princes, about the people of the realm under heaven. But the one he worried about most was his own imperial uncle. It was almost laughable — but the Emperor whom all the world feared and whispered about, whom all called heartless and cold-blooded, appeared to Zhao Yanze as nothing more than a weary, frail man in the middle of his life. When that day finally arrived, everyone would find their way: the Grand Princess would find hers, Cui Jingyu would find his, even Wei Hanhai and the Duke of Yongguo would each have their path. Only the Yongxi Emperor, Zhao Hong, would be left entirely alone — a solitary ruler in an empty court.
And against this, he was powerless. Even his own death might very well become the spark that ignited the chaos.
Each time this thought came to him, it was like a thousand arrows through the heart.
And yet he was Zhao Yanze — of supreme nobility, of brilliant mind. He had long since arranged a destination for each person he worried about. The Grand Princess had her palatial retreat in Luoyang. Among the imperial sons, those who were loyal and honest of character he had quietly noted down as candidates. The rivers and mountains of the realm, the people of the land, the final wishes of two generations — these carried their own weight in His Majesty’s heart.
Only Shen Biwei.
That day at the Peach Blossom Banquet, she had said “I will not marry” — not “I will not marry you.” Zhao Yanze understood the distinction she was drawing. Though it pained him, he felt only gratitude.
His Majesty had called Shen Zhangling an old tortoise — and that was not without basis. Father and son of the Shen family each had their particular brand of pettiness. She was a crane among the clouds. The deep and cloistered walls of the Shen household were no fitting place for her to remain.
The peregrine falcon that Huo Yingzhen had caught — he had felt its fate was a pity as well. Knowing that His Majesty meant to use it to temper Yingzhen’s spirit, he had still petitioned for its release, and had it raised in the imperial garden until its wings were full and strong, then set free. By now it was surely hunting hares on the steppe — though he would never see it himself, the thought of it was satisfying. It felt complete.
But the crane that mattered most to him — where was her rightful place?
Madam Shen’s health required half a month of recovery, during which Shen Biwei did not venture outside. She naturally did not attend the palace banquet.
After the night of their honest exchange, mother and daughter had entered a peculiarly delicate state together. Shen Biwei herself felt nothing particularly out of the ordinary. She had gone to Madam Shen that night prepared to speak last words — that she had been saved was a joy beyond all expectation, and against that, nothing else amounted to much.
As Lingbo had said: as long as her mother was still here, nothing else mattered.
And so she asked for nothing beyond what she had. Every morning she came early to Madam Shen’s room, decocted and administered the medicine herself, and carried her mother out to the corridor to sit in the sunlight — she could lift Madam Shen into her arms entirely on her own, and settle her into the reclining chair on the veranda. The spring sunlight was exactly right. The courtyard was full of flowers in bloom: peach and plum, apricot and pear, every branch ablaze with color, bees hovering and circling amid the blossoms in great lively numbers.
She kept Madam Shen company in the sun, and sometimes an entire afternoon would pass without either of them saying a word.
But on the day Madam Shen’s strength had recovered enough for her to write, she suddenly spoke to Shen Biwei of her own accord.
“When you were small, I used to carry you out to look at the flowers, too,” she said. She was seated in the chair, thinned to little more than bone, and yet her expression was gently smiling — still the face of Shen Biwei’s childhood, still the mother she had trusted most completely. Shen Biwei had followed at her hem since she was small, held in her arms, lifted up to reach a branch of peach blossoms.
“I remember,” Shen Biwei said.
But memory was all it was.
She did not anticipate what her mother did next.
Madam Shen extended her hand and drew a letter from her sleeve — sealed, affixed with a golden seal. She set it on the tea table and pushed it toward Shen Biwei, who took it with a puzzled look.
“Don’t open it.” Even after this illness, Madam Shen remained as gentle as ever — though she had thinned beyond recognition, her voice was still soft and unhurried. “It is addressed to the Empress. Lady Wang of the Bureau of Rites has witnessed it. Simply keep it safe.”
Shen Biwei had already half-guessed what it contained, and yet she could not bring herself to believe it.
“The things you said to me that night — I have turned them over in my mind. At first I could not make sense of them, but in time I came to understand.” She raised her eyes and looked at Shen Biwei with the same gaze she had given her in childhood. “We are mother and daughter — it is I who have failed your trust. But this illness has made things clear to me.”
“I have always wanted to give you something, but could never decide what. The dowry was meant for you all along, though you have no wish to marry…” She spoke without haste. “And then I suddenly remembered — you are the one who does not wish to marry. Though it sounds like the whim of a child, the things you said that night were nothing like a child’s whims. If this is truly what you want, then let me give it to you.”
“Your father is a rigid man — I fear he would never consent. But I am your mother, and my last wishes naturally carry their own weight.” She looked into Shen Biwei’s eyes and told her: “While I live, I will carry this for you. If I am no longer here, you take this letter and present it to the Empress. Jingjin Nunnery is an imperial place of worship — Abbess Manci will bear witness. I have already pledged fifty years of offerings, and granted you the right, after my passing, to take residence in a separate household and pursue cultivation at home, maintaining your hair, spending your days in prayer for my sake. This is a path of filial devotion — no one can find fault with it.”
Shen Biwei was stunned, staring at her mother in silence. But Madam Shen smiled, reached out, and stroked her daughter’s hair. In her eyes was pride, and something of sorrow as well.
“What a pity — my Biwei, so beautiful, and yet she will be like the maiden of the Northern Palace.”
The maiden of the Northern Palace was an allusion from a classical text — from the Strategies of the Warring States: “Is the maiden Ying’er of the Northern Palace well? She removed her ornaments and earrings, and grew old without marrying, in order to care for her parents.”
Though Madam Shen had been born into a military family, she had read through the sages’ books for the sake of Lord Shen — and still, after all that, they had lived as strangers for twenty years.
That night, Shen Biwei had said: Shen Yunze was his father’s son, and she was her mother’s daughter. And now, after twenty-seven years of being Shen Zhangling’s wife, she was ready, at last, to be Shen Biwei’s mother.
She said: “Though your mother has often failed to understand what you say, or to comprehend your aspirations — if this is what you want, then I give it to you. Consider it the thirteenth birthday gift I never gave you.”
Even Zhao Yanze had not imagined the world could hold an ending like this. It was a gift no one else could have devised — only a mother could give it.
No one had ever seen Shen Biwei weep in such a way. The young mistress built of ice and snow could not speak a single word. She only called out “Mother” — and buried herself in Madam Shen’s arms, crying aloud with no restraint.
The courtyard was full of peach and plum in full bloom, bees waltzing about the flower clusters in a busy, humming dance, like a child nestled at a mother’s knee. In the bright spring sunshine of the third month, the light fell on this pair of mother and daughter beneath the corridor — so many years lost between them, and yet at last, there was this day.
With the betrothals of the two Ye sisters settled, this year’s Flower Announcement Banquet came effectively to an early close.
Before the day He Qingyi and Dai Yuquan had finalized their betrothal, Qinglan had tried to speak with her. Qinglan’s character, as Han Yueqi put it, meant that “though nobody paid her a salary to look after those girls at the Flower Announcement Banquet, she did it with all her heart, as though every one of them were her own younger sister.” Qinglan did in fact hold a certain standing here — after all, the Grand Princess herself had designated her to look after the young ladies, and she was older, now engaged, and sisterly in her nature. And so despite knowing there was some awkwardness to it, she still spoke to He Qingyi in earnest.
The words were delicate, but they needed to be said. It was only that in matters of marriage, one could not look at family standing alone — one must also consider character, and whether the two hearts were drawn to one another.
But He Qingyi saw things far more clearly than she did.
“I know that elder sister means well for me,” she only smiled faintly. “Besides, sister knows my circumstances at home — if I do not strive for myself, I fear my mother will be mistreated to death. Not everyone is blessed with the kind of fate elder sister has.”
That last sentence, coming after everything, carried its ambiguity — the He family had once pursued a place as the wife of the Marquis of Dingyuan. He Qingyi was sharp enough to know how much courage it took for Qinglan to come and advise her under such suspicion, and so she immediately extended her hand and took hold of Qinglan’s, to show she had not taken offense.
“Forgive me for speaking out of turn,” she said, looking at Qinglan with sincerity. “Elder sister — keep your guard against Lu Wanyang.”
It was not until half a month later that Qinglan understood her meaning: Lu Wanyang had married into the household of Prince Pingjun, becoming his secondary consort. Whether it was the Prince’s compensation to the Lu family for Lu Wenyin’s frontline maneuvering, or whether it was the Princess Consort of Pingjun reaping what she had sown, the two Lu sisters who had been the brightest stars of the Flower Announcement Banquet had, at last, each found their final resting place.
As for Lu Wanyang’s ambition and capability, rising step by step through the prince’s household would be only a matter of time.
But that was a story for many years into the future.
Discerning eyes could see that Lu Wanyang’s choice was an act of strategic withdrawal — like He Qingyi’s marriage, both had chosen to remove themselves from the contest for first place. With the two most remarkable contenders settled in this fashion, the others no longer pursued any further competition, and quietly arranged their own betrothals one by one. The Flower Announcement Banquet, said to be one of the finest in ten years, drew near its close even before the Peony Banquet had arrived.
Of the three names the world had agreed upon as this season’s finest prospects — Huo Yingzhen and Cui Jingyu — both had now formalized their betrothals. And the most promising of them all, Wei Yushan, had taken an altogether different turn.
By the time A’Cuo learned the news and came running to the Wei household, Wei Yushan had already packed nearly everything.
He had never much lived at home in the first place — since the age of fourteen he had been like a wild child, living always in the barracks. After coming to the capital, he had settled, like the other officers of the garrison, in a small courtyard on his own. These past few days had seen a steady stream of visitors: old comrades-in-arms and former subordinates, one after another. When A’Cuo arrived, he was in the middle of distributing among them the prizes he had won at the polo matches. He was a man born with the soul of a general — whatever he could not do, he would teach himself, and he would not stop until he had mastered it to the highest level. It had not been long since the polo banquet, yet he had drilled himself into a fluent player, and often arranged matches with Yuan Xiu. He had won a great deal. The prizes were all fine things, and people were scrambling for them on all sides.
A’Cuo’s entrance into the courtyard gave quite a start to the young officers jostling over the prizes — none of them had ever seen such a beautiful and gracefully-poised young lady, clearly of noble family, attended by maids and chaperones, robed in brocade and silk, with pearls and jade pinned throughout her hair. They froze in place.
Only the young lady’s expression was one of barely-contained anger, and her eyes were red-rimmed, fixed directly on Wei Yushan.
“You are going to the northern frontier?” she asked, without preamble, without even using his name. “Is it true? Three years without returning, and you are to go and drive out the Northern Rong?”
Wei Yushan smiled, somewhat embarrassed.
“So you found out after all.” He even tried to comfort her. “It’s not that long. Three years stationed there — if things go well, they may permit return visits to the capital. My parents are still here in the city, both getting on in years. And there will not be actual fighting — there is a small remnant force of Northern Rong men who have scattered outside the border and still refuse to surrender, and keep raiding the frontier herders, so we are going to hold the garrison and keep the peace. The tea-and-horse markets need someone to oversee them as well…”
A’Cuo did not care to hear any of this, and her tears came at once.
Arguments were one thing, but a posting to the frontier was another matter entirely. Battle was always perilous — even Lord Cui, formidable as he was, had people who feared for his life in war. Life and death on a battlefield were beyond anyone’s prediction.
Those around them, showing tact, made themselves scarce, leaving the two of them alone in the courtyard — save for the little maid who remained, and the chaperones who had stepped back.
Wei Yushan set about comforting her in earnest.
“Don’t cry. Truly, it’s nothing serious. You know what I’m capable of, don’t you? At most a year before it’s settled, and the remaining two years will be easy enough…” He had learned something of the capital’s proprieties by now, and wanted to wipe her tears, but feared it would be unseemly and found himself thoroughly at a loss.
A’Cuo glared at him through her tears.
“You’re deceiving me!” Sharp as she was, she had already pieced together the entire picture in an instant. “At the spring hunt, you deliberately spoke to Lu Wanyang, then picked a quarrel with me and drove me away — all to sever things cleanly between us, wasn’t it?”
Wei Yushan smiled, a little sheepish.
“I actually guessed, fairly early on, that you wanted me to help mend the red thread.” He told A’Cuo. “I am hotheaded, but I am not dim. I don’t blame you. It’s all right — I know you were doing it for elder sister Ye and brother Cui.”
A’Cuo could no longer hold back her tears, and went to him and hit him several times.
“What do you mean by this? You think I wouldn’t wait for you? So you decided to break things off first. Were all the things you said before false?”
Wei Yushan received the blows without complaint or anger, and only smiled.
Over the course of this one spring, he seemed to have grown. He was almost beginning to resemble the Cui Jingyu he so admired — no longer simply skimming the surface of everything, now capable of holding things quietly within.
“I was not afraid you would wait for me. It is simply that the northern frontier needs someone, and no one else can be spared — I am the best choice to go.” He told A’Cuo with earnestness. “And you are still young. You have many more years of Flower Announcement Banquets ahead of you. You need not pin yourself to a single tree because of me.”
“And besides, I am not all that good,” he said, and seeing A’Cuo cry so pitiably, he even tried to coax her: “I bear grudges, you know — do you remember? I said that if you deceived me, I would deceive you once in return. And have I not just deceived you once?”
A’Cuo only wept.
“I don’t care.” She was inexplicably stubborn about it.
But she herself did not entirely know what it was she refused to accept. The imperial edict had been issued — three years at the frontier was fixed, and the dangers of war were fixed. There was truly nothing she could do. In this moment, she came to understand, just a little, what elder sister Qinglan had faced four years ago.
The two of them were like a pair of children, imitating what they had seen of the adults around them, finding it all quite interesting, without understanding the weight behind it. By the time understanding came, it was already too late to do anything.
Fortunately, Wei Yushan had learned from Cui Jingyu how to bear that weight.
They had drawn their lessons from what they had witnessed in those older than themselves, and learned how to face this parting.
“It’s all right.” He told A’Cuo with sincere reassurance. “Three years will pass quickly. A’Cuo, live well in the capital, enjoy yourself, and when three years are up, don’t bother remembering me. Three years from now when I return, we can treat it as though we’re meeting for the first time.”
What he left unspoken was: if he did not return in three years, they should treat it as though they had never met — and not grieve.
But A’Cuo had learned something of Lingbo’s spirit. The world was unpredictable — and she was determined to insist.
“I don’t believe in that.” She dug out what she had been keeping close and shoved it into his hands. Wei Yushan saw it and was immediately struck speechless, then broke into a laugh.
It was the stone beast tile he had climbed the bell tower to knock down for A’Cuo on New Year’s Eve — a palm-sized creature, dense and heavy, already warm from her body heat.
“You promised me,” A’Cuo said, teeth clenched, in a tone of command. “Wishing on a stone beast tile from the bell tower at the Sutra Repository Temple is the most efficacious of all — infallible, never once failed. I am wishing for you to come back safe and whole, nothing missing, nothing harmed. A man of honor does not go back on his word. If you dare to break this promise, I will never forgive you for the rest of my life!”
With Wei Yushan’s departure, not only did the Flower Announcement Banquet in the capital draw to a close — A’Cuo’s own personal season came to an end as well.
Lingbo and Qinglan had both seen it coming, and each offered comfort in their own way. Lingbo’s counsel was practical: “That little scoundrel Wei Yushan — what is worth waiting for? Hasn’t he always claimed to be Cui Jingyu’s direct disciple? If he hasn’t the ability to earn his own marquisate, the ancestors of the Wei family would never forgive him. Rest easy — he’s come through far greater battles than this. A small-scale pacification of scattered remnants is nothing to worry about. He might be back within a year. Stop fretting and live your own life properly — that’s what matters.”
A’Cuo answered agreeably enough, but for all to see she was growing more superstitious by the day — she had even taken to following Madam Shen’s example, keeping a vegetarian diet on the first and fifteenth of each month. It was both exasperating and amusing to watch.
When Lingbo’s efforts proved insufficient, Qinglan stepped in: “A’Cuo, do not trouble yourself with worry. All things have their appointed course. Yushan has a general’s talent, and with senior officers from the Mountain Character Brigade accompanying him, this venture will be a chance to earn distinction. Trust and wait for him.”
But A’Cuo was equally stubborn, and it was unclear whether any of it had truly sunk in. One day she even brought up the flower name tags, saying: “Actually those tags were rather accurate. Mine had a pomegranate blossom: ‘A thousand folds of dark green canopy, a single streak of red among the gaps. Bloom when the season comes, whenever that may be — need not wed the east wind of spring.’ ‘Need not wed the east wind of spring’ — perhaps I really will have to wait four years after all.”
The imperial edict already said three years, and she was adding another — it was both laughable and pitiable. Lingbo was amused herself, and simply said: “In that case, why not go to your elder sister’s temple and offer a longevity incense stick as well?”
And that was the unlucky day Cui Jingyu happened to be at the gathering. Lord Cui, a man of few words and cold expression, had a quick mind nonetheless, and his brow furrowed: “As well?”
One careless remark of Lingbo’s brought several new waves of visitors to Luming Temple — A’Cuo truly went and offered a longevity incense stick, and Lord Cui subjected the temple’s keeper to a thorough interrogation. But that, as they say, is another story altogether.
A’Cuo herself had said her own imagery was similar to Qinglan’s — and she was not wrong, though there was one character’s difference between them.
She was far too young. She had been thrust headlong into the capital’s Flower Announcement Banquet in a state of bewilderment, met Wei Yushan in a state of bewilderment, wanted to do something for her elder sisters in a state of bewilderment, and in doing so had spent an entire spring in bewilderment, all for nothing.
She had been so busy trying to make Wei Yushan like her that she had never once stopped to ask whether she liked him.
Fortunately, there was someone who eventually managed to reach her.
By then the Flower Announcement Banquet was nearly over. The Ye sisters were preparing for their weddings, and Wutong Courtyard was full of cheerful commotion — nothing but joy on all sides. A’Cuo had never experienced anything like it, and sat to one side watching Niangzi Yang, Niangzi Lin, and Niangzi Luo bustle to and fro, bolts of embroidered silk and precious stones being carried in and out, dowry lists drawn up for the feast menus, guest lists compiled, congratulatory announcements dispatched, return gifts received — the entire household was in a state of delightful disarray.
In the midst of all that busyness, Yanyan had somehow come to sit beside A’Cuo without anyone quite noticing.
She seemed entirely unaffected by the surrounding commotion, and handed A’Cuo a flaky pastry, sitting beside her to watch everyone rush about.
“Look — Liu Ji is about to be in trouble,” she said, pointing it out to A’Cuo. “He bought the wrong lacquered box, and now several of the niangzis are going to give him a lesson together. This has a name in opera — can you guess what?”
“What?”
“The Three Women Educating the Son,” Yanyan said, without missing a beat.
A’Cuo couldn’t help but laugh.
Being only sixteen herself, she threw the question back: “And you see Xiao Liu’er going up to speak up for her brother — what is that opera called?”
“A Single Rider to the Rescue.”
“Wrong — that’s Battle of Wits Against the Assembly.”
Yanyan burst into laughter. The two sat together on the steps, assigning opera titles to everyone in the courtyard: someone playing Zhuge Liang, someone playing Cao Cao, Niangzi Yang scolding Yang Hua in the manner of a strict father educating a child, Liu Ji and Yang Xiaolai as two actors in a play where one takes the blows and the other willingly delivers them — they went on laughing and talking until they had eaten through most of Yanyan’s store of flaky pastries.
A’Cuo had not laughed so freely and openly in a long while. She felt the anxiety that had been weighing on her heart for so many days begin to ease — and then she heard Yanyan ask: “What opera do you think Wei Yushan is performing right now in the northern frontier?”
A’Cuo went stiff all at once, but she heard Yanyan say, smiling serenely: “I am quite certain it must be Sealing the Wolf Mountain.”
A’Cuo was perceptive enough to know she was being comforted. Yanyan knew she had caught on, but continued to look at her with eyes that curved into crescent moons — she had a natural almond eye shape, those eyes ordinarily lively and bright as little black fish darting in water, and when she turned that focused gaze on a person, it was like warm spring sunlight: gentle and unwavering.
Had she not only failed to ever truly know Wei Yushan, but also never truly known Yanyan?
A’Cuo felt her eyes sting, and forced herself to answer: “Wrong.”
“Then it is Carving an Inscription at Yanran Mountain.” Yanyan remained firm in her conviction. “The Northern Rong are descendants of the Northern Xiongnu — Yanran Mountain is naturally closer to their territory.”
A’Cuo could conceal it no more, and lowered her eyes.
“I am afraid it might be some other opera.”
“There will be no other opera.” Yanyan told her with absolute certainty. “You must believe in Wei Yushan.”
“But what if there is some other opera?” A’Cuo still could not stop herself from asking.
She had never been the most fortunate. Every person who had meant something to her had been leaving — her grandfather, her aunt… and so she had grown desperate, clinging fiercely to those around her even as she doubted whether she was truly, as Lu Wenyin had once said behind her back, an ill-omened girl, a harbinger of bad luck.
But now Yanyan took hold of her hand. Her palm was warm and steady.
“Whatever opera it turns out to be, I will be here,” she said, looking into A’Cuo’s eyes. “I will stay beside you, always. Just as second sister stays beside elder sister. We will be the closest of sisters — and no matter what happens, no one will leave the other. Whatever comes, we will face it together.”
A’Cuo’s tears fell at once.
“I’m sorry.” She leaned against Yanyan’s shoulder and wept. “I was so terrible to you before, always shouting at you for the smallest thing…”
“I was at fault too — I shouldn’t have eaten things in bed on purpose.” Yanyan said honestly. “I did it on purpose, actually — you seemed so wound up all day long, and I wanted to tease you just a little…”
But without waiting for A’Cuo to react, she steered them back: “Actually, it doesn’t matter. My elder sisters used to argue as well, and would make our mother referee. But when our mother was no longer with us, they became each other’s anchor.”
There was always something warm and substantial about Yanyan, as if carried in those boxes of pastries — just holding her hand made A’Cuo feel a steadiness, as though some gap inside her had been filled.
Perhaps what she had always needed was not an elder sister to look up to, but a younger sister to walk alongside.
“What opera a person’s life becomes is for that person to decide. Who cares what Wei Yushan’s opera is? Whatever he performs, we will meet it. Whatever becomes of him — I will be beside you. We will sing our own ‘Golden Orchid Pact,’ just like elder sister and second sister. Isn’t that what you have always wanted?”
Perhaps it was the sincerity in her voice. Perhaps it was the blooming of the rambling roses filling the courtyard, or the brightness of the sunlight — A’Cuo found herself drifting back to the day she had returned with the Ye sisters, Qinglan helping her up into the carriage, Lingbo eagerly lifting the curtain, and Yanyan already seated inside, looking at her with a smile.
And her fate had begun to change from that very day.
What did it matter whether one wed the east wind of spring? At that time, Qinglan had not yet won her eastern wind, and she herself had not yet met Wei Yushan — yet her greatest wish had simply been to join this family, to become one of them. That night, sleeping in the Ye household’s bed, her only hope had been that this beautiful dream would never end.
A clarity settled over A’Cuo’s heart. She reached out and took hold of Yanyan’s hand.
She said: “All right. Let us sing our own Golden Orchid Pact.”
Once more a full summer had come, and the lotus flowers of Jiangnan were just right.
After ten years’ absence, the Ye family’s river barge sailed south again, retracing the paths of childhood — admiring the lotus, gathering water chestnuts, savoring water shield soup and perch, drinking wine amid the flowers, watching the willows sway over both banks in the moon and breeze, beautiful in every direction. There was, of course, Lingbo proposing the analogy of dropping anchor, along with Lord Cui’s repeated cross-examinations; Qinglan reaching the end of her patience with Han Yueqi reciting lotus poetry at her for the entire journey; Shen Biwei insisting on an archery contest with Pei Zhao and demanding Lingbo serve as judge. Yanyan slipped ashore to buy pastries, with A’Cuo providing cover — only to be caught in the act.
By the end of the river journey, the barge drifted into a wild lake that no one had seen before — and no one had ever seen so many lotus flowers. It was exactly as the poems described: lotus leaves stretching to meet the sky, an endless expanse of dark green as far as the eye could see, vivid red blooms held aloft, spreading all the way to where the water met the horizon. The sight was breathtaking.
Everyone had been drinking. Away from the capital’s formalities, each person had their own particular manner of loosening up. Yanyan and A’Cuo had fallen asleep early. Han Yueqi and Shen Biwei were debating the geomantic fortunes of the Shen family’s estate. Lingbo was egging on a poetry contest between Shen Biwei and Pei Zhao, with the loser to go down and pick flowers. Even Qinglan had dashed off a few verses — adapting to the moment and the scene as required, some of the lines inevitably came out rather spirited: something to the effect of “the flower blooms with no particular master — why must it wed the east wind?” The natural consequence was that Lord Cui invited her to answer for her scholarship, which was entirely to be expected.
By the time the wine was fully gone, the moon had risen to the center of the sky. The moonlight of Jiangnan was as fine as everything else here — every last thing was just right. Lingbo had drunk too much and fallen asleep against Qinglan’s side, reaching out and taking her hand in a drowsy way, murmuring “elder sister” in a voice just like when she was ten years old.
Here was Jiangnan in all its finest — the moonlight clear and pure, the east wind gentle and warm, everyone she wished to see gathered close, the water gently rocking, as though inside a beautiful dream.
This evening was only one ordinary evening in the long expanse of a lifetime, and there would be many more evenings as fine as this one.
They would still travel many more rivers and mountains together, pass through many more days and nights together, on and on, year after year.
(The End)
Author’s Note: The main story of “Unwilling to Wed the East Wind” concludes here. Side stories are still in the planning stages. Thank you for your company through this winter. It brings me great joy that you have loved this story, and I am grateful for all your comments and recommendations. I hope it has brought a little warmth to your winter days. I will keep working hard and write even better stories.