Deputy Official Gu had not submitted the memorial — but he was not the only censor in court. The matter of the theater ultimately reached the throne.
After court was dismissed, the Emperor summoned Yan Chengzhao.
“It was your servant’s failure — your servant lost control of his whereabouts, causing the hidden post to be exposed and destroyed.” Yan Chengzhao took sole responsibility for the lapse and reported it thus.
The Emperor, now informed of the full circumstances, had no intention of censuring Yan Chengzhao. He said: “Chengzhao, there is no need to take all the blame upon yourself — We know where the fault lies.”
He added: “Let this matter rest as it is.” The words were mild, yet a trace of the Emperor’s anger was still perceptible beneath them.
The old Prince, having been impeached by the censors, was slow to grasp what had happened. When he saw the theater reduced to cinders, only then did it belatedly dawn on him that this had been no ordinary theater — but by then, it was too late.
Barely half a month passed before the old Prince’s face looked several years more aged. He went to the Zhenguo General’s residence to seek out his second son. Hoping to make some amends and win back a measure of goodwill, he said to Yan Chengzhao: “I thought you were fond of that young woman in blue, and wanted to fulfill your wishes — that was why I…”
A long sigh. The words on the tip of his tongue would not come out. After a long pause he continued: “Who would have guessed that she was a covert operative under the Southern Office of Judicial Review.”
Yan Chengzhao remained unmoved. He replied: “Since Father stepped down from the position of Commander-in-Chief of the Capital Garrison, he has become increasingly confined within the walls of the residence.”
Without the bold decisiveness and sharp judgment of his earlier years, his vision had grown narrower and his mind more skewed.
The old Prince looked abashed and said nothing in reply.
As if by some coincidence, not long after, the Household Steward of the Fuping Commandery Prince’s residence, located in the far northwest, submitted a memorial stating that the Prince of Fuping was old and frail, with no surviving heirs. He petitioned the Imperial Clan Court to follow the ancestral precedents and select a worthy candidate from a collateral branch of the imperial clan to manage the affairs of the household in his stead.
The Fuping Commandery Prince’s household was affiliated with the Sujin Wang line, situated near Ganzhou in the northwest.
“Managing the household affairs in the Prince’s stead” meant acting as administrator of all the household’s affairs, so that when the reigning Prince passed, a new Prince could take over the household smoothly.
In matters of inheritance and succession, by convention the heir should be designated while the Prince was still living — following the household’s order of precedence, the role of acting administrator would ordinarily be taken up by the heir apparent. But the Prince of Fuping’s only son had died young, and the Prince had since been bedridden with depression and grief, leaving the line of succession broken.
The Household Steward was a fifth-rank official dispatched by the court. Nominally, he assisted in managing the political affairs of the various royal households; in practice, he also served as something of a surveillance officer, preventing the households from acting as they pleased and deceiving the court.
The Steward’s memorial on this occasion was a precautionary measure — to select a suitable “heir” for the Prince of Fuping in good time. The person chosen would serve and attend to the Prince of Fuping until his death, oversee the funeral arrangements, and then receive an investiture from the court, inheriting the Commandery Prince title and continuing this branch of the lineage.
The principle was the same as “adoption.”
While such cases were not common, they were not unheard of. Generally, following the order of legitimate birth and seniority, a Defending General or a Supporting General would be selected from a collateral branch. Once the Imperial Clan Court and the Ministry of Rites had verified the candidate’s identity, it only required the Emperor’s approval.
When the Imperial Clan Court looked into the imperial jade register, it discovered that the Fuping Commandery Prince’s line had been an only-child succession for three generations. This meant they needed to trace back three generations to find a collateral branch. By the rules of precedent, this matter had fallen, by turns of succession, upon Yan Chengzhao.
When the Ministry of Rites and the Imperial Clan Court reported this to the Emperor, even the Emperor was somewhat taken aback.
On this day, the Emperor summoned the Prince of Anping for an audience.
The old Prince’s expression was tense, for he had assumed the Emperor intended to assign punishment over the theater affair. When the Emperor instead engaged him in familiar conversation — asking after the Prince’s household and its affairs — the old Prince exhaled in relief.
When the atmosphere had been suitably prepared, the Emperor asked: “Does the Prince of Anping remember the Prince of Fuping?”
Both belonged to the Sujin Wang lineage — how could the old Prince ever forget? He replied: “Your Majesty, your servant does remember… Only, after the Prince of Anping’s household was ordered to relocate to Baoding Prefecture, there was little contact between us.” Within the imperial family, kinship was no shield against suspicion — private contact between branches was particularly frowned upon.
One was in Ganzhou in the northwest, the other at the foot of the Son of Heaven — the distance was indeed considerable.
The old Prince could not fathom why the Emperor had suddenly brought up this matter, and began to feel uneasy again.
The Emperor rose and paced slowly as he spoke, reminiscing: “We recall that one year, the Prince of Fuping was summoned to the capital for an imperial audience and paid a visit to the Prince of Anping’s residence.” He then turned to Eunuch Xiao, who stood in attendance at his side: “Xiao Jin, was there not such an occasion?”
Eunuch Xiao smiled and replied: “Your Majesty, there was indeed. When the Prince of Fuping later had an audience with the late Emperor, he spoke highly of the Anping heir apparent — said that even as a small child he was not afraid of strangers, and that when picked up he was well-behaved and docile. He called it a bond of affinity.”
Listening to the two of them play out this exchange — the Emperor setting the scene, the eunuch providing the details — the old Prince already sensed a trap was being laid. Why else would the Prince of Fuping come up so out of nowhere?
The Emperor had summoned him for an audience, and from the very beginning, it had never been about the theater affair.
The old Prince had not yet thought of a way to respond, and the Emperor had already put the question directly: “Prince of Anping, do you remember this occasion?”
Even if he did not, he had to say he did. The old Prince hesitated for a long moment, and seeing that the Emperor waited in patient silence for his answer, he at last replied: “Indeed… there was such a bond of affinity.”
Only then did the Emperor signal Eunuch Xiao to bring the Household Steward’s memorial before the old Prince.
After reading it from beginning to end, the sweat from his palms had soaked through the memorial’s xuan paper. The old Prince’s hands trembled, yet he dared not let the memorial fall to the ground. At last he understood what the Emperor meant — to have his eldest son journey to the northwestern frontier, to manage the affairs of the Fuping Commandery Prince’s household in the Prince’s stead, and ultimately inherit the title of Fuping Commandery Prince.
For the Emperor to issue such an edict directly would be a violation of ancestral precedents.
But if the old Prince submitted the petition of his own initiative, it would be the Emperor granting fulfillment of a bond of affinity — proper and legitimate in every respect.
The old Prince had no wish to agree — but how could he refuse? The Prince of Anping’s household had not offended for the first time. The Emperor had a clear and settled intention to keep Yan Chengzhao in the capital.
If he declined, he would only invite worse consequences.
“Your Majesty, but Chengjin is the Prince of Anping’s heir apparent…”
The Emperor smiled: “The Prince of Anping has more than one son.” He would have the Ministry of Rites draw up an edict establishing Yan Chengzhao as the new heir apparent of the Prince of Anping’s household — simple enough.
The old Prince had no ground left to argue from. To have both sons inherit the rank of Commandery Prince — in the eyes of outsiders, this should have been good fortune.
Cold sweat that would not stop, and regret that would not stop either.
“Has the Prince of Anping thought it through?” The Emperor asked.
Not “thought it over” — but “thought it through.”
Years of commanding troops had left the old Prince capable of maintaining composure and clear thinking. He kowtowed and replied: “Your Majesty, since there was once a bond of affinity, your servant will return home now and submit the appropriate petition.”
A petition to send his eldest son to the frontier, to serve and attend upon another man until that man’s death.
“… Your servant humbly implores Your Majesty to grant approval.”
“Approved.”
That night, the Prince of Anping’s residence erupted into chaos. The Princess Consort wept and wailed in despair. The heir apparent clung tightly to the old Prince’s legs, sobbing, and begged him between tears: “Father, your son doesn’t want to go to Ganzhou… Find Second Brother! Yes — Second Brother must have a way…”
Pei Ruotan, still the heir apparent’s consort for now, was soon to become the Fuping heir apparent’s consort. She wanted to say “I’ll go back to the Minister of Revenue’s residence and ask Grandfather to think of something,” but the words reached her lips and she swallowed them back down. Her father had only just gone south to Suzhou to survey and measure the land — a fragile opening, a sliver of a chance. How could she go back at this moment and add more trouble?
She could only think about how, before they departed, to first get her two daughters’ marriages settled. She had not learned only cunning from her grandmother.
The old Prince looked at his robe hem — damp and tear-stained — and then looked at his forty-some-year-old son, weeping and wailing in such a state. Coveting wealth and comfort, without a shred of ambition in his chest — the old Prince had assumed his eldest son was merely mediocre. In truth it was more than that: his eldest son was incompetent and cowardly. The old Prince raised his hand with force, and then slowly let it fall — and in the end struck himself across the face.
A sharp, crisp sound.
“Even if the Prince does not think of his son, think at least of Little Ju — he is still so small…” The Princess Consort pleaded, hoping the old Prince would change his mind. “What kind of precedent is this — leaving the secondary son behind and sending the legitimate heir to be adopted out? Has the imperial clan thrown out all its ancestral rules and precedents?”
These words from the Princess Consort not only sent cold sweat running down the old Prince’s back — they also brought him somewhat to his senses. He rebuked her sharply: “Do you think the Prince’s household has not committed enough offenses already?”
The young grandson was pushed forward by his grandmother. Taking in the expressions of everyone around him, he was bewildered and frightened. Even his grandfather — who usually doted on him endlessly — had not even thought to hold him.
He looked around, and at last found warmth in the face of his own mother.
“Little Ju — come to Mother.”
Though hesitant, the child wavered for a moment and then ran to her, burrowing into her embrace.
The heir apparent’s secondary consort said: “My lord, wherever the Prince’s young heir goes, I will follow without a word of complaint.” She alone had read the situation clearly.
With each person harboring their own thoughts, the household had no peace through the night. The old Prince stood in the tower for a long while, gazing into the boundless darkness. Only when the first light of dawn touched the horizon did he at last return to his study and write out the memorial: “My eldest son, Chengjin, is upright and pure in nature. He is willing to attend to the final affairs of the Prince of Fuping…”
More than a month later, the Ministry of Rites and the Imperial Clan Court conducted the formal ceremonies with great pomp and ceremony — yet throughout, the heir apparent’s face remained sunken and dark.
With the rites complete, and bearing in mind that the snows would seal the mountain passes in the northwest early, the Emperor permitted them to depart the following spring.
In late autumn, before the winter snows sealed the rivers, ships from Taicang Prefecture arrived in the capital from the south.
After receiving his brother-in-law’s letter, Pei Shaojin had not only tracked down all the various tools for cotton spinning and weaving and found experienced craftsmen well-versed in cotton textile work on his sister’s behalf — he had also, during the autumn harvest season, purchased several hundred hemp sacks of cotton bolls from the farming households of Songjiang Prefecture. He chartered a mid-sized merchant vessel of three hundred liao capacity and sent everything — people and cargo alike — north to the capital together.
Qiao Yunsheng was kept busy from morning to night, overseeing the construction of a small workshop in the manor. One had to see with one’s own eyes how cotton cloth was woven before one could better plan for this enterprise.
On a day of rest, Pei Shaohuai and Yang Shiyue went together to visit Third Sister’s cotton weaving workshop.
Before they set out, Pei Shaohuai kept them in suspense, saying: “Today we are going to see some remarkable and interesting things.” Yang Shiyue knew that her husband never spoke empty words, and was immediately filled with curiosity about the cotton weaving workshop.
In the manor’s workshop, the sound of looms filled the air. Though winter had not yet come, the chill had arrived early.
Pei Ruozhu, nine months along with child, could not endure the floating fluff of cotton — she could only watch from a distance outside as the experienced craftsmen worked with practiced skill, proceeding through the steps one by one: removing the seeds while preserving the fibers, bowing and fluffing the cotton until it was light and airy, spinning it into thread, sizing the warp threads with starch, and so on — until finally they had skeins upon skeins of cotton yarn, waiting only to be woven into cloth.
The workshop doors rang out. Pei Ruozhu turned her head and saw her younger brother and his wife walking in together. As her condition made movement difficult, she beckoned them over to sit and talk.
“Third Sister and Brother-in-law have moved so quickly.” Pei Shaohuai said, taking in the already-established small workshop as he walked forward, then teased: “The ship full of cotton bolls that Jin sent — I fear it won’t last half a month’s worth of supply.”
Pei Shaohuai had already seen cotton weaving in Taicang Prefecture, so it did not hold particular novelty for him — but Yang Shiyue was transfixed from the moment she entered, her steps slowing half a beat behind.
Yang Shiyue considered herself well-acquainted with many kinds of weaving instruments, but every single piece of equipment here was something she had never seen before. Most remarkable of all: the cotton fiber — dry and flat in the boll — would be drawn by the bow string, struck again and again, until it fluffed up and billowed out, like white snow blanketing the ground.
Pei Shaohuai slowed his steps as well. He smiled, reached out, and took Yang Shiyue’s hand, guiding her along, worried she might not watch where she was stepping.
Yang Shiyue came back to herself, a warmth rising in her heart.
Once the two of them had sat down, Pei Ruozhu smiled and said: “Having seen the cotton spinning process with my own eyes, I have finally understood why so many different kinds of equipment need to be separated out.” This had been the question Pei Shaohuai had left with her last time.