Chen Baoxiang’s illness kept her in bed for several days. Her consciousness drifted in and out, and it was entirely Zhang Zhixu holding things together.

He cooperated when the physician came to read her pulse. The physician said the underlying constitution was sound — she had simply sustained too many consecutive injuries and hardships — and added that there was also a great deal of pent-up grief inside her that needed to be worked through.

The first part was Chen Baoxiang’s condition. The second part was probably his.

Zhang Zhixu often couldn’t make sense of why heaven had given him such exceptional gifts and then given him absolutely no opportunity to use them. Everyone placed on the second tier of the examination list had by now taken up posts in the Three Departments. He alone had been assigned to the Bureau of Works — overseeing manufacturing, weaving, brewing, and construction.

He had no foothold in law. He had no voice in court matters. Everything he had ever learned, and not a shred of it had any use.

It was difficult not to let that fester.

He let out a long breath.

“Great Immortal,” Chen Baoxiang murmured.

Zhang Zhixu came back to himself — but she hadn’t woken. She was talking in her sleep: “Help me.”

Something in him softened. He reached out her hand and patted her own arm gently, his voice quiet: “It’s alright now. You’re safe.”

“Help me,” she called again, more desperate, tears spilling one after another from the corners of her eyes.

Zhang Zhixu felt a wave of crushing grief wash over him — far heavier and more acute than anything of his own, surging up like a flood, making it difficult to breathe.

He braced himself against the bed railing. His fury at those illegal workshops deepened further, and he thought: when he was back in his own body, he would exercise his authority at the Bureau of Works and have every operation like that swept clean.

The figure on the bed suddenly opened her eyes.

“You’re awake?” He touched her forehead.

Chen Baoxiang sat up. She looked around for a long moment before asking, voice rough: “Have I already married into the Pei Family?”

“What Pei Family — this is Zhang Zhixu’s Xun Yuan,” he said, exasperated. “Have you forgotten how you got here?”

She spent some effort reconstructing her memory, then immediately felt for her purse.

“It’s there — the bank drafts are all there.” He could hardly decide whether to laugh or be resigned. “That’s all you ever think about, isn’t it.”

“That’s ten thousand taels!” She went bright with excitement again. “Great Immortal, do you have any idea how much happiness ten thousand taels can buy?”

He didn’t, actually.

Zhang Zhixu thought, without warmth, that ten thousand taels in his world was a strand of jade beads or one exceptionally crafted carriage. If he wanted to buy a residence that met his standards, he’d need to add considerably more.

“Come on — let me show you.” She got out of bed, slipped on her shoes, and made for the door.

She was still wearing the coarse hemp she’d arrived in. Dirt was still lodged under her fingernails. Zhang Zhixu would normally have found that objectionable — but she was happy, and the suffocating heaviness that had pressed on him for days lifted entirely with her mood. Everything felt lighter.

The corners of his mouth rose in a way he didn’t quite notice, his voice carrying an indulgence he wasn’t fully aware of either: “As you like.”

Chen Baoxiang went straight to Wanbao Pavilion — the place she had always wanted to visit and never dared.

It was a five-storey building with sweeping eaves and carved ornamentation. Two rows of attendants stood outside to receive guests. Inside, nothing cost less than ten taels, and ordinary people passing by gave it a wide berth.

She herself had always given it a wide berth — afraid of brushing against something and ending up ruined, or asking a price and not being able to afford it, only to be looked at with contempt.

But today, she walked up to the steps with her chin held high.

“Honored guest.” An attendant came to intercept her, looking her up and down with a quick, dismissive glance before producing a thin, obligatory smile. “We have a policy here — anyone not presentably dressed cannot enter.”

Chen Baoxiang looked down at herself. “Outer robe, skirt, shoes — I think I’m dressed quite presentably.”

The attendant twitched his mouth and gestured to a nearby customer. “That is what we call presentable.”

Chen Baoxiang turned to look. My goodness — silver-embroidered upper garment, gold-embroidered lower skirt, jade-inlaid shoes, and six gold hairpins stacked on her head.

Then she looked at the face, and — well, wasn’t that something — Lu Qingrong.

The other woman had clearly spotted her too. Her eyes went wide: “Chen Baoxiang?”

In the past, dressed the way she was, Chen Baoxiang would never have let herself be seen by someone like Lu Qingrong — afraid of the mockery. But Zhang Zhixu could feel it: today Chen Baoxiang was standing with a completely different spine. She held her head up and walked straight toward her. “Shopping as well?”

Lu Qingrong raised her handkerchief over her nose, looking her up and down. “Where have you been begging?”

“Somewhere you wouldn’t know about.” Chen Baoxiang gave a light, dismissive sound, then hooked her arm through Lu Qingrong’s and said: “Come — keep me company while I pick out some clothes.”

“Get your filthy hand off me.” Lu Qingrong shook her loose with distaste. “This outfit I’m wearing is a limited one-of-a-kind piece. If you damage it, selling you wouldn’t cover the cost.”

Chen Baoxiang ignored this entirely, rode Lu Qingrong’s presence right through the entrance of Wanbao Pavilion, swept a glance across the first floor’s displays, and said to the nearest attendant: “Nothing worth looking at on this floor. Take me upstairs.”

The attendant maintained a smile, but her eyes were plainly contemptuous. “Everything upstairs has been reserved for clients from distinguished families — none of it is for sale.”

Chen Baoxiang slapped a bank draft down onto the counter.

The proprietor had been mid-yawn. He caught the denomination of the draft in a single glance, and his face blossomed open: “Right this way, honored guest — we have quite a few new arrivals of exceptional quality upstairs. And you, girl —” he snapped at the attendant, “— this is how you treat a guest of this caliber? Go sweep leaves in the back courtyard.”

Then he turned back to Chen Baoxiang with a deep and respectful bow of invitation.

Lu Qingrong picked up the draft and held it up to the light. She, too, was taken aback: “Did you rob a money house?”

Even for a household like hers, a single visit to Wanbao Pavilion would rarely exceed a hundred taels. And here was Chen Baoxiang throwing down a thousand — two million four hundred thousand coins — just like that. What kind of backing did she have?

“Surprised?” Chen Baoxiang stepped up onto the stair with visible satisfaction. “I’ve been telling you — my mother comes from a prominent family and my father has a fortune to his name.”

“Don’t try to deceive me!” Lu Qingrong hurried after her, skirts lifted, indignant. “I might not know everything about you, but I saw you living among the beggars at the city gate with my own eyes.”

“I was tired of my comfortable life at the time and wanted to experience something simpler. Is that so hard to believe?”

“Who in their right mind would ever think like that?!”

Zhang Zhixu had been watching all this with mild entertainment when he suddenly found himself on the receiving end of the insult.

He spoke up without patience: “If I recall correctly, the head of the Lu Family was a pork butcher. It was through some connection to General Cheng that he managed to obtain a post in the patrol garrison.”

The words landed, and every head in Wanbao Pavilion turned their way.

Lu Qingrong’s face went crimson. “What are you talking about? My father earned his position protecting the Emperor — where is this pig butcher coming from? I’ve never heard anything of the sort.”

“People who rise in the world always find themselves wanting to bury what came before.” Chen Baoxiang smiled and picked up a finely made dagger, holding it up to the light to examine the blade. “I understand completely.”

Lu Qingrong snatched the dagger out of her hand in a fury. “Proprietor — I’m buying this.”

“Thirty-six taels, if you please.”

“What?” She looked at the object in her hand with evident shock. “For this? There are barely any gems on it. Thirty-something taels?”

“Can’t afford it?” Chen Baoxiang said with genuine helpfulness. “I can pay for you.”

“That won’t be necessary!” Lu Qingrong gritted her teeth. “Charge it to my father’s account. Never mind one dagger — I could buy the whole of Wanbao Pavilion.”