The old lord of the Pei household agreed to let Shaojin attend the banquet, and cautioned his grandson to act with care — to find out clearly what Anping Commandery Prince intended, and return home early.

Shaojin nodded.

With their father and elder brother both away from the capital, he, as a male member of the Earl’s household, ought to stand up and guard the family.

Pei Shaojin went to Fengyu Pavilion, and after deliberating for a long while, he told his mother the situation, saying: “I know how deeply Mother despises Anping Commandery Prince’s household — I feel the same. If not for their coercion back then, Sister would have settled into a peaceful life long ago.”

Then he added: “And yet…”

“I understand the reasoning.” Concubine Shen steadied herself, suppressed her grief, and said as calmly as she could: “Your grandfather is getting on in years, and your father and elder brother are not in the capital. Anping Prince sending an invitation is not simply about a banquet — there is something suspicious in this. You are a son of the Pei household, and it is right that you should go.”

Her voice caught slightly as she continued: “You are not only Zhu’s younger brother — you are also the second young master of the Pei household. It is right that you should go… Your sister, if she knew, would say you have grown up.”

Seeing his mother like this, Pei Shaojin felt the ache of it as well.

Five years had passed. Every book he read, every essay he wrote, seemed to have been for the purpose of making himself sharper. His teacher Master Duan frequently commented on his essays that the “central argument is direct and forthright, but the edge is overly keen,” and required him to soften his sharpness with a certain classical depth and subtlety when he put brush to paper.

An essay could be changed. One’s nature, perhaps, was not so easily altered.

Pei Shaojin comforted his mother: “Mother, the five years are nearly up. If Sister is granted favor, she may be able to leave the palace within the next year or two.”

Concubine Shen shook her head with a despondent look and said: “Princess Shunping’s wedding escort is imminent, and your sister is her closest lady-in-waiting. The noble ladies would not let her go at a time like this. If this opportunity is missed, another five years must pass before the next. Besides, knowing your sister’s temperament, she may not be willing to leave at this particular moment either.” Once inside the palace, there were always so many things that could not be helped.

Should Princess Shunping secure a fine match and wed smoothly, Zhu Jie’er, as the princess’s closest female official, would surely be rewarded with a promotion of one rank.

A fifth-rank senior female official — that was a position worth noting.

Concubine Shen wiped the corner of her eye and rose to her feet: “I will go and consult the Old Matriarch to see what gifts should be prepared for you to bring.”

Ordinarily mild and submissive, Concubine Shen raised her brow slightly at this moment, giving release to the displeasure within her heart. On the matter of the gifts, she seemed already to have an idea in mind. But she was a concubine — if she wished to move anything of the household’s property, she still needed the Old Matriarch’s approval.

A few days later, Concubine Shen came with her attendants to bring Shaojin a sandalwood box, its exterior carved with gourd vines — a symbol of endless progeny and flourishing life.

Pei Shaojin opened the box. Inside lay a red jade sculpture depicting “Pomegranate Bursting with a Hundred Seeds” — on the branches, several ripe red pomegranates split open at the seams, revealing clusters of glistening seeds within.

The sculpture was merely fine in craftsmanship; the jade itself was not particularly rare.

Concubine Shen’s eyes took on a particular gleam as she said: “In households of imperial nobility, the importance of many sons and flourishing descendants is paramount. This is precisely the right gift for Shaojin to bring.”

“I understand, Mother,” said Pei Shaojin.

The old prince and the commandery princess consort would of course be delighted to receive it. As for how the Shangshu household might react, or how Pei Ruotang might feel upon seeing it — whether she would be angered or let the anger fall on him — neither Concubine Shen nor Shaojin needed to concern themselves with that.

Shaojin was going to celebrate the hundredth-day banquet of the Commandery Prince’s household’s eldest grandson. Why should he give a thought to the Shangshu household?

Whether the gourd vines carved on the outside of the box or the red jade pomegranate within, both harmonized perfectly with the spirit of this hundredth-day celebration.

On the day of the banquet, Shaojin wore a willow-green straight-cut robe with a pattern of bamboo leaves embroidered in shadow-weave at the shoulders, a round jade pendant hanging from his silver-bordered sash, and black satin tall boots. Stepping down from the carriage, he moved with a sureness that could fill a room.

Skin like white jade, brows and eyes carrying the depth of ink — a fine and graceful young man.

Before the gates of the Prince’s residence, Anping Prince and the Commandery Princess Consort stood at the front. Behind them stood the heir-apparent and Pei Ruotang. The hundred-day-old grandson of the Prince’s household lay sleeping in a red swaddling cloth, held in the Commandery Princess Consort’s own arms.

That tableau alone was telling. It appeared that Pei Ruotang’s plan to raise the child under her own care would not come to pass.

Even so, Pei Ruotang had a certain measure of composure. She stood gracefully beside the heir-apparent to receive the guests, her manner of speech refined, not a hint of displeasure on her face — she had the bearing of a woman of breeding and the dignity of a principal wife. Yet from time to time she added small gestures of pressing her stomach and steadying her waist, giving the impression of fragility, inviting a sympathetic protectiveness in those who looked on.

“Guests of Jingchuan Earl’s residence arrive to offer congratulations — presenting one pair of red jade pomegranates—” called out the head steward.

Pei Shaojin, unhurried and composed, directed his accompanying manservant to present the gift before Anping Prince. He bowed and said: “Congratulations to the Prince on the joy of a first grandson. The Earl’s residence offers this modest gift as a small token of heartfelt well-wishes. May the Prince’s household abound with many sons and flourishing descendants for generations to come.”

He spoke only with the Prince and the Commandery Princess Consort. He gave not a single glance to the heir-apparent or Pei Ruotang.

Then, with Pei Ruotang watching, Shaojin opened the sandalwood box, displaying the “Pomegranate Bursting with a Hundred Seeds” for all to see.

Pei Ruotang, who had been holding herself together — already startled when she first saw Pei Shaojin arrive — now lost some of her composure at the sight of the gift, inside and out so laden with pointed meaning. Her cheeks twitched faintly, and her palms had been pierced by her own fingernails: what did the Earl’s household mean by this? Was it a veiled taunt that she had failed to bear a legitimate firstborn heir for the Prince’s household, that her calculations had come to nothing? Or were they unhappy that she did not have enough thorns against her already, and were wishing the side consort to bear more sons to vex her?

Her grandmother had schemed so much on her behalf, yet because her own body failed to cooperate, she had lost the foothold of bearing the first legitimate grandson — it was difficult for Pei Ruotang to swallow her resentment.

And yet she dared not give vent to her fury. She had to hold it down, press it deep, so that no outsider might see her lose her composure and use it to reproach her.

As for the Anping heir-apparent — having learned his lesson — he held no military post or rank now, only the title of heir-apparent. Whether he would eventually inherit the Commandery Prince’s rank still depended on his father’s goodwill and an imperial decree. He could no longer afford to swagger and bully as he once had. He could only stand stiffly behind his father.

Anping Prince let a knowing gleam pass through his eyes, then immediately replaced it with a warm and pleasant smile. He instructed someone to accept the gift and exchanged pleasantries with Pei Shaojin: “How has the Earl of Jingchuan been lately?”

“Thank you for the Prince’s concern. Grandfather is well, only his old leg ailment has been acting up these past few days, and he could not come in person to offer his congratulations.”

Anping Prince then said to the Commandery Princess Consort: “Let the grandson be touched by the Earl’s household’s talent and good fortune — in just a few short years, three outstanding figures from one household, praised by civil and military officials alike.”

Anping Prince was exaggerating. The Earl’s household did show signs of rising, but it was still far too early to speak of three outstanding figures from one family. Nevertheless, his attitude spoke for itself.

Just as Pei Shaojin had anticipated, the Prince’s household was extending an olive branch, hoping to ease relations between the two families.

As for why they chose to do so at the grandson’s hundredth-day banquet — it was likely that since the original grievance had arisen because of this matter, they hoped the same occasion might now serve as a gesture of goodwill.

After the banquet, Anping Prince had a servant specifically keep Pei Shaojin behind and invite him to wait in the guest reception hall.

Whether by design or not, Pei Shaojin overheard an exchange between the Old Prince and a manservant just outside the door —

“Where is the Second Young Master?”

“Reporting to the Prince: after the General returned from the Southern Garrison Command, he turned around and went out again.”

The second son of the Commandery Prince held the title of Zhen Guo General — First Rank. The servants referred to him either as Second Young Master or simply as the General.

“Where did he go?”

“It seems he went back to the opera house.”

“His nephew’s hundredth-day banquet, and he slips away without a word to listen to some opera?” The Old Prince’s emphasis on these words was pointed, yet his voice carried no anger — which told Pei Shaojin that this exchange was deliberately being staged for his benefit.

Then: “In broad daylight, has an opera house already begun its performance?”

The manservant replied: “The General hired his own troupe.”

“Send someone on horseback to bring him back. Say the Earl’s household has sent someone.”

“Yes.”

In the time it took to drink no more than a single cup of tea, a man of twenty-three or twenty-four strode in. He offered none of the literary courtesies of a scholar. Instead, he sat down directly, placed his embroidered spring saber on the tea table with a sharp clack, and told someone to refill Pei Shaojin’s tea.

Pei Shaojin studied the man before him without showing it — Yan Chengzhao, Zhen Guo General and second son of the Commandery Prince’s household.

He wore a great red satin robe embroidered with a qilin pattern spanning both shoulders — black in ground, with patterns of auspicious clouds, sea waves, and river cliffs woven into the hem, and python serpents embroidered on the shoulders and both sleeves. From this, Pei Shaojin understood Yan Chengzhao’s position within the Southern Garrison Command: he held the rank of Commander of the Imperial Guard.

He was of imperial blood, held the title of Zhen Guo General, and had been given a real post within the palace guard — Yan Chengzhao must possess exceptional ability to have earned such trust from the Emperor.

Beneath that grand and imposing attire was a face cold as ice. Thin lips. Eyes and brows angled slightly upward at the outer corners — like a hawk.

“Second Young Master Pei understands what my father meant by sending an invitation to the Earl’s household, I presume?” said Yan Chengzhao, coming straight to the point.

Pei Shaojin gave a slight nod.

“And what do you think of it?” Yan Chengzhao asked further. It was clear he had no wish to be entangled in this affair.

Pei Shaojin smiled, undaunted, and said plainly: “Simply because I know the Prince’s household wishes to make peace — does that mean the Earl’s household must accept?” He met Yan Chengzhao’s gaze directly.

He continued: “My sister entered the palace alone and has endured hardship for five years. My elder brother, to uphold the family’s honor, studied day and night and sat for the provincial examination years ahead of his time. Does Yan General believe that a single offer of reconciliation can offset all of that, and ask the Earl’s household to set aside its grievances?”

“It seems my father did not explain clearly enough.” Yan Chengzhao frowned. He laid out the conditions plainly: “That your sister entered the palace was indeed caused by the Prince’s household. My father learned of it after the fact and could do nothing — that was an unfortunate circumstance. Come autumn, I will be ordered by His Majesty to escort Princess Shunping to her wedding. When that is completed, by established precedent I may ask a reward of His Majesty and the Empress. Your sister entered the palace due to the fault of the Prince’s household’s heir-apparent. I, as the younger brother, take responsibility for correcting that wrong and help your sister leave the palace. What say you?”

Yan Chengzhao spoke of “the heir-apparent of the Prince’s household,” not of his elder brother. And when he mentioned “taking responsibility for the wrong,” a trace of disgust flickered through his expression.

Clearly, he had no interest in concealing, before an outsider, how poor a relationship he had with his elder brother.

Pei Shaojin finally understood why Yan Chengzhao had entered the room with a vexed reluctance from the very start, and why he had slipped away from his own nephew’s hundredth-day banquet — when one has a reprehensible elder brother who commits wrongs, the father demands that the younger brother come to clean up the mess.

When Pei Shaojin heard Yan Chengzhao say he could help his sister leave the palace, his eyes still brightened — he did not yet know the condition, did not know whether his sister would be willing, but at least it was a possibility. Having something was better than having nothing. Yet in the very next moment, when he thought about how an “asking a reward” always needed a reason, he began to understand, and it immediately struck him that this was very likely not going to be a good thing.

He asked: “What reason would Yan General give for asking the reward?”

“Rest assured, I am not like him,” said Yan Chengzhao. “I am of concubine birth, and I have not yet taken a wife.”

Hearing an answer he had already half-anticipated, Pei Shaojin was nevertheless momentarily struck still, uncertain how to respond.

His sister had entered the palace precisely because she would not marry into the Prince’s household. If she were now to leave the palace by marrying into the Prince’s household — that was something his sister could never agree to.

Yan Chengzhao rose, took back his embroidered spring saber, and said: “I have said what needed to be said. What follows is no longer something Second Young Master Pei can decide on his own. I ask that Second Young Master Pei return home to discuss this with his family. Make your answer known to me before autumn.”

He added: “The opera house is still mid-way through The Purple Hairpin — they have only reached the farewell scene at Baqiao Bridge. I will not see you out.” With that, he left in long, brisk strides.