The Grand Princess’s banquet had not yet concluded for the evening when an imperial decree arrived from the palace — a personal edict from the emperor. It made no mention of the fact that his nephew had been missing for four years and had now returned. It simply said that the emperor was greatly pleased to hear of his nephew’s betrothal and therefore bestowed a number of valuable gifts — most notably a fine-blooded horse, finer even than the ones at the polo banquet. Among the male guests outside, this prompted an immediate wave of elation and endless flattery, while the ladies inside were no less forthcoming.
Lingbo had known this moment would come sooner or later — but now that it was here, she was still worried about Pei Zhao’s state of mind.
That woman Shen Biwei — when Lingbo had been about to marry Dai Yuquan, she had been diligent in her persuasion, but the moment Lingbo and Pei Zhao were together, she immediately became Pei Zhao’s sworn enemy number one, finding fault with the two of them at every turn. Seeing that Lingbo’s mind was unsettled, she immediately sniffed: “Seat of thorns? What was it you used to say to me — and now you’ve gone and started fretting over a man yourself?”
She wasn’t exactly wrong, either. Back then, Shen Biwei had only said that Zhao Yanze was pitiable in his illness, having never seen anything — she had just wanted to catch a bird for him to look at. And Ye Lingbo had been so jealous about it that she never tired of making pointed remarks: “Indeed, how pitiable — a prince with hereditary titles, what could he possibly lack? Truly pitiable, with nothing but you to call his own.” And again: “Quite right — all that wealth and glory is meaningless, and you even have to bow to him, yet you’re the one pitying him.”
Now every one of those words had turned around and applied to herself — but Lingbo was one who could bend when needed. She said: “I haven’t said anything. I’m just going down to take a look.”
In truth, it was hard to blame her. Pei Zhao had his own mastery in playing the role of someone deserving of sympathy. When the emperor bestowed a horse, protocol required that it be ridden at once, and only then could one formally express gratitude. The eunuch delivering the decree was also being kindly helpful, encouraging him: “Duke, this is the King of Horses brought by the Northern Rong princess herself — there is no finer horse in the world. So many people in the palace long for one and cannot have it. His Majesty’s regard for the Duke is beyond words. As the saying goes, a fine steed is gifted to a hero — please mount and try it, Duke, so that this servant may return and deliver his report.”
Pei Zhao only cast his gaze downward and said: “The old internal attendant speaks rightly. However, a familiar horse knows its way home. My black lion has been my mount for years — it is old now, and naturally prone to unease. I think I’ll spare it.”
That single remark was enough to make the messenger Wang Changzhong regret his own loose words.
In truth, this comment of his was at least half directed at Lingbo. There was nothing to be done — Miss Ye the Second was one who yielded to neither hard nor soft approaches, except for this: the moment he brought up old matters concerning the Duke of Ying’s estate, she would be immediately overtaken by tenderness. It was genuinely endearing. Pei Zhao also understood it was because she too had lived through the experience of having no one to turn to — so the feeling resonated with her particularly deeply.
This made him feel that they were each other’s only insider.
But he hadn’t anticipated that Lingbo’s tenderness would go too far — the Grand Princess had set out to instruct her, and she had turned around and instructed the Grand Princess in return. It was easy to imagine: Lingbo was nothing like Qinglan, who was a genuine remonstrating subject at heart, whose most forceful method was still to remonstrate unto death, directing all her attacks at herself. As for Lingbo — the matter at Ping’an Lane long ago had already revealed her true nature. She didn’t believe in anything as fatalistic as predestination; in her eyes, lords and princes were all worth taking a gamble on.
So that one remark had not only deflected the emperor’s gesture, moved Lingbo’s heart, but had also inadvertently wounded the Grand Princess.
The Grand Princess said nothing that evening — only sent people, as was customary, to accompany Wang Changzhong into the palace to express gratitude. The following morning, very early, she entered the palace to pay her respects.
She understood that the emperor had come to know of Pei Zhao’s years spent in the Northern Garrison Army. The truth was that the Ying Duke’s estate, having been purged by the late emperor, had long since ceased to be a threat. If anything, it had become evidence of the imperial family’s callousness: the leading general whose portrait hung in the Gallery of Smoke had been discarded the moment he ceased to be useful — his entire line exterminated until only a single bloodline remained, one that mingled royal blood at that. It was clear proof of just how cold-hearted the Zhao family could be.
So Pei Zhao was not truly in any danger. On the contrary, the emperor was obliged to regularly demonstrate his benevolence.
But Lingbo’s question had wounded her.
When the late emperor had ruthlessly purged the Huo Family, you carried on as the Grand Princess. When the current emperor drew close to and consoled the Zhao Family, you followed his will as naturally as before. Then as Pei Zhao’s parent — with him as your own flesh and blood — where, precisely, was your love for him?
So the Grand Princess arrived at the palace today with something of a simmering anger. The emperor, knowing nothing of this, assumed she was coming to play her usual game of measured give-and-take, just as she had for all these past decades. He smiled and opened with: “We hear that Yingzhen doesn’t much care for the imperially gifted horse. We were planning to rely on him to bring glory to our family at the Spring Hunt.”
Lingbo had actually not yet grasped the full depth of court subtleties. Those trained in the palace spoke so indirectly that even words with no deep meaning at all would be parsed by the listener for hidden implications — and so the speakers were always scrupulously careful, saying nothing but bland and inconsequential pleasantries. Any time there was even a trace of content in the words, it was certainly a direct signal — it was not that the listener was overthinking or had misunderstood.
Those eligible for the Spring Hunt were all people of standing — subjects of the emperor. Whether they won or lost, they were all his. Whom did he wish to project his glory toward? Naturally, the Northern Garrison Army. Perhaps the earlier hunting competition and polo match were also factored in. The words sounded like he was saying Pei Zhao was his own person — yet they could equally be read as: you mustn’t lean toward the Northern Garrison Army again, understand?
After all, Pei Zhao had spent these four years within the Northern Garrison Army. Interpreted charitably, this was a selfless patriot defending home and country — a worthy heir to the Gallery of Smoke. But read uncharitably, a legitimate heir of the Duke of Ying’s estate — from a family convicted of treason — leaving the capital without authorization, changing his name, rising through the army to the rank of junior general with military authority in his hands — the interpretations could be many.
So the Grand Princess heard those words and replied coldly: “The matter of the Spring Hunt is not pressing. I have come regarding Yingzhen’s marriage.”
At the mention of marriage, the emperor naturally smiled more broadly. He said: “We’ve heard about it — we hadn’t realized Ye Zhongqing’s daughter was so remarkable, to stir up such a matter. Young people, after all. None of our own children have that kind of boldness. We hear Yingzhen distinguished himself in the army as well — how did he come to yield the credit to Cui Jingyu? He wasn’t even seen at the victory banquet…”
That one remark made the Grand Princess’s blood surge upward. Why yield the credit? Was it not because of the imperial family’s wariness? Otherwise — Huo Anguo’s grandson, four years of military service — how could he not have even been granted a marquisate? Instead he had accumulated a body full of injuries. Attendant Song had gone to wait on him when he changed clothes, and returned in tears.
He spoke of the Ye Family girl — but in truth, that Ye Family girl cared for him far more than she, his own mother, had.
The truth was that on that day at the Ye household, she too had harbored thoughts of breaking off the attachment. She had called him in, and looking at this dashing, handsome son of hers, she felt genuine regret on his behalf. She had heard that at the horse-racing banquet he had drawn all eyes, prompting the young ladies of an entire gallery to throw down their flowers. A Huo son, of Zhao blood — a brilliant young man like this, produced from such a lineage. How could he so lightly betroth himself to a woman from the Ye family, a mere third-rank official’s household? Character aside, even her appearance was unremarkable. How could she be worthy of him for the rest of his life?
So she had asked him, with something of a mother’s quiet displeasure: “If it were Ye Qinglan, the pairing would at least be fitting. But this Ye Lingbo — what exactly is good about her, that things had to come to such a point?”
He had only smiled slightly and said: “Lingbo is naturally fine in every regard.”
She had not wanted to argue with him, and could only say: “That may not be so. There are no shortage of girls from great families at the Flower Season Banquet — there are still the imperial clanswomen who haven’t been considered yet.”
But Pei Zhao had suddenly said: “Lingbo once made yellow-gold fish maw for me.”
“What?” she had asked, puzzled.
“Fish maw as used in the palace — in common parlance, called yellow-gold maw. I’ve never liked it since childhood — too rich,” he told her calmly. “That day of the victory banquet, I didn’t attend. Lingbo found out and went out of her way to make yellow-gold fish maw for me, presenting it like a treasure and asking me to try it. I found it too rich, and although she scolded me for it, she wasn’t actually angry — she ate it all herself. I stood there watching her, and felt my heart go completely soft.”
The dashing and distinguished Huo Yingzhen — this most exceptional young man in the capital, her only son, a son worthy of marrying the highest-born woman in all the land — stood before her in the sunlight, which fell across his tall figure and, for a fleeting moment, made him look the image of his father.
He said: “There are many many more such moments like that one — all together, they make up my Ye Lingbo. Mother was trained in the palace and prizes rank and standing — I understand. But loving someone is like this: I love her, and so she is fine in every regard. There is no one who could take her place.”
Outside, the opera was playing — strains of strings and woodwinds, southern airs and southern rhythms: “A beauty such as this, fleeting as flowing water” — songs to move the heart. And her son stood in the sunlight, speaking of the woman he loved, his gaze so tender, asking her to grant him this.
She could only grant it.
And his Ye Lingbo had indeed not disappointed her — for a mere engagement, with the three go-betweens and six rites of the capital’s customs, and the nine-stage process of the palace’s protocols, she hadn’t even received the betrothal gifts yet, her own position still uncertain — yet she had dared to defend her Pei Zhao in this manner, had even come to ask her for a measure of partiality.
The imperial family had few insiders, and so their insiders’ words were few as well. The weighty words Lingbo had used seemed to leave no trace — like a wild goose passing overhead — yet in their ears, those words had set off a tide of surging waves. For they might go an entire year without hearing a single sentence that carried such weight.
She had spent forty years as a Grand Princess. Now it was time to be Huo Yingzhen’s mother.
So she calmly said to the emperor: “The Ye Family has produced two fine daughters — the younger one has been taken by my household, and the elder also once had a betrothal to Cui Jingyu. It is my Lingbo’s wish that they be reunited.”
The Grand Princess’s household knew everything. Twenty years ago it had also been a force in the contest for the throne — a true merit of founding achievement. Lingbo’s little schemes — she saw them all with perfect clarity, which made it all the more amusing and, in a way, pitiable.
Yingzhen had chosen her — likely because of this quality in her. Despite being thoroughly unremarkable in every regard — appearance, background, even talent — she had this tenacity that no one else possessed. Gritting her teeth, not yielding for a single moment, like a flame burning fiercely, impossible to extinguish even in great wind and heavy snow.
The complete opposite of herself.
So on this day, the Grand Princess too rarely found herself with something of a temper. The emperor was wary of the Northern Garrison Army — and she chose precisely to bring up the Northern Garrison Army, announcing in advance that Cui Jingyu and Huo Yingzhen would be brothers-in-law. The Ying Duke’s estate had endured and yielded enough in these seventeen years.
The emperor seemed a little at a loss, and smiled: “This Elder Sister is of course right — but I’ve already had my eye on a noble clan woman for Cui Jingyu, and I’ve already told Wei Hanhai…”
The Grand Princess cut him off directly, with cool composure.
She said: “This family’s habit of meddling in others’ marriages ought to change.”