When Qinglan set out, night had only just fallen. The city was under curfew, yet she traveled with Liu Ji, Yang Fu, and Chun Ming, driving the carriage through the darkened streets of the capital. Twice they were stopped by the Imperial Guards, and twice the token of Her Highness the Grand Princess smoothed their passage without difficulty.

By the hour of Xu, she finally reached the Office of the Imperial Household.

The so-called Office of the Imperial Household was a relatively new institution, established in recent years to reduce the burden on the national treasury while supplementing the palace’s expenses. Tribute goods that had accumulated and grown stale in the Imperial Household stores were brought out to be exchanged for newer items — though “exchange” was sometimes a polite word for “sell outright,” even as the ledgers continued to record entries such as “offset against one hundred bolts of Imperial Household silk.” The room for creative accounting was considerable.

The Imperial Household Office did not conduct transactions with private individuals, only with imperially licensed merchants, and even then with quotas. Even Lingbo, formidable as she had once been in commerce, had never managed to gain access to the Imperial Household Office — she had even been prepared to barter with Dai Yuquan to get a foot in the door.

But Qinglan had come for a different reason entirely. She had come for two medicinal herbs.

The snow was falling heavier by the minute. Fortunately, when she had sent someone out earlier — just as the snow began — she had dispatched Yang Fu on horseback to find Dai Yuquan, asking him to check whether the two herbs appeared on the Imperial Household Office’s inventory. Yang Fu arrived first, then Qinglan, and by the time she arrived Dai Yuquan was already waiting at the entrance, a junior clerk from the office at his side, a servant holding an umbrella and clutching an account ledger as they all stood waiting at the door.

Qinglan could not be bothered with proprieties. She stepped directly out of the carriage. Dressed in white fox fur with a Zhaojun headdress, she looked for all the world like a celestial consort descended from above — the junior clerk stared, momentarily struck speechless.

“Steward Dai.” She curtsied hastily, then asked with urgency: “How did it go? Did you find them? Those two herbs?”

“The saffron has been found,” Dai Yuquan replied with his characteristic steadiness. “It is two years old — some of it has already grown moldy, which may compromise its potency. I also located some that is three years old; that batch is in better condition, though it has lost some of its fragrance. I also found a case of dendrobium — dendrobium makes a reliable supporting herb, so I have set it aside in case you need it.”

Qinglan’s heart immediately sank.

“What about the Black Mistress? Was it found?”

Dai Yuquan shook his head.

“I wrote it out clearly on the list.” Qinglan no longer had the luxury of circumspection. “It is cistanche — the kind that was commonly brought as tribute from the Northern Frontier before the war, growing in thickets of tamarisks and in patches of grass. When cut open, the interior is yellow — it is the common variety. But occasionally there is a kind whose inner core is black and oily. The tribute records refer to it as Shihe cistanche — that is the variety I need.”

“There is cistanche in the stores, but none from Shihe. I looked myself. It seems the Shihe cistanche was considered a lower-grade filler, so when the goods were moved into the Imperial Household, it was frequently transferred into the miscellaneous medicinals — most likely it was simply misplaced and lost,” Dai Yuquan said.

Qinglan’s face drained of color. The wind and snow howled all around her, and she stood beneath the umbrella with a sense of utter desolation, as if there were nowhere left to turn.

Just as she was on the verge of despair, the junior clerk beside Dai Yuquan let out a sudden exclamation.

“Steward Dai, I just remembered something,” the clerk said. “Last month when our office relocated, I think I saw a case of some kind of cistanche in the miscellaneous medicinals. At the time I thought it was strange — cistanche is a valuable herb, what was it doing among the miscellaneous items? Old Wu San noticed it and moved it into the batch of medicinal materials being sent to Qingyun Temple.”

“Qingyun Temple?” Qinglan’s eyes lit up at once, then dimmed just as quickly. “Qingyun Temple is an imperial Taoist monastery — they may have used it for alchemy.”

“They would not have,” Dai Yuquan responded immediately, his mind working quickly. “Qingyun Temple has been undergoing renovations for the past three months. The Taoist priests have moved to Baiyun Temple in the meantime, and only two old Taoists have been left behind as caretakers. So we have occasionally been using it as a warehouse, since it is near the main road to Tongzhou. That package of cistanche is most likely still inside Qingyun Temple!”

At this moment, the Shen household was shrouded in grief and anxiety.

Lingbo knew that this was Shen Biwei’s most difficult hour, and so she was all the more determined to remain by her side. She herself had lost her mother at twelve, and she knew what this feeling was — how unbearable it could be, beyond the reach of anyone’s comfort, impossible for anyone to replace.

Outside, the snow fell heavier and heavier, even mingled now with the sound of hail, making the heart feel all the more desolate. Lingbo sat beside Shen Biwei at the brazier, and she could feel the faint, fine trembling of the hand held in her own.

In Shen Biwei — this was something that had never happened before. At the Peach Blossom Banquet, when the wasps had swarmed so dangerously, she had handled the situation better than any of the men present. She had the spirit of a general — taming horses, archery and riding, polo: she excelled at all of it.

But she had only one mother.

“Just two days ago I was still angry with her…” After some time had passed in silence, Shen Biwei suddenly spoke, her voice distant and abstracted. “I blamed her for chatting endlessly with the consort of Prince Ying — she clearly wanted to arrange for me to become the principal consort of Zhao Yan. But then during the spring hunt, Zhao Yan led people charging into a bear’s den and nearly got everyone killed, the good-for-nothing. So I was angry with her. I only went to pay my morning respects and barely acknowledged her when she tried to speak with me…”

Lingbo’s heart ached to hear it, and she quickly offered comfort: “It’s all right. After all these years, your mother surely knows your temperament. She would not truly take it to heart.”

Shen Biwei only shook her head. “That’s not it.”

Not what? In truth, she knew, and Lingbo knew too. Unlike the close, warm bond that had always existed between the Ye mother and daughters, the relationship between Madam Shen and Shen Biwei had been strained since Shen Biwei was twelve or thirteen — though Madam Shen had planned and schemed for her daughter just as before, and Shen Biwei had still hunted soft golden sable for her mother’s sleeve cuffs, there had always been a certain distance between them that neither had managed to close. Lingbo was not oblivious; she had sensed it long ago.

But even knowing this, there was nothing she could say right now except: “It’s all right. Is there anything closer in this world than a mother and daughter? Even if on the surface there may be some distance, in the heart they are always near. It’s just that neither of you is particularly given to expressing it in words.”

This pale comfort was clearly not reaching Shen Biwei, for she continued to stare in silence at Madam Shen lying on the bed, saying nothing.

The first watch sounded outside. The night had grown darker still. Just when Lingbo thought they would have to pass the entire night in this state of anxious suspense, Madam Shen on the bed let out a faint moan, and slowly began to rouse.

Shen Biwei, whose senses were always sharp, sprang to her feet at once.

“Lv Chan, go quickly and summon the physician.” As she directed the maid, she herself leaned close to the bed, half-kneeling on the low platform before the raised bedframe, and asked: “Mother, how are you feeling now? Are you still in pain?”

“The pain is bearable. It’s just that my whole body aches terribly,” Madam Shen said, waving Lv Chan away. “Don’t bother calling the physician — haven’t I just taken my medicine? I know my own body. This is not something that can be cured.”

“Please don’t say such things, Madam.” Lingbo immediately offered her own reassurance. “The imperial physicians are exceptionally skilled — they will certainly be able to heal you.”

Madam Shen could only give a bitter smile and wave her hand. She attempted to sit up, and Shen Biwei quickly helped her, propping pillows at her back. Madam Shen was, after all, a lady raised in a Duke’s household — even now, her manners did not desert her. “It has been so kind of Lingbo to come and see me,” she said. “I’m afraid I am not able to offer you proper hospitality — please forgive me.”

“Madam, how can you say such a thing?” Lingbo felt her throat tighten, and she spoke with genuine earnestness: “Please be at ease, Madam. I know this illness well. As long as the fever breaks, you will recover. My elder sister has already gone to find the herbs for you.”

“What would you young girls know of this,” Madam Shen said gently, clearly taking her words as kindly meant comfort rather than the truth, and turned to address the maids and servants: “All of you, step outside. I wish to speak with Biwei.”

Everyone withdrew. Lingbo was inwardly even more alarmed — from the look of Madam Shen, this was surely a woman who wished to leave her final words. She rushed to find Han Yueqi, yet feared intruding on the mother and daughter’s moment together, and so she hesitated in an agony of indecision.

In the room, with everyone gone, only Madam Shen and Shen Biwei remained. How could Shen Biwei not understand what was in her mother’s heart? She half-knelt on the low platform at the bedside, holding her mother’s hand, yet unable to find any words.

She had only just turned nineteen. How much of life and death had she witnessed — especially the death of someone closest to her? Her mind was a complete blank, her dread without any ground to settle on.

Madam Shen, by contrast, smiled.

“Just now, drifting in and out of sleep, I heard you talking with Lingbo,” she said. She lay back against the pillows, her face bearing the look of a lamp running out of oil, and laughed at herself quietly: “I still don’t know when it was that you and I grew distant. You used to cling to me so completely when you were small. At that time, Concubine Zhu was scheming against us, and your father had believed her lies and wanted to search through my trunks. You drew out a sword and stood in front of me. How old were you then — I think you were only ten…”

Shen Biwei kept her eyes lowered. “I don’t remember.”

“That is not the truth.” Madam Shen looked at her daughter with the clear-eyed gaze of a mother who knew her child: “When did you stop telling me the truth? It wasn’t lying, and it wasn’t concealing things — you simply stopped opening your heart to me.”

Shen Biwei was silent for a long moment. Just as Madam Shen thought she would not be willing to speak, she said suddenly: “It was when I was thirteen.”

Madam Shen was not angry. She only watched her with weary eyes.

“Why was that? I must have done something wrong.”

If she had not asked in that way, Shen Biwei’s tears would not have come so quickly.

But she was Shen Biwei — accustomed from an early age to moving through dense forests alone, the kind of wild child who could spend a night outdoors chasing a lark. Even when tears fell, she raised her hand and wiped them away almost immediately.

“Mother, do you remember what my brother was doing that day when I drew my sword against Father?”

Madam Shen felt a vague uncertainty. Yes — what had fifteen-year-old Shen Yunze been doing when ten-year-old Shen Biwei drew her sword to defend her mother?

“He was away at school, wasn’t he…” Madam Shen began hesitantly.

“No, he was home.” Shen Biwei’s memory was clear. “That summer he had just changed to Master Tang for his lessons and had begun studying the Five Classics Collected Annotations — he had become all the more rigid and inflexible because of it. As for the inner household affairs, he would not involve himself. Even though it had started because Concubine Zhu had falsely accused him, which led to Father beating him, and it was Mother who had gotten into the dispute with Father on his behalf — when everything flared up, he was just sitting in the outer room, unwilling to come in and get entangled. He watched Concubine Zhu incite Father to search through Mother’s trunks, and afterward he still advised me not to defy Father.”

Madam Shen’s expression shifted from reminiscence to dawning recognition — she had clearly remembered it too.

“You asked me when I stopped being close to you. In truth, it happened gradually over the years after that. That incident was only one of many — there were countless more. In every dispute between Father and you, my brother never took your side, not even the side of what was right. He always chose to smooth things over. But that didn’t matter — I could stand on your side. When I drew my sword that day, I said so plainly: he is Father’s son, but I am Mother’s daughter…” Shen Biwei held her mother’s gaze and finally gave voice to the deepest truth she carried: “But what I truly could not bear was how Mother, time and again, would beautify and reframe whatever my brother did — as though on that day when he stood by and watched Father and Concubine Zhu mistreat you without lifting a finger, Mother’s memory had transformed the event: he had been away at the academy, had simply not been home. The same acts, when done by me, were merely what was expected; when done by him, he was the finest son imaginable, and even when he did nothing, Mother would remember it as though he had, or that he had wished to but been prevented. This happened too many times. Every gift I gave you, every effort I made for you — none of it could compare to Shen Yunze simply standing there and existing.”

Madam Shen’s eyes widened in astonishment.

Shen Biwei took after her greatly, yet with something more besides — those bold, striking brows paired with the most beautiful pair of phoenix eyes, more the image of a general’s daughter than even her mother. Now she half-knelt at Madam Shen’s bedside and gave voice to the truths she had stored up over years, each word sharp enough to be impossible to look at directly.

“The thing that truly made me give up — it was that thirteenth year,” Shen Biwei continued. “That year Shen Yunze began his formal studies, but my own learning was also excellent. Master Tang praised me too, and said that if I studied as diligently as I did, I could pass the top imperial examination. Does Mother remember what you said to me then?” She looked at Madam Shen.

Madam Shen only hesitated and shook her head, though her expression suggested she had already guessed.

“Mother said: ‘What a pity that Biwei is, after all, a daughter — an outsider who will be married off to another family. If only this talent of hers could have been given to Yunze instead.'” Shen Biwei finished recounting the words and gave a self-deprecating smile. “Though I had long since steeled my heart for something like this, I don’t know why — hearing those words still left me so terribly sad. But at the same time I felt a kind of release. Like someone who has walked a very long road and finally arrived at the end — even if it is a dead end, at least there is no more walking to do.”

She said: “From then on, I resolved simply to be Shen Biwei — to belong to no one as a daughter. Being alone in that way was perfectly fine. Mother often said I was close to Han jiejie and not close to the family. But the truth is that with Han jiejie, I am at least myself — I do not have to feel lesser simply because I am a woman. From that day on, this family ceased to hold any real meaning for me.”

Madam Shen stared at her with a stunned expression.

She knew her own attempted explanation was feeble, yet still she tried: “But this is how it is everywhere in the capital — daughters are meant to be married off…”

“Did Grandfather say that to you?” Shen Biwei countered.

She recognized instantly that this was a poor retort and shifted course: “No — actually Grandfather has nothing to do with this. There is only one question I need to ask Mother.”

She half-knelt at the bedside and looked calmly into Madam Shen’s eyes: “Does Mother remember how Father doted on me when I was small? When did that begin to change, and he grew distant from me?”

Madam Shen’s face went pale, as though she could not bring herself to speak the answer aloud.

“Was it not from the day I drew my sword against him?” Shen Biwei asked. “Mother speaks of the capital’s customs and the dictates of convention. But according to those same conventions, Father is the master of this household — so why should I have gone against him for Mother’s sake? I could have done exactly as Shen Yunze did: stayed in the middle and smoothed things over. I stood on Mother’s side, supporting her without condition. Did Mother ever support me without condition in return?”

“People say that loyalty and affection are beyond price. Did Mother ever once exchange true feelings with me heart to heart — even just to speak of the basic principle of reciprocity?”

Madam Shen was left utterly pale and speechless, unable to form a single reply.

And Shen Biwei did not wait for one.

“I had not intended to say any of this. But Mother asked, and I am afraid — afraid that if I do not say it today, there may be no other opportunity.” She calmly tucked the quilt around Madam Shen and said: “Mother need not worry. I am long past the age of acting out of wounded pride. Even having said all of this, my feelings toward Mother are still exactly as they have always been…”

As they had always been — was that not precisely the outward harmony and inner distance of these past seven years?

A wave of bitterness washed over Madam Shen’s heart. She reached out her hand, barely any breath behind her words: “Biwei…”

But Shen Biwei was far calmer than she was.

“I am not leaving — only going to call the physician for Mother.” She even offered comfort in return: “Mother need not worry. Qinglan jiejie is the most dependable person in all things. If she believes that prescription will work, then it will certainly work. Let us wait for her.”