Senior Lady Official Qin, rarely given such an opening, immediately added with a cold laugh: “That sister of yours is rather fond of her little cleverness as well. At Marquis Cui’s enfeoffment banquet, she did quite a bit of scheming against the Chen family’s people, did she not?”
Qinglan’s face showed a flash of surprise — quickly contained. She finally understood why the Grand Princess had summoned both her and Lingbo today.
When the palace made use of people, the cleanliness of one’s family background was paramount — especially for female officials, who wielded the same kind of authority as the outer court’s great men, and so required even greater care. The Grand Princess had not only sent people to Luming Temple — she had investigated Lingbo as well.
She lowered her head: “Lingbo’s nature today was shaped by circumstance, and moreover, she has always acted in defense of our family. I hope Your Highness will be understanding.”
But Senior Lady Official Qin was clearly not prepared to let it pass lightly.
“Did not the Lu sisters also act in defense of their family?” She had finally found a crack in the smooth surface of Qinglan’s composure, and pressed her advantage without hesitation.
Qinglan pressed her lips tight.
Where a moment ago she had been expansive in her remonstrance without the least sign of tension — now even her hands had closed into fists. After all, she had not been through the real storms of palace life — sharp as she was, she was still young. Affairs of state, she could navigate freely; but when the blade fell upon her own family, she found herself anxious.
How interesting.
“But my family has me in it. I will always keep watch over Lingbo.” She looked at the Grand Princess almost in pleading. “Your Highness — this humble subject can pledge her own character as surety for her younger sister.”
Those in the palace were entirely capable of using you on the one hand and punishing your family on the other. Even a death sentence in such circumstances would be offered as a kindness, as though ridding you of a burden. So Qinglan said nothing further to Senior Lady Official Qin and directed her plea entirely to the Grand Princess.
The Grand Princess noticed her anxiety and allowed herself a slight smile.
She had, after all, the heart of a sovereign of the mountain forest.
“Very well.” The Grand Princess said nothing more, only: “You have spoken at length and must be tired. Jingrong — instruct them to set aside a meal and prepare the carriage. I am going into the palace.”
Only then did Qinglan allow herself to relax, still kneeling in place, waiting for the Grand Princess’s procession to depart before collapsing, drained, where she knelt. And yet Senior Lady Official Qin had still not left — seeing her like this, she let out a mocking laugh.
Qinglan did not trouble herself to wonder where the other woman’s resentment of her came from. In any case, the Grand Princess intended to make use of her — that much was settled. A remonstrance heeded once might be luck; heeded twice, it was inevitable. It proved that the Grand Princess’s own views overlapped to some degree with hers — just as the Emperor relied on Lord Shen and Lord Chen, and the Empress relied on Prince Pingjun’s consort and Lu Wenyin.
She had read enough of the sages to have long since understood this principle. There was no such thing in this world as a genuinely enlightened lord and an upright minister — just as Female Official Su admired her while Senior Lady Official Qin held her in contempt. It was simply that their views happened to align. Just as during the previous four years when she had found no footing at the Flower Reception, when Prince Pingjun’s consort had no appreciation for her, when Lady Shen was fond of her company but did not understand her ambitions — it was only after the Grand Princess came out of seclusion that her voice had any prospect of being heard.
So she harbored no particular grand ambitions, knowing that the honor brought by remonstrance was trivial at best — it always depended on others, never under one’s own control.
But Female Official Su was genuinely invested in her. The last time her remonstrance had been adopted without reward, she had already found it hard to understand. And now it happened again — the Grand Princess had listened to a remonstrance that she felt rivaled even the great ministers of history, and had rewarded it with nothing more than a stayed meal. She grew even more dissatisfied, and the only place she could apportion the blame was onto Ye Lingbo.
So as she walked Qinglan out, she took a private moment to counsel her: “Miss Ye — there is something I ought not to say, but in this world, a person’s nature is what it is. I know you are kind-hearted, but there is no need to let yourself be dragged down.”
“How is she a drag on me?” Qinglan smiled. “The role Lingbo plays in our household is even greater than mine.”
“I know your sisterly bond is deep, and valuing family is admirable — but right and wrong still have to be distinguished.” Female Official Su pressed her point.
“To say nothing of the fact that Lingbo is kind at heart and would never commit any real transgression — there must be a misunderstanding at the root of it. Even if she were at fault, it would be my fault — I am her elder sister, and if I have not guided her well enough, that is on me. The Grand Princess heard one of my remonstrances and was moved to act; Lingbo has lived alongside me since she was small. How could that not be my responsibility? If she has erred, then I have erred.”
Female Official Su had entered the palace as a child, and clearly found this incomprehensible.
“Simply because she is your younger sister?”
Qinglan smiled.
“Because I am her elder sister.”
She turned the question back to Female Official Su: “No one is without flaws — the world is full of people with far greater problems than Lingbo. I have never taken it upon myself to correct them. Why then should I be harsh with Lingbo? Even if she has erred, I ought to be patient with her — to carry what she cannot carry. The books say that even petty men who form factions still know how to look after their own people. How then could a person of principle not know? Otherwise — what is all this reading for? What is this strength we cultivate, if not for this?”
Female Official Su had entered the palace young, her bonds with family grown thin, and had come intending to counsel Qinglan. Instead she found herself moved to a quiet melancholy by Qinglan’s words.
She had forgotten what it felt like to have family — to be sheltered and cherished without condition, while also, without condition, cherishing others in return, always ready to stand between them and the wind and rain. Back to back, like holding close for warmth in the heart of winter. Just thinking about it — she knew it must be a very fine thing.
And yet one could hardly blame Female Official Su for her words about Qinglan — for Lingbo, in the matter of inner household intelligence, had more than enough wherewithal. She had the social news of every great family’s inner quarters mapped to perfection, and even here in the Grand Princess’s residence, she had still found room to maneuver. When Qinglan came out with Female Official Su, she found her younger sister playing with a small girl — the very child from Ping’an Ward, the little girl called Er Ya. She had heard that the Grand Princess had formally adopted her as a foster daughter, and renamed her Yaoniang.
“Little Commandery Princess — why are you here? You should have gone to your lessons by now.” Female Official Su was immediately alert, glancing to the side. Yaoniang’s nurse and maids rushed forward, but Yaoniang refused to leave, still holding Lingbo’s hand. In Female Official Su’s eyes, this was further evidence of Lingbo’s manipulations.
Qinglan naturally had no idea of all these undercurrents, and assumed her younger sister had only been gathering a little inner-quarters intelligence at the modest level she’d always suspected. Seeing Female Official Su’s alarm, she stepped in to smooth things over, saying with a smile: “Commandery Princess, your courtesy is most gracious. Her Highness has been kind enough to keep us sisters for a meal. The Commandery Princess is fond of my younger sister — once your lessons are done, you may come and find her then.”
Though the title had not yet been formally conferred, the daughter of a Grand Princess becoming a Commandery Princess was nine times in ten a certainty, and to address her with that elevation was simply correct etiquette for a great family’s daughter. Yaoniang, for all that she was on the path to becoming a future Commandery Princess, still measured things by the earlier bond — and it was Lingbo she heeded. Qinglan’s words had barely registered, but when she saw Lingbo give her a small nod, she released Lingbo’s hand and went off with her nurse and palace women to her lessons.
In Female Official Su’s eyes, this naturally added one more count against Lingbo — of manipulating the Commandery Princess. But she respected Qinglan and made careful preparation for the evening meal, keeping both sisters to dine.
By the time Her Highness Grand Princess Minghua entered the palace, it was already dusk.
Her standing had always been one of exceptional freedom — a quick inquiry with the palace attendants told her that after returning today, the Emperor had gone directly to the Cuiwei Palace, not even stopping at the Empress’s Jiaofang Hall first.
Such open favor shown to Consort Shu — no wonder the Empress was unsettled. This was always how it was: one thing moves, everything moves. The Grand Preceptor had taught this long ago: for a sovereign, steadiness above all — balanced, centered, correct. The slightest disturbance, filtering down, became an earthquake at the base.
The southern opera style had been fashionable in the capital for the better part of a year and had finally reached the palace. Consort Shu, clever as she was, had promptly assembled a troupe of performers and was staging the most fashionable new productions from outside the palace. Today happened to be a perfect occasion to invite the Emperor to her quarters for a visit. And then, not long after, came the report from outside: Her Highness the Grand Princess had arrived.
The Emperor quickly dismissed everyone, glanced in the mirror, straightened his winged guan, and found his composure somewhat wanting whenever he was in the presence of this elder sister.
Part guilt, part reverence — and so an excess of desire to compensate. Her marriage had been made, in truth, for his sake, and so the later disaster of the Yingguo Duke’s household was largely a debt that could be attributed to him.
The Grand Princess entered and performed the proper obeisance. The Emperor naturally dispensed with the formalities. Consort Shu, ever perceptive, moved first — she stepped forward to perform her own obeisance, then used the pretext of checking on the tea and refreshments to withdraw gracefully, leaving them to speak.
A palace maid poured tea. The Grand Princess took her seat. It was the Emperor who spoke first, initiating the pleasantries: “Where has Elder Sister come from?”
“Some matters detained me — I spent the day in the residence attending to them.” The Grand Princess said, without expression.
“No wonder Elder Sister was not seen at the Flower Reception.” The Emperor lifted his cup and drank. Through the drifting steam, he looked briefly like the nineteen-year-old young man of brooding temperament — even when he used calculated schemes, it had always been with an air of hesitancy and indecision. Their father had disliked him for that — afraid he could not hold the realm, and had set his heart on elevating Prince Seventh instead.
If one were to say something rather disrespectful: if their father’s health had not failed him, the matter of who this throne went to might have been rather more uncertain than it appeared.
But twenty years had passed. He was old now; she was old too. The days and nights of this palace had stretched so long and still, and the halls always wore the same face — always giving one the uneasy sense that they had never truly left the old palace, had never found their way out.
She had always been the most decisive of the three — which was why, even now that he sat on the throne, he still called her Elder Sister.
“I hear the Emperor is planning a spring hunt?” She lifted her own cup, unhurried.
A brief awkwardness crossed the Emperor’s face. Being Emperor was indeed rich with benefits, but one was at least nominally without freedom — every movement was costly and elaborate, and discerning eyes could see plainly that the Emperor was eagerly anticipating the spring hunt, yet the Emperor could not admit as much. Lord Chen would probably never know: in a single sentence, she had nearly talked the entire spring hunt out of existence.
“The Bureau of Astronomy also indicated the spring weather would be favorable this year — and after working hard for the better part of the year, the thought of some refreshment at the hunting grounds seemed not unreasonable.” The Emperor felt somewhat sheepish even as he spoke, and so brought out the Bureau of Astronomy first as a buffer.
The Grand Princess listened and almost wanted to smile.
He had always been this way — candid enough, even when he himself could see how it sounded, still just like he had always been.
Between the two of them, there had never been a need for lies.
“The spring hunt is also a fine thing for the realm. After a year’s effort, an auspicious sign would be most fitting — to pray that frontier conflicts do not recur, that the common people may live in peace. Surely on those grounds, no one could have much to say.” The Grand Princess replied, without inflection.
Those censorate officials had grown rather too bold. Remonstrating against the construction of the Three Great Halls — that could be forgiven. But sticking their noses into a spring hunt was something else. It seemed they had truly forgotten who owned this realm. It was only that today’s Emperor had a gentle temperament — their father, in such circumstances, would likely have had several heads removed to remind them what it meant for thunder and gentle rain to alike be the sovereign’s grace.
But a gentle temperament also had its advantages. Such as now — because she had set the opening, he naturally caught the cue and followed: “With Marquis Wei in place, the frontier will certainly hold.”
The Grand Princess smiled: “The Emperor speaks truly.”
There were many kinds of emperors — there was their father’s kind, commanding and brilliant. And there was his kind — born deep in the palace, raised among women. Though he had never once softened when it came to exterminating the nine clans of a minister he wished to be rid of, his methods were on the whole more indirect and circumspect. By comparison, both she and Prince Seventh had been more direct than him in temperament.
If not, Prince Seventh would not have been broken in the Detention Court. Too rigid snaps; too yielding bends — it was an ancient truth from the books.
And he was, if one were honest, a touch too pliant. Useful quality for a prince contending for the throne; as an Emperor, it sacrificed a measure of dignity.
“I understand some parties have been undermining military morale, and within the Flower Reception at that. Elder Sister may deal with it at her own discretion — it need not pass through the palace.” The Emperor said, of his own accord.
The Grand Princess could barely suppress the urge to laugh.
They were both people who had read their history — and this sentence had something of the famous old phrase: “You may take it yourself.”
She did not take up the thread. Instead, she asked: “I hear A’Yan changed physicians — how is he, truly? I keep hearing it said he has been ill again.”
A’Yan was Zhao Yanze’s childhood name. She was asking about her nephew’s medical records — and the Emperor, for once visibly flustered, deflected: “It is nothing serious. He went out to the Shen household and caught a chill. A little rest, and he will be fine.”
That girl from the Ye family — speaking through the mouths of common people in the marketplace — had called him harsh and ungenerous. And truly the description was exact. In the span of a few sentences, he had already pushed several people forward to take the blame on his behalf — the Bureau of Astronomy, the Shen family — and every one of them among those who were most loyal to him.
The Grand Princess did not bother to expose him. She simply rose and said: “If that is so, then I am relieved. I had been thinking — when the Emperor goes on the spring hunt, perhaps A’Yan might be allowed to come along. I remember when Father was still with us, every spring hunt, the three of us — the Emperor, Prince Seventh, and I — were always inseparable. It gave the Empress Dowager quite a worry.”
She brought up the old days, and the Emperor’s eyes lit up at once. They were both old now, slowed, with the fine lines of years at the corners of their eyes. The warm and suffocating air of this palace, and its boundless power, had steeped them like murky water. And so thinking back to youth, to following the late Emperor on the spring hunt — needing to show diligence, to seem valiant, to seem dutiful, to rise before dawn and be at the late Emperor’s tent waiting to attend him — every sentence carefully weighed, every choice made at peak alertness. Beside them, the other princes, with their predatory eyes, always poised to seize upon any misstep of the Crown Prince to make something of it — a pack of hungry hyenas, ready at any moment to close in and tear the three of them apart.
It had felt like a sword suspended above their heads. No one could pass through pressure like that without lasting marks. They had only distributed the damage differently — some carried it in their bodies; others in their hearts.
But people were nothing if not adaptable. Twenty years later, those early spring mornings in the bitter cold still left their mark on him — he need not close his eyes to feel again that entire-body tautness and the standing of his hair on end. He remembered the sensation of the winter wind of the mao-hour dawn being drawn into his chest like cold water.
Just to remember that feeling — and he felt himself alive again.
“Yes.” He finally admitted it openly, with something almost boyish in his manner. “That is exactly what We had in mind, thinking this year’s spring hunt should be properly grand.”
From the moment she had entered, this was the first time he had said “We” — and at last, the fox’s tail had shown itself.
The Grand Princess felt no distance — if anything, she was faintly amused. What was there to be surprised about? She had known twenty years ago that this day would come. To be born into the imperial family — she had understood from early on that the figure who sat on the throne would be neither her father nor her brother, only a monster. Otherwise, why did he push forward the Bureau of Astronomy and the Shen family, and yet refuse to offer up the Chen family for her to deal with?
But this was the monster she and Prince Seventh had raised between them. Prince Seventh had been too rigid and snapped before he could see the result. Only she remained to taste the fruit of that victory. She knew perfectly well that he felt guilt toward her and wished to compensate. But even the deepest guilt would eventually be spent — just as with A’Yan, whom he loved with extravagant tenderness and pity, yet granted not a shred of real power. Otherwise, why would A’Yan have had to visit the Shen household in person before he could stand behind that girl from the Shen family?
He did not wish to move against the Chen family — then she would not move against them. But she was no longer in her twenties; she was not a sickly nephew. She was this dynasty’s one and only Grand Princess — the true-born daughter of the late Emperor, having grown up in power, kept her widowhood in power, and now emerging from seclusion into power. The capital had forgotten her name, so that even the upstart Chen family dared to defy her conventions. But that was fine. She would make them remember.
Compensation was a matter between sovereign and subject. She needed to remind him that she had once been his ally — she, Prince Seventh, and he, the three of them, had formed the most unshakeable coalition in the storms of the succession struggle, long before the woman in the central palace became Empress. The Empress would never understand it: an Emperor has no family. In the succession struggle, brothers, sisters, uncles, even fathers became unreliable — every one of them a potential threat to your life.
It was like navigating a small boat across a sea of roiling peril, enemies closing in on all sides, never knowing when a wave would break over you — blood ties, affection, love, loyalty — all false. Only those on the same small boat with you were trustworthy, because once aboard, you all won together or perished together. There was no other path.
Having passed through the dangers of such a succession struggle, there would never be any other family after. Twenty years on, she still often dreamed that she was that princess again, doing her utmost at her father’s knee to be the daughter who made him proud — spirited and dignified, yet always ready to bow before imperial authority, piety pure and sincere. She often felt as though she were being pulled apart at the head and feet by two horses, or walking a single plank over an abyss, where the slightest lean to either side would send her plummeting. He must also dream often of his years as Crown Prince — both the most honored person in the realm, and also its most precious hostage.
Just as Prince Seventh, burning with fever in the Detention Court after heavy torture, still clear-headed enough in his delirium to give his testimony — and to insist to the end: “All of this was done by my own will alone. The Eastern Palace had no part in it.”
And Prince Seventh was gone now. They were each other’s only remaining family in this world.
What he owed her — as he owed Prince Seventh — was the matter of the Yingguo Duke’s household; the late Emperor owed her that debt, and it became part of the leverage in the succession struggle, just as Prince Seventh’s very life had been staked. Nothing could surpass this — it was a true founding contribution. She would not invoke it; but he would never forget it.
The Grand Princess took her leave. The Emperor remained, with that slightly helpless quality he always had before his elder sister, seeing her to the very door. The late Emperor had disliked this most in him — meek and compliant, without a trace of the Crown Prince’s authority. He had even said once: “If Weihua had been born male, where would any of you stand?” It was a compliment to the Grand Princess, and every one of the imperial princes had conceded it.
But they all understood: if there had truly been such an able and upright true-born prince, the first to die would have been him. Just as the founding Ancestor had deposed his Crown Prince — an able emperor could never tolerate an equally able heir apparent.
And so the Emperor who now occupied the throne was this one — pliable to excess. In the presence of his elder sister, he retreated and yielded in a way that seemed to have no backbone at all. The palace consorts too were, each of them, striking personalities, and he was the mild, gentle Emperor — his complexion carrying a trace of weariness and pallor, the kind that came from having all one’s desires satisfied, frequently tinged with something like boredom. He had claimed to want a spring hunt, but in truth his horsemanship and archery were not impressive, and his bearing was not particularly upright.
None of which prevented him from narrowing his eyes and summoning his trusted inner attendant Wang Changzhong.
“Go convey our regards to the Empress.” He narrowed his gaze, choosing his words with deliberate care, and then let a cruel smile play across his face.
“Tell her — the Flower Reception keeps all the wives of court officials very occupied. This year, during the first half of the year, none of them need come to the palace to pay their respects.”
Even Wang Changzhong, for all his experience, felt a moment’s inward chill. That was the Empress — the mother of the realm, not some consort to be punished on a whim. And yet he was sending a palace attendant to deliver a verbal message — not even a formal edict. The punishment was so oblique, and so vicious. For half a year, the penalty covered not only the Empress herself — barred from interfering in the Flower Reception — but also the Empress’s mother and grandmother, who would be denied entry to the palace for an audience.
People said today’s Emperor was cold and stingy — but had any emperor ever been otherwise? The late Emperor, for all his reputation for sentiment, had never hesitated when it came to dealing with those meritorious officials and ennobled families. Rather than call him cold, it was more accurate to say he was shadowed, brooding. He never attacked directly — and so everything carried a particular edge of cruel pleasure.
Wang Changzhong went to convey the verbal message — not even a formal decree, just spoken words. The Empress received it with equanimity, watching the twelfth prince as he wrote his composition, and did not even look up: “Go back and tell the Emperor — this Consort understands.”
But clearly she did not understand at all. Because she sent no message to restrain Prince Pingjun’s consort — and went on as before, watching to see how events unfolded.