In the ninth month of the second year of the Yin reign, Emperor Chengzong passed away in the Qianyuan Hall.

The entire realm fell into mourning. The imperial coffin was enshrined in the Chongde Hall, and princes, lords, and hundreds of officials, together with their noblewomen, gathered outside the Tianji Gate, dressed in white hemp, wailing and weeping in great lamentation, morning and evening alike. The following day, a posthumous edict was issued declaring that Crown Prince Zi Long would ascend the throne, with Prince Yuzhang Xiao Qi, Duke Zhenguo Wang Lin, and Marquis Yunde Gu Yong appointed as regent ministers. Five days later, the imperial hearse departed the palace, the coffin was laid to rest at Jingling Mausoleum, mourning edicts were dispatched to all corners of the realm, posthumous titles and temple names were bestowed, and solemn announcements were made to the altars of Heaven, Earth, and the ancestral shrines.

A thousand years hence, what remains in the history books is but a few short lines — as behind every imperial succession, one skilled historian’s brush sweeps away the crashing waves and the blood-soaked storms, leaving between the lines only an impression of a prosperous and peaceful age.

Yet I — I can never forget how my heart raced on that day… nor can I forget that on this very day, I lost our child.

When Aunt Xu told me through her tears, I was not yet fully conscious. I only remember the medicine being spooned into my mouth, thick and bitter and acrid on the tongue. I seemed to hear her say something about a “miscarriage,” yet I could not gather my wits, and gazed about blankly, searching for Xiao Qi’s figure. Aunt Xu said His Highness could not enter — that the ill omen of weapons and bloodshed would clash with the blood of childbirth, bringing misfortune upon me. Before her words had even finished, I heard the curtains beyond being torn aside with a crash, screens splitting, voices rising and falling in alarm. Heedless of everyone’s attempts to stop him, Xiao Qi burst into the inner chamber, his complexion deathly pale. Aunt Xu hastily tried to block him, invoking the taboo of ill omens, and he erupted in sudden fury: “Nonsense — all of you, get out!”

I had never seen his thunderous rage before — it seemed as though he would reduce everything before him to ash. At that instant, not a single soul dared defy him; even Aunt Xu retreated, trembling. He came to the bedside, bent down, and knelt, burying his face deep against my pillow, remaining motionless and silent for a long while.

Aunt Xu’s words echoed in my ears, and gradually I began to understand — yet I could not bring myself to believe it. “Is it true?” I opened my mouth and asked him in a faint voice. Xiao Qi did not answer. He raised his head and looked at me, and in his eyes there smoldered a faint red — he, who ordinarily never let joy or sorrow show upon his face, now bore unconcealed anguish and guilt written across every feature. His gaze met mine, and if the news a moment ago had been a blade stabbed through the heart — so swift one barely had time to feel the pain — then now it was countless fine needles pricking slowly into the heart, the pain so absolute that words failed me.

I silently raised my hand and grasped his, pressing it close against my cheek. Tears slid unbidden and fell into his palm.

“I can open up frontiers and conquer lands, strike and sweep in all directions — yet I cannot protect one woman and one child.” His voice was extremely low, so low it was nearly broken. I wanted to console his grief, but could not utter a single word. I could only silently lace my fingers through his and hold tight, transmitting courage to one another, together withstanding the cold that surged in from all sides.

When we had both still known nothing of it, a child had already quietly come — traveled south with us, through the taking of cities and the claiming of lands, all the way to the moment our horses trod upon the imperial threshold. Through so many desperate and dangerous straits, that child had come through alongside us — yet at this moment, quietly and without a sound, the child departed. The imperial physician said the child was not yet two months along… We had not even known of its existence, and by the time we learned of it, the loss was already forever.

I had been unconscious for two days and two nights, during which I had bled profusely and been at the very edge of death.

Xiao Qi told me that throughout those two days, Mother had stayed at my side without sleep, without rest, without food or drink — until two hours before, when exhaustion finally overcame her and she was forcibly escorted back to the estate to rest. He supported me and personally fed me medicine, spoonful by spoonful. The medicine was extremely bitter and astringent, yet it could not compare to the bitterness in my heart. In the span of just two days, it was as though I had plummeted from the heights of paradise to the depths of hell — as though it were all a nightmare. I still faintly remembered the banquet celebrating the imperial birthday, with the whole family gathered in joy — yet in the blink of an eye, the Emperor had passed away, my aunt had staged a rebellion, Father and Xiao Qi had come to arms against each other, and we had lost a child… Life and death, truth and illusion — I felt disoriented. Perhaps this truly was only a nightmare. Yet whenever I closed my eyes, I still saw the grim imperial bed, the layers of blades and spears, the cold light like snow; my aunt’s shrill laughter still rang in my ears, and I remembered with sharp clarity the moment she shoved me violently into the screen…

Heedless of the Crown Prince’s protests, Xiao Qi forcibly confined my aunt to the cold palace. All the physicians and attendants of the Qianyuan Hall had been executed, and no one remained who knew the truth of my aunt personally poisoning the Emperor. That same day, Father’s forces were defeated, and he was placed under house arrest in the Duke Zhenguo estate by Xiao Qi; my brother temporarily took command of the Imperial Guards. Song Huai’an sealed off every palace gate and purged the Empress’s partisans. By nightfall, the situation in the capital was under control.

Had my brother not urgently dissuaded Father, delaying the timing of his deployment of troops and allowing Hu Guanglie to swiftly mobilize soldiers to garrison the capital’s vital points and control the situation outside the palace — I fear a grave and irreversible error would already have been made by now. Father had mistakenly trusted my aunt — had mistakenly trusted his own full-blooded younger sister and ally of decades. Had the Crown Prince ascended the throne, with the Wang Family’s deeply entrenched influence at court, Father would sooner or later have gradually weakened Xiao Qi. But my aunt’s ambition had turned against him, betraying not only Father but also pushing both him and herself into a dead end from which there was no retreat. Launching a military coup was no different from attacking an opponent’s strengths with one’s own weaknesses — when they met head-on in a narrow pass, it was precisely Xiao Qi who held the firm advantage.

Father, shrewd for a lifetime, was defeated in the end by the ally he trusted most.

My aunt, who had calculated everything to the last detail, could not calculate that her own son would betray her without hesitation.

The next day, the Crown Prince read the late Emperor’s posthumous edict aloud to all officials at the Taihua Hall, formally inheriting the throne. The edict commanded Prince Yuzhang Xiao Qi, Duke Zhenguo Wang Lin, and Marquis Yunde Gu Yong to serve as regent ministers. Several hundred Imperial Guards, palace eunuchs, and palace maids involved in the rebellion were all put to death as traitors and conspirators. Among the remaining civil and military officials, all those who had rendered meritorious service in supporting the Crown Prince were elevated in rank, with lavish rewards of gold and silver.

A bloody palace coup — swept away just like that, with a light touch, leaving not a single trace in the annals of history.

I cannot, and do not wish to, imagine what was in Father’s heart when he learned of my aunt’s betrayal — when he found himself abandoned by all and forced to surrender in dark dejection. With Father’s pride, he would sooner have died than endure such humiliation; yet if he truly had taken his own life, it would have destroyed the family’s reputation. No matter how furious or desperate, he was compelled to go on living — still holding the hollow title of Chief Minister, sitting in that awkward and powerless position, receiving others’ well-meaning pity and poisonous mockery. This was the cruelest punishment for him.

On the fifth day of the tenth month — an auspicious day — the enthronement ceremony for the new sovereign was held in the Taihua Hall.

The successor Emperor, in court robes, departed the Eastern Palace with the imperial procession leading the way and the imperial carriage following behind; princes, lords, and hundreds of officials gathered outside the Taihe Gate, kneeling in welcome.

As the realm was still in mourning, ritual music was suspended. Three cracks of the whip rang out at the foot of the steps, and the Minister of Rites presented the investiture scroll on his knees. Prince Yuzhang Xiao Qi, Duke Zhenguo Wang Lin, and Marquis Yunde Gu Yong led the assembled officials in the ceremony of three kneeling and nine prostrations.

The auspicious bell rang out in a long peal; beneath the vermilion steps, hundreds of officials bowed their heads.

The new sovereign ascended the throne and issued a decree honoring Empress Wang as Empress Dowager, and formally enfeoffing the Crown Prince’s principal consort as Empress.

At the time of the new Emperor’s enthronement ceremony, Mother and I were recuperating at the hot spring palace in the suburban Xingyuan estate. Yuxiu had just recovered from her injuries, and regardless of everything, came along to attend to me.

Mother had also fallen ill for quite some days after all this. The Emperor’s death, Father’s attempted coup, and my misfortune — together, these were blows Mother could no longer bear. She hid in the estate, weeping all day long. And I, since the miscarriage, had been confined to bed day after day, my health fluctuating between better and worse, waking every night from nightmares. The imperial physician said that if I could not calm my mind and rest in peace, no amount of miraculous medicine would be of any use. I knew that going with Mother to the hot spring palace was once again a cowardly escape — like retreating to Huizhou long ago. But I was truly exhausted, in both body and spirit. I was worried about Mother’s health, and moreover had grown weary of being entangled in daily strife; every additional day spent in the capital felt suffocating.

On the day of departure, Xiao Qi set aside his multitude of affairs and personally escorted us to the hot spring palace, admonishing us repeatedly upon leaving, his concern boundless.

Ensconced within the traveling palace, removed from strife and grievances, even time itself seemed to sink into stillness.

Each day I simply shared tea and games of chess with Mother, chatted idly, spoke of amusing incidents from childhood… I even began once again to learn needlework from Mother — the skill I was most unfamiliar with. Those sorrowful matters, neither of us would mention again. Father and my brother often came to visit us; Father even stayed for several days — but Mother maintained an indifferent manner toward him, as though he were a stranger. Xiao Qi always came and went in haste; one could see how busy and weary he was. But whenever he came to the traveling palace, he never brought attendants, nor allowed anyone to report matters of state to him. He had the imperial physicians give him an account of my condition every three days, yet never pressed me to ask when I would return to the estate.

After the new Emperor’s enthronement, the Empress Dowager lay ill, secluded in Yong’an Palace. Father still held the highest position at court, yet from that point on claimed illness and remained at home, keeping a very low profile. My brother was also elevated as Prince Jiangxia, holding charge of the Secretariat. The Wang Family still maintained its outward splendor and glory — their power and position were actually higher than before. Yet the Imperial Guards had been gradually brought under Xiao Qi’s control; Father’s students and close associates planted throughout the court were either stripped of positions and power, or transferred to serve under Xiao Qi. The family’s relatives and junior members also feared being implicated, and one and all grew cautious, carefully watching every word and deed… The great aristocratic clan that had led the realm for nearly two hundred years suffered its greatest setback since the rebellions of the various princes. The Wang Family’s crushing defeat threw all the great clans into panic. Prince Yuzhang swept away the pattern of the two Prime Ministers checking each other as equals, and seized sole control of power with a single hand — greatly heartening the officials of humble birth and the military men in the armies.

Even from the distant traveling palace, I still heard all manner of rumors. Some said the Wang Family would never recover from this. Others said Prince Yuzhang’s foundation was still shallow, and perhaps the Wang Family still had a chance to rise again — after all, the Emperor carried half Wang blood, and the Empress Dowager was also Wang-born. Others still said that since Prince Yuzhang’s own consort was a Wang woman, as long as she was there, Prince Yuzhang would never completely destroy the Wang Family.

Though there were the Emperor and the Empress Dowager, many understood that the Empress Dowager was no longer capable of influencing state affairs, and the Emperor was merely a puppet in Prince Yuzhang’s hands. I was seen as the last remaining link between the Wang Family and the summit of power. Rumors about me had long been swirling wildly through the capital. Some said the alliance by marriage between Xiao Qi and the Wang Family had lost all its value, and the princess consort would soon be repudiated. Some said the princess consort had lost favor and had been long neglected by Prince Yuzhang. Others said that in truth, Prince Yuzhang and his consort were devoted as a pair of mandarin ducks… More people believed that my absence from the enthronement ceremony — leaving the capital at such a delicate moment — must certainly be an ill omen.

Even when I was very young, I already understood the fickleness of the inner palace and court, and knew that a family that lost power in a political struggle — no matter how glorious it had once been — would immediately be trampled underfoot by all.

Xiao Qi had never made me any promise outright, but I understood that he had done everything in his power to protect my family.

When autumn had arrived and yellow leaves lay scattered across the ground, the imperial physician said I had gradually recovered — and I finally resolved to return and face all that I needed to face.

At dusk I arrived at the prince’s estate. After changing and settling in, Xiao Qi had not yet returned.

I began to grow impatient. Though I was inside the room, I kept my attention fixed on the sounds outside the door. Each time footsteps approached, a thread of delighted anticipation rose in me — only to give way to disappointment again and again. I quietly found myself ridiculous: when we were apart I had felt no longing at all, yet now I was watching the door with desperate, anxious eyes… In a daze, once again I heard familiar footsteps — this time there could be no mistaking them: he had returned.

I tossed down the scroll in my hands, without even stopping to throw on an outer robe, and rushed hurrying toward the door. The maids scrambled after me, then all at once fell to their knees at the doorway. The door opened, and Xiao Qi — tall crown, princely robes, wide sleeves stirring without any wind — came striding in with brisk, powerful steps, bearing the commanding presence of one who rules. I stood rooted to the spot, staring at him — in just this short time apart, I felt he had somehow changed again, just a little.

“A’Wu.” He called my name in a soft voice, and for one instant, his gaze went hazy.

In full view of everyone, I threw myself into his embrace, abandoning all decorum and elegance. Without a word, he lifted me and went straight into the inner chamber; in the privacy of that secluded place, he suddenly kissed me with fierce abandon — my forehead, my brow, my cheek, my neck — and finally, a long, lingering entanglement of lips that neither of us wished to end.

Palace lanterns swayed; the radiance of glass lamps turned slowly around us. Our eyes met, and time itself seemed to sink in that moment into an eternal, intoxicating stillness.

Neither of us wished to break this quiet peace with words. His chin rested lightly against my brow; his eyes were half-closed, and he breathed a long, low sigh: “I had thought you hated me. I thought I would lose you, just like that.”

I smiled quietly, gazing at his clear and refined face.

“So I thought — if A’Wu would only forgive me once more, from then on I would give her whatever she wanted, so long as she was well…” He could no longer go on. In the depths of his eyes was nothing but guilt and tender care; the man who ordinarily had edges sharp as a blade had in this moment become soft. “…I thought I would give her whatever she wanted, so long as she was well…”

Leaning against the warmth of his embrace, I closed my eyes and smiled. Only after having passed through upheaval does one learn to cherish. What more could I want now? What is there left that I have not received, have not lost? The most beautiful and the most terrible things in this world, the most precious and most pitiable — I have had them all, and lost them all. The golden branches and jade leaves, the distinguished noble clans, the floating glory — once all of it has dispersed, what remains held in the palm is nothing but the word “love”: parents’ love, siblings’ love, and his — this unwavering, true devotion. What I thought was most unshakeable proved impossible to hold; what should have been most fragile, still rests in my hand.

Just three days after my return to the capital, the palace received joyful news: Empress Xie had given birth to a slight and weak male infant — the current Emperor’s first legitimate son. After the calamities that had struck the palace, this new life’s arrival restored its festive vitality; the long-lingering gloom seemed to gradually lift. By custom, all noblewomen and the families of officials of the third rank and above were to enter the palace three days later to offer their congratulations on the birth of the little imperial prince.

But news quickly emerged from the palace: the Empress had fallen ill, and the little imperial prince was extremely frail, with imperial physicians coming and going endlessly from Zhaoyang Hall… It was not until five days later that all the noblewomen were summoned to the palace to offer their congratulations.

On that day, I entered the palace together with the Marquise Yunde and the other noblewomen. From afar I beheld the central palace — the residence of empresses through the dynasties — and stepped onto the Zhaoyang Hall that had been familiar to me since childhood: the place where my aunt had spent more than thirty years of her life. This silent palace gate had seen off one mistress and now welcomed a new one for a new era. If these ornately carved beams and painted rafters could see and hear and think, I wondered what they would choose to remember. Some dozens of imperial consorts and noblewomen in formal court dress had already assembled outside the hall; the elderly Marquise Gu had also arrived. All the noblewomen were waiting for me alone. When my carriage was spotted in the distance, a palace eunuch announced my arrival in a long call, and everyone fell quiet at once; every gaze converged on the single thin curtain of the carriage. The maid lifted the curtain, and I rose slowly under the collective gaze, stepping down from the phoenix carriage. Probing, curious, mocking, wary — layer upon layer of complex looks landed upon my face, deep and shallow. I raised my chin slightly, kept my gaze straight ahead, and walked through with unhurried steps. As I passed, the principal wives of marquises and nobles and imperial consorts of the second rank and below all lowered their eyes and garments in a bow, stepping respectfully to one side.

Yet it was only a female official from the central palace who came out to receive the congratulations on behalf of the Empress, saying that the Empress was ill in bed. The little imperial prince was not brought out for the assembled women to see. The noblewomen looked at one another; they could only offer their congratulations, present their gifts, and recite auspicious words, carrying out all the proper formalities. But there was none of the festive cheer that had been anticipated in Zhaoyang Hall — instead, an indescribable heaviness and oppression hung over everything.

The assembled women were filing out in order when suddenly the female official before the hall called out: “Princess Consort of Prince Yuzhang, please remain. The Empress summons the Princess Consort for a private audience.” I followed her into the inner hall; I had barely passed through the layered hanging curtains when I heard a faint, weak call come from behind the screen painted with phoenixes soaring toward the sun.

“A’Wu, A’Wu!” Wanru — supported by palace maids — came to meet me in plain white garments, her hair unbound. In the months since we had last met, she had grown so gaunt and pale she seemed like a drifting, rootless dead leaf, as though a gust of wind could carry her away at any moment. I hurried forward to steady her — but before I could even touch the sleeve of her robe, she sank straight to her knees before me. Her long hair fell to the floor; her face was as white as paper. She seized my hand with a haunted grip: “A’Wu, I beg you — save my child!”

“Your Majesty!” I was startled and grasped her arm, yet could not lift her to her feet. She shivered all over, tears streaming: “I beg you to save him — save the little imperial prince. They are going to harm him to death! No one believes me. The Emperor does not believe me either… A’Wu, I am begging you! Save the child — do not let them harm him to death…”

“No one would dare harm the little imperial prince — look, the child is fine, is he not?” I was at a loss; I could only stoop and hold her, gently coaxing her, while at the same time gesturing to the female official to bring the child over. I had not been able to look carefully in the outer hall earlier; now, as I was handed the small bundle wrapped in imperial yellow brocade — so small, so soft — my arms sank with the weight, and a dull ache rose in my heart. I could not bring myself to look at the child’s face.

Just then, the child let out a cry — a thin, feeble wail, not much stronger than a kitten’s mew. Wanru took the child back and patted him to soothe him, but the child only cried harder. His little face flushed crimson, and his small lips had begun to take on a faintly bluish tinge. Alarmed, I instinctively reached out to take him — and Wanru snapped her head up and cried out sharply: “Do not touch him!” She fixed me with a guarded, fierce glare and stepped rapidly back. Helpless, I withdrew and moved away from her, coaxing and pleading in a gentle voice. She watched me with suspicious, uncertain eyes for a long while, and at last gradually calmed down. Her body still trembled, her eyes swimming with tears, as she held the baby tightly in her arms.

I quickly summoned an imperial physician and called in the female official of the central palace to question her. The palace officials and eunuchs were also in a state of panicked confusion, saying only that ever since the little imperial prince had fallen ill, the Empress had become consumed with paranoid suspicions — she would not allow anyone to take the little imperial prince away, nor permit any outsider to approach him. As for the little imperial prince, from the previous night onward he had been crying ceaselessly without any letup. Even after taking the medicine prescribed by the imperial physician, there was no improvement; indeed, at night he only cried harder and harder. The female official hesitated, then said haltingly: “The Empress has been saying… that someone is trying to harm the little imperial prince…”

My heart tightened. “Does the Emperor know of this?”

The official hastily replied: “His Majesty knows, it is only… only that he said the Empress is worrying excessively and should not say such things.”

It turned out that on the night before last, Wanru had been seized by a sudden nightmare in which someone was attacking the little imperial prince. When she woke, she heard him crying incessantly, and from then on she was convinced someone was trying to harm him. Naturally no one believed this — even the imperial physician said the little imperial prince was in good health overall, just inevitably frail as a newborn. Wanru herself told me that dream, her face pale and frightened, imploring me to believe her… Looking at her haggard face, I felt only heartache and helplessness. She carefully placed the small bundle in my arms: “A’Wu, hold him for a moment — he is very good… gently, do not startle him.”

A newborn infant is so impossibly delicate. One could faintly make out in his features the shadows of his parents. His little hands, feet, and face were things I did not dare touch. He lay in my arms, no longer having the strength to cry and wail, but scrunching up his small face in endless quiet sobs, as though he had suffered a very great injustice. Without knowing it, I began to shed tears, my chest aching with a nameless pull — a boundless tenderness and guilt, a wish to give anything to ease his distress. In that moment, I began to understand Wanru’s feelings. So this was the heart of a mother… She at least still had the chance to ache and worry for this child, while I had never even had that chance.

The imperial physician arrived quickly and examined the little imperial prince. Afterward, his face bore a confused, uncertain expression; he pondered for a long while, then said only that the little imperial prince had no serious illness — only that his constitution was extremely weak, likely due to insufficient vitality at birth. The Empress pressed him further and further, and at last he said with hesitation and unease: “This minister ventures a rash conjecture — the little imperial prince appears to show signs of having been frightened…”

Having said this, the imperial physician prostrated himself and did not dare raise his head. Wanru and I looked at each other, our color changed. Zhaoyang Hall was staffed entirely with palace maids loyal to the Empress; day and night, palace maids and a wet nurse attended on the little imperial prince with great care, and no outsider had ever come near him. That the child had been frightened — this was truly difficult to believe.

“Could it be a curse?” Wanru cried out involuntarily, and the moment those words left her mouth, my own face changed as well. Everyone in the palace knew what the word “curse” implied in terms of its grave consequences. The Empress immediately ordered a thorough investigation of the entire rear palace — digging three feet into the ground — and had all the female officials of every consort’s palace arrested and interrogated; any place that aroused the slightest suspicion was to be subjected without exception to torture.

I carefully questioned every single person in the little imperial prince’s immediate circle, but found nothing suspicious. From the wet nurse to the palace maids, all were longtime attendants who had served at Wanru’s side for years — especially two elderly nursemaids, who had been trusted confidantes of the former Noble Consort Xie and had been sent by Noble Consort Xie to attend on Wanru after she entered the Eastern Palace as Crown Princess. They were, in effect, loyalists from her maternal family… I paced before the window and abruptly stopped. The graceful image of Noble Consort Xie rose before my mind’s eye — refined as an immortal who did not partake of the mortal world’s smoke and fire — and gradually that image transformed into another who resembled her in bearing: a figure in blue scholar’s robes, wide sleeves, composed as ever. It had been a very long time since I had thought of that person; now his figure surfaced unexpectedly, and a creeping chill spread slowly from my fingertips.

“Hui Yan.” I called softly for Yin Huiyan, the captain of my personal guard attendants. “Starting tonight, disguise yourself as a guard and remain in Zhaoyang Hall. Do not reveal yourself… Watch carefully everyone around the little imperial prince — especially the two nursemaids.”

On the carriage back to the prince’s estate from the palace, I was unsettled and restless the entire way. I regretted having left Hui Yan in the palace, fearing that she might truly discover something — fearing that it would be the result I least wished to see.

I paused at the doorway of the study for a moment, gathered and settled my scattered thoughts, and then pushed the door open and entered. Xiao Qi was bent over his desk, deeply absorbed in reading through a small mountain of documents. He looked up and saw me, and the deep furrow of his brow gradually smoothed open. I gave him an abbreviated account of the little imperial prince’s situation, omitting only the part about leaving Hui Yan behind — and saying nothing about the two nursemaids. Xiao Qi listened quietly, his gaze unreadable in its depths, and only said lightly: “The little imperial prince does give one cause for concern.”

I sighed: “You have not yet seen that child. So thin and small — truly pitiful… Born into the imperial family, and one does not know whether it is his fortune or his misfortune.” Xiao Qi fell silent, and I knew I had spoken carelessly and touched upon the hidden pain in his heart; I too fell mute and could not go on. He drew me close, his eyes full of tender warmth; without words, each already knew the other’s heart.

After dinner, he kept his usual habit of watching over me while I drank my medicine, insisting on watching until I had finished before he was satisfied. This medicine was extremely bitter and astringent and difficult to drink, and every time I could not help complaining — yet I could never get out of taking it. Tonight, just as the maid had brought up the medicine, someone came to report something to him, and I took advantage of his distraction to quietly pour the medicine into the flower pot. Before I had managed to hide the remaining dregs, Xiao Qi had already returned to the room — and caught me squarely in the act.

Feeling guilty, I stuck out my tongue and laughed: “This medicine is too difficult to drink, and the imperial physician has already said I have nearly fully recovered — shall we stop taking it from now on?”

“No.” His face was expressionless. He turned and instructed the maid: “Go and boil another bowl.”

Seeing that he was so seriously in earnest about it, I grew somewhat displeased, and stubbornly declared: “I said I will not drink it, and I will not!”

“No!” His expression grew even more stern.

I blurted out: “I am not a small child — you need not manage me!”

He suddenly grabbed me and pressed his lips down upon mine in a fierce kiss — deeper and deeper, seizing my lips for a long, long time, until I went weak and boneless and had no strength left to resist.

“Need not manage you?” He gazed at me with an expression that was half a smile, yet with lingering displeasure still in his eyes. “Even when you are seventy or eighty years old — this entire lifetime — I will manage you.”

I found the whole thing both exasperating and amusing, yet felt a sweetness welling up in my heart that I could not suppress. When the maid brought up the medicine again, I had no choice but to drink it to the last drop — but I could not resist asking: “What is so important about this medicine that I must drink it every single day?”

Xiao Qi gave a little laugh. “It is merely a tonic. Your constitution is too weak; unless you are nursed back to being plump and rosy, you must drink it every day.”

I wailed in dismay: “You are trying to torment me to death!”