Not long after came the annual Silkworm Ceremony, held each year in mid-spring, presided over by the Empress, who led the consorts and noblewomen in offering sacrifices and prayers to Leizu, the goddess of sericulture, beseeching her blessing for an abundance of silk and the flourishing of the weaving trade.

Farming and weaving were the foundations of the people’s livelihood, and the two great annual rites — the Silkworm Ceremony and the Grain Sacrifice — had always been accorded the highest importance by the imperial family. According to ancestral decree, when the Empress presided over the ceremony, she was required to wear the yellow gauze ceremonial robe as her ritual dress, with sash, apron, and ornamental belt in matching color, every accompanying adornment governed by strict regulations. The assistants’ ceremonial robes worn by the other consorts and noblewomen were likewise fashioned from brocade, with embroidery and ornaments distinguished according to rank. In past years every spring, I had donned the blue gauze phoenix-patterned ceremonial robe and followed my mother to the Silkworm Ceremony. But this year, I was to take my aunt’s place and mount the altar at Yanfu Hall, presiding over the great Silkworm Ceremony myself.

The Chief Clerk of the Court of Imperial Sacrifices reported, at wearisome length, each ritual vessel and implement required for the ceremony. I listened while carefully studying the memorial before me. When he reached the presiding officiant’s ceremonial dress, the Chief Clerk’s expression became uncomfortable, and he ventured cautiously, “I wonder whether the presiding officiant’s ceremonial dress should also be prepared according to standard regulations?” To follow standard regulations would mean the ceremonial dress designated for the Empress. At present, the entire court deferred to the Prince Regent as the supreme authority — it was said one stood below only one person and above all others, the difference being merely a nominal title. The empresses of successive reigns in this dynasty had mostly come from the Wang family, and over time the Wang family had come to be known as the “Empress Clan.” The imperial ritual officials had always been most adept at divining their superiors’ wishes, and they must certainly have assumed I would wear the Empress’s ceremonial dress.

I lifted my gaze, keeping my tone measured. “This year’s circumstances are exceptional. The Grand Empress Dowager is unable to preside over the ceremony due to illness, and I take her place only out of necessity. Though the matter of dress color may seem trivial, it bears greatly on ritual propriety and must not transgress its bounds.”

“This official is guilty!” The Chief Clerk kowtowed repeatedly, then hesitated and said, “Yet if the Princess Consort, as the presiding officiant of the highest rank, wears only an assistant’s ceremonial dress, that too would seem contrary to propriety.”

“Since neither dress color is entirely appropriate, have a new one fashioned.” I remained impassive and simply set the memorial aside.

The following day, I had A’Yue deliver the design for the new ceremonial dress, along with the specified fabric, to the Bureau of the Privy Seal, with orders to complete it within three days.

In the third month of spring in the second year of Xuanhe, on a date selected by the Court Astronomer, a ceremony was held at the altar to honor the First Silkworm. Princess Consort of Yuzhang performed the Silkworm Ceremony in place of the Empress.

The attendants presented the newly made ceremonial dress — a plain gauze inner robe beneath a long outer garment of cloud-blue silk, with smoke-blue flowing-cloud skirts below, broad sleeves gathered at the waist. The elaborate sash and ribbon ornaments were dispensed with entirely; only long, slender ribbons descended from the waist sash, shaped like phoenix tail feathers. No embroidery, no ornamentation adorned the whole — only a faint phoenix motif was woven into the skirt hem, offset by pendant jade ornaments. A’Yue gathered my long hair up, pinning it into a loose, softly draped coiffure, adorned with swaying hairpins that trembled gently with each step. I studied my reflection for a moment, then dipped a brush into gold-flecked vermillion and drew a light mark upon my brow. My toilette complete, I departed Fengchi Palace, mounted a palanquin, lowered the gauze curtain, and, with attendants preceding me in ceremonial formation, proceeded to the eastern gate of Yanhe Palace.

The noblewomen had long since assembled at the palace gates to await me, all resplendent in full ceremonial dress, with lofty coiffures and golden ornaments, magnificently adorned. Four first-rank noblewomen stepped forward, performed the ritual obeisance, and pronounced words of felicitation. An attendant drew back the beaded curtain of the palanquin, and I extended my hand to rest it on the guiding female official’s arm, stepping down slowly. The morning light had just broken, its rosy rays flooding the scene, and the solemn altar seemed bathed in a faint golden radiance.

I mounted the jade steps and stood in the morning light, my robes lifting in the breeze, as I gravely burned incense and offered prayers.

Afterward, a female official led the assembly to the mulberry garden. Attendants presented silver hooks, and I led the way in receiving the hooks and harvesting mulberry leaves. The inner and outer noblewomen followed in turn, each gathering mulberry leaves into jade boxes, and with this the rite was completed and the altar descended. Finally, attendants led us into the silkworm chamber where we briefly inspected that year’s new silkworms, before retiring to the rear hall for tea and conversation.

The various royal kinswomen seated beside me were all well acquainted with one another and dispensed with formality. Many lavished praise upon my dress and appearance, to which I responded with a mild smile, saying nothing of the change in ceremonial dress. Inevitably, someone could not contain their curiosity and inquired, “The Princess Consort’s ceremonial dress differs from the style of previous years. The fabric seems neither quite silk nor quite hemp — I have never seen its like before. From what place was this rare treasure offered in tribute?”

I smiled warmly and replied, “It is not some exotic curiosity from afar. It is merely a new tribute from the Weaving Bureau this year — of course no one would have seen it before. I took a liking to it and had it made into a ceremonial dress.” The assembly understood, and could not conceal their admiration. The wife of the Marquis of Ying’an to my left was particularly effusive in her sighs of admiration. I turned to look at her and said with a smile, “If the Marchioness likes it, I shall have some sent to your residence.” The Marchioness of Ying’an was overjoyed and thanked me profusely, which only deepened the admiration on every face, making the Marchioness quite pleased with herself.

Within three days, the Weaving Bureau reported that noblewomen from various households had been arriving one after another to request the new silk. I had already given instructions that the new silk was not to leave the palace’s possession under any circumstances, regardless of who requested it. Everyone’s appetite had been thoroughly whetted, and private inquiries yielded nothing; curiosity only grew the more. Ten days later, the palace issued an imperial decree revising the dress regulations: the court dress of all noblewomen was henceforth to be made of the new silk, abandoning the former use of brocade and gauze.

Overnight, from the palace to the capital, everyone considered it an honor to wear the new silk, while damask, gauze, and embroidered fabrics fell to the status of inferior goods.

What I had not anticipated was that it was not only the new silk that swept through the capital — even the design I had idly sketched on my brow on a whim spread rapidly through the city’s quarters, and both noblewomen and commoners alike adopted it as the mark of beauty.

On a rare fine spring day, I sat at leisure beneath the covered walkway, idly plucking the strings of the ancient zither “Clear Ripple,” my thoughts drifting to my brother. A’Yue came softly to my side and said in a low voice, “This servant has delivered the clothing and ornaments bestowed by the Princess Consort to Jingling Palace. Madam Su received them with great gratitude and bade this servant convey her wish to come and thank the Princess Consort in person.” I acknowledged this with a murmur of indifference. “There is no need. Visit frequently as a matter of course, and attend to whatever may be needed.”

“Yes, this servant understands.” A’Yue hesitated a moment, as though she wished to say something more but held back. I gave no outward sign, and lowered my head to pluck the zither strings, yet heard A’Yue say softly, “This servant noticed that the young Princess seemed not quite right.”

“What is the matter with the young Princess?” I started, having assumed it was Jin’er with some grievance, only to find the concern was with the child.

A’Yue frowned. “Madam Su had originally said the young Princess had caught a chill and was not permitting visitors. Fearing the Princess Consort would be worried, this servant insisted on looking in on the young Princess…”

“What did you find?” I asked, frowning.

She hesitated a moment, looking bewildered. “This servant seemed to notice that the young Princess’s eyes appeared not to see.”

I was greatly alarmed, and immediately rose to my feet, summoning the imperial physician while ordering a carriage to Jingling Palace. Since Jin’er had been placed under house arrest, I had not once set foot in Jingling Palace, nor had I gone to see her or the child. Whenever I recalled her words and behavior that day, I felt chilled and troubled, no longer able to regard her as the Jin’er of former times — in every light she appeared a stranger, Madam Su. As for what had passed between her and Zidan, I did not know to this day, nor did I ever wish to know.

Entering Jingling Palace, Jin’er had already heard the news and come out to meet me, seemingly not having anticipated my sudden arrival, her expression cold and flustered. I had no interest in pleasantries with her, and went directly to the point of visiting the young Princess, ordering the wet nurse to bring the child out at once. Jin’er’s complexion changed instantly, and she said urgently, “The child has just fallen asleep — do not disturb her!” I frowned at her. “I am told the young Princess caught a chill. I have specially summoned the imperial physician to examine her. Surely the child has been ill these many days — has Madam Su truly not called a physician?” Jin’er turned pale and lowered her head in silence, but her fingers clenched savagely. Seeing her expression, I grew only more suspicious, and was about to speak when the wet nurse came from the inner chamber carrying the child.

Jin’er rushed forward to snatch the child, but was blocked by A’Yue. The wet nurse brought the child directly before me. I hesitated, then took the still-sleeping child, my heart immediately flooding with a turmoil of feeling. This was the first time I had held Zidan’s child — the moment I thought of this child carrying the same blood as Zidan, I did not know whether to feel joy or heartache… Zidan — he remained still a crack in the depths of my heart that could not be touched.

The infant girl in my arms had a delicate, lovely little face, lying in slumber like a lotus bud still closed. I gazed at her quietly, feeling my heart gradually soften, and could not help reaching out to gently stroke her soft pink cheek. Her tiny mouth parted slightly, and she made a small sound, slowly opening her eyes. Beneath long lashes, those large round eyes stared blankly up at me, the pupils motionless — where there should have been deep black, a layer of alarming gray had settled over them.

She seemed to sense she was in unfamiliar arms, and let out a sudden cry, turning her head in all directions searching for her mother, those eyes remaining throughout blank and unmoving.

I raised my eyes to look at Jin’er, a chill spreading through my hands and feet, unable to say a single word — this child was clearly already blind, yet her mother had said nothing of it and had not allowed a physician to examine her.

“Imperial Physician Sun, are you quite certain of what you have examined?” I fixed my gaze on the imperial physician prostrate before me and spoke coldly.

The inner chamber was as still as death. Everyone had been dismissed. The wet nurse had taken away the crying young Princess, leaving only the imperial physician and my personal attendants. Imperial Physician Sun was a man of long standing in the palace, of great experience, who had witnessed upheavals of every kind, yet now he lay prostrate on the ground, his face ashen, remaining frozen for some time before reporting, “The Princess Consort sees clearly — though this official is dull-witted, a symptom this plain is not beyond my ability to discern. The young Princess’s eyes have indeed been harmed by poison administered to them, resulting in blindness!” The old imperial physician’s voice trembled with indignation as he spoke — poison used to burn the eyes — a method so cruel it was almost beyond comprehension. Who could bear to do such a thing to a girl infant not yet a year old?

“What was the substance, and can anything be done?” I gritted my teeth, the fury within me rising like a raging fire, impossible to suppress.

Imperial Physician Sun’s beard and hair quivered faintly. “The substance is merely the most common of compounds, Luminite Powder, but the method of administering it was exceedingly cruel. From the nature of the injury, it appears the powder was dissolved in water and instilled drop by drop each day, gradually causing a burning injury — the blindness did not come all at once. Fortunately, it has been discovered early enough that the young Princess still retains some faint sensation. With prompt treatment, it may be possible to preserve a small degree of sight.”

Even if healed, such an injury would leave only partial sight — this child’s eyes were effectively ruined. I turned away in silence, then suddenly swept the teacup from the table to the floor with a swift motion of my sleeve.

Luminite Powder was the most common compound in the palace — every chamber used it mixed into incense to repel insects. This powder was fragrant and non-toxic; while it could drive away insects, it caused no great harm to people. Yet who would have imagined that dissolving the powder in water and dripping it into the eyes could slowly burn them, destroying the pupils and causing lifelong blindness? Even standing on the battlefield amid bleeding and chaos, surrounded by the dead, had never struck me with such horror and fury.

What person could harbor such deep hatred toward a tiny infant as to commit this act in the heavily guarded Jingling Palace — and to openly harm Zidan’s daughter right under my eyes?

“Come!” I turned back with cold deliberation, speaking word by word. “Seal Jingling Palace immediately. Every palace servant who has had any contact with the young Princess is to be imprisoned for interrogation.”

The guards, palace servants, and miscellaneous attendants of Jingling Palace were all confined in the Office of Discipline. The maids and wet nurses who had served the young Princess knelt before the hall as the matrons of the Office of Discipline interrogated them one by one. The sounds of weeping and anguished cries came through the screen with perfect clarity, each like a sharp needle piercing the heart. Every person in the palace knew well the methods of the Office of Discipline — falling into the hands of those matrons was more terrible than death itself.

I sat in my chair, silent and motionless, gazing coldly at the pale woman kneeling before me. Was this disheveled, dazed woman — kneeling there for nearly the time it takes a stick of incense to burn, apparently struck mute, refusing to open her mouth even in the face of death — truly the Jin’er who had grown up with me, once close as a sister?

After being separated in Huizhou, what had she endured, to transform the Jin’er who had once laughed so brightly into this present figure?

I only watched her in silence, making no effort to press her with questions, preferring that the palace servants outside supply an even more terrible answer, rather than have my suspicions confirmed. The cries from outside gradually grew faint. Jin’er’s face grew paler still, her body swaying as though about to collapse, yet she clung on with desperate stubbornness. After only a short while, Nanny Xu of the Office of Discipline stepped past the screen and bowed to report, “Respectfully reporting to the Princess Consort — the wet nurse Yuan, and the palace maids Caihuan and Yunzhu have all confessed. Their testimonies have been copied out and are here for the Princess Consort’s inspection.”

Jin’er’s body gave a violent tremor. She jerked her head up, her gaze meeting mine, and seemed to have every bone drained from her body. A’Yue received the page of testimony and presented it to me with a bow, then quietly withdrew to one side. The room was suffused with a faint fragrance of sweet rush, cool and penetrating. The single thin page of testimony left me cold to my very core, my hands trembling uncontrollably.

The wet nurse’s testimony stated that the young Princess slept with Madam Su every night and had never spent a night in anyone else’s care. On many nights, there had been loud crying from Madam Su’s chamber, lasting half the night before it ceased.

Caihuan’s testimony admitted that over a month earlier, Madam Su had complained of the sleeping quarters being old and infested with insects, and had ordered her to obtain Luminite Powder from the Office of the Household.

Yunzhu’s testimony stated that she had accidentally noticed something amiss with the young Princess’s eyes, but Madam Su had claimed it was nothing and forbidden her to speak of it.

I read through those few lines of testimony again and again, and finally flung that thin page of paper directly at Su Jin’er’s face. My throat tightened; I could not find words. Jin’er picked up the page with trembling hands, read a few lines, her shoulders heaving with convulsive shudders, and the life seemed to drain out of her in an instant. I asked in a cold voice, “Was it truly you?”

Jin’er nodded woodenly.

I seized the teacup from the table and hurled it at her with all my strength. “Contemptible wretch!”

The porcelain cup struck her squarely on the shoulder, drenching half her body. A shard grazed her temple, and a thin stream of blood ran down her pallid cheek — a sight that pierced the eye. A’Yue hurriedly knelt and urged me repeatedly to calm my anger.

“Are you even her mother? Are you still human?” My voice was hoarse, my fury stripping me of all composure.

Jin’er slowly raised her head. Her eyes were entirely bloodshot, set against the blood staining her cheek — a sight of terrible horror.

“Am I her mother?” She repeated my words in a shrill voice, then erupted into harsh laughter. “I wish I were not! Do you think I wanted to give birth to her — to give birth to this wretched creature, to suffer as I have suffered?”

That phrase — “wretched creature” — scalded me like a tongue of flame. I rose abruptly to my feet, my entire body rigid and cold as though I had fallen into an ice pit. “What did you call her?”

Jin’er laughed bitterly. “I called her a wretched creature — a wretched creature just like me!”

I drew a sharp breath, and my legs gave way beneath me. I sank back into the chair.

Jin’er had been born in a music and dance academy, the illegitimate daughter of a dancing girl. Her mother died without ever revealing to her who her father was. Children like this were not uncommon in such places — boys were generally given away, girls kept behind, and as they grew they either became entertainers or were taken as concubines by officials and men of rank. Jin’er had been particularly fortunate: at the age of seven, Aunt Xu had happened to notice her, taken pity on her loneliness, and brought her into the household as a maidservant.

And now, word by word, with perfect clarity, she said it aloud — that the girl was a wretched creature, just like her. I stared at her, a chill spreading through my body in waves, and a question that had circled within me countless times finally forced its way out with difficulty: “Jin’er, tell me — after we were separated in Huizhou, what truly happened?” The corner of her lip twitched abruptly. Her pupils slowly contracted, and she smiled in desolation. “My lady, do you truly wish to know?”

I rose and went to her, drawing out a silk handkerchief and wiping the blood from her temple. A flash of pity moved through me. “Come, get up and speak.”

She seemed not to hear, remaining in her crumpled kneel on the floor, tilting her head back partway and clutching my sleeve. “His Highness told me to forget this matter entirely, never to speak of it to anyone again… yet if my lady wishes to know, how could Jin’er conceal it?”

Her smile sent a chill through me. I drew back a step involuntarily and pulled my sleeve free. “Jin’er, get up first.”

“Do you remember — on my fifteenth birthday, you asked me what I wished for?” Her gaze fixed upon me intently. I recalled it: we had already gone to Huizhou by then, and on the day she turned fifteen, I had promised to fulfill one wish for her. Yet she had never been willing to say what it was, only claiming that all her wishes had already been granted. At the time I had simply thought it was childlike innocence — that she understood nothing.

Jin’er smiled faintly. “My wish at the time was to remain at His Highness’s side, serving him for the rest of my life.”

I stared at her for a long moment, then closed my eyes and sighed without sound. During those peaceful, sweet years, she had quietly followed at my side, and no one had ever noticed her presence. In the world that Zidan and I inhabited, she had been like a silent fixture. But we had both forgotten — she too was at the same tender age of youth, she too had the stirring of a young girl’s heart.

On the day I had been ambushed in Huizhou and was missing for several days with my life in the balance, she had panicked and thought only of reporting this to Zidan as quickly as possible, while at the same time fearing that if he received word of my death, his grief would be unbearable. She felt that at such a moment someone had to be at his side, and so she had gone to him at whatever cost — a lone, frail young woman, traveling thousands of miles from Huizhou to the imperial mausoleum… Thinking of the timid, faint-hearted Jin’er of those days, I could not imagine where she had found the courage.

Zidan had not yet been placed under confinement at that time and, though at the imperial mausoleum, was still a free man. Jin’er’s expression as she reached this point became both sorrowful and tender beyond measure. “After all those hardships, I reached the imperial mausoleum and truly saw him — I never imagined he would be so happy; seeing me, he was happy enough to weep.” The light in her eyes blossomed, as if she had returned to the instant of that reunion. “Seeing him so happy, I could not bring myself to tell him the terrible news. At that moment, I don’t know what came over me — I deceived him. I only wanted to put it off temporarily, to keep him from grief and sorrow for a while… I told him that my lady had sent me to attend upon His Highness and that I would remain at his side henceforth. He believed it without a moment’s doubt.”

“The imperial mausoleum was remote and isolated. It was not until three months later that word reached us by roundabout means that my lady had escaped safely. His Highness also learned of the lie I had told that day, yet he said nothing — he bore no resentment toward me. At that point I made up my mind: from that day on, I would follow him through life and death. Afterward, when he was placed under loose confinement, and then strict imprisonment, I stayed at his side without straying a step. Only me — no one else…” Jin’er’s voice was calm, a trace of sweet smile resting at the corner of her lips, still lost in the memories that belonged only to her and Zidan.

“I had thought this was how the rest of my life would be — I at his side, he at mine, growing old together in the imperial mausoleum, even that would have been enough…” Jin’er’s voice broke off with abrupt sharpness, as if someone had seized her by the throat. “Then he was placed in solitary confinement; women were not permitted to accompany him. I lived alone in a separate chamber and could only visit him once each day. One night, drunken soldiers forced their way into my room…” Jin’er’s voice died away completely, and I could bear to hear no more. A roaring filled my ears; the shock and grief within me reached a point beyond all bearing. Zidan — his years of confinement had been so wretched as this, that he had suffered such humiliation, that even his concubine had been violated by a drunken soldier.

“What happened afterward?” I closed my eyes and, suppressing the pain within me, pressed her further. “Where is that soldier now?”

Jin’er’s expression was numb. “Dead. That barbarian was executed by General Song.”

“A barbarian? And Song Huai’an knew of this?” I asked in alarm.

“He knew.” Jin’er smiled faintly. “General Song is a good man — he showed much consideration for His Highness. It was only those imperial guards who were despicable… After that incident, General Song at last had those guards removed and replaced everyone around His Highness with his own soldiers. From then on, I no longer lived in fear.” I now understood — she was referring to the imperial guards my aunt had originally dispatched, all idlers drawing palace salaries from the capital, among them no small number of those of barbarian blood. The late Emperor Zhezong had once incorporated outstanding warriors from various peoples into the imperial guards, forming a peculiar corps that had been maintained from generation to generation. Thus there had come to be soldiers of barbarian blood among the imperial guards — though these men had lived in the capital for many years, intermarried with Han families, and were no different from Han people in their speech and daily customs. That such a thing had happened around Zidan, yet Huai’an had not told me — it was infuriating.

Jin’er said, her voice shaking, “I would have died before letting His Highness know of this matter, but… but… I found that I was…”

I had already guessed the worst possible outcome and could not bear to hear her speak it aloud. “And so Zidan gave you a formal position, and let you carry the child to term?”

Jin’er buried her face in her hands and sobbed. “His Highness said it was nonetheless an innocent life…”

She raised her eyes abruptly, staring fixedly at me. “Such a compassionate man — how could you treat him as you have? Others bullied and humiliated him, and even you failed him. You followed a powerful and influential Prince of Yuzhang and forgot the Third Prince who treated you with wholehearted devotion. Do you know how every day and every night at the imperial mausoleum, he thought of you, yearned for you — just as I yearned for him — yet he only ever regarded me as your maidservant, never as his woman… Even with this empty nominal title, I was nothing!”

Her gaze was like a blade, each word cutting into my heart.

“The daughter I bore — he called her A’Bao again and again. Even my own daughter could not escape your shadow… Princess Consort of Yuzhang, what right do you have to be so constantly in his thoughts? A cruel woman who pushed him toward his death with her own hands — do you deserve to be constantly in his thoughts?” She became more and more agitated as she spoke, her expression growing distorted, her manner that of someone near madness. The attendants on either side restrained her; she still struggled, trying to force herself closer to me.

I listened to her screaming accusations in silence, feeling only a heart full of sorrow, speechless for a long while.

“Your daughter was born with eyes resembling those of the barbarians — the resemblance grows more pronounced as she grows older. And so you hardened your heart and burned her eyes away?” I rose to my feet and asked her this final question in a cold voice.

She shuddered as though struck by a sudden lash, unable to speak, let out a sob of anguish, and collapsed in a faint.

Were this sordid imperial scandal to become public, Zidan’s reputation would be utterly destroyed, and the imperial family’s dignity reduced to nothing.

Had my aunt been in my position, she would without a moment’s hesitation have ordered Jin’er and the child put to death, along with every palace servant who knew, and buried this secret forever underground.

Yet faced with Jin’er, faced with that pitiful child, I ultimately could not bring myself to such ruthlessness.

The following day, five knowledgeable palace servants of Jingling Palace were executed. The young Princess was sent to Yong’an Palace, to be placed in the care of reliable, attentive attendants.

Madam Su, on the pretext of having violated palace regulations, was expelled from the imperial palace and sent to Ci’an Temple to take religious vows as penance — never to be permitted to set foot outside the temple for the rest of her life.