Thinking of Yan Qing’s circumstances, Jing Zhi felt another wave of sorrow. If only San Yitai had not died so young, Sixth Miss would never have ended up in this situation — openly doted on by the Master on the surface, yet privately subjected to who knew how many indignities, and with a temperament that accepted all of it without resistance, never fighting back, never answering back.

Just as Jing Zhi was sighing to herself, someone lifted the curtain and ducked inside. This girl stood a full head taller than Jing Zhi, her bob-cut hair neat and trim. Even in the plain dark-blue servant’s jacket and trousers, there was a capable, efficient air about her.

The moment she entered, she moved like a gust of wind, and her words came tumbling out like hailstones: “Miss, the Master sent word — he wants you to join him this evening at Nianwan Tower for dinner. The kitchen has prepared steamed perch, your favorite. All the households have been notified. It’s a little welcoming party to set your nerves at ease after your ordeal.”

Yan Qing lowered her eyelids and picked up the teacup at her side, taking a small sip. “Just tell him my stomach hurts and I won’t be going.”

Murong and Jing Zhi exchanged a glance. Both knew Yan Qing disliked social gatherings — but when it came to the Master’s word, she had always complied without question.

Seeing the two of them standing there as still as stone statues, Yan Qing pursed her lips. “Just do as I say.”

The smile that accompanied these words was light and faint — her lovely lips curving into a gentle arc, making her eyes appear all the clearer and brighter. She was still the same Yan Family’s Sixth Miss, and yet something seemed subtly different. This thought rose unbidden in their minds, and Murong and Jing Zhi couldn’t help exchanging another glance.

Nianwan Tower had been built by the Yan Family patriarch after San Yitai passed away. The three ink-brushed characters of its name were written in the patriarch’s own hand. Whenever the Yan Family held a family banquet, it was always held at Nianwan Tower, and over time this had become an unspoken household tradition.

In the third month of the year, Shun Cheng’s produce was scarce. The tables of ordinary folk held nothing but cabbage, radishes, and potatoes. But the Yan Family kitchen was well stocked with everything imaginable: fresh fruits and vegetables flown in from the south, seafood hauled up from deep waters, wild game from the ancient forests of Changqing Mountain. Whenever the Yan Family sat down to eat, the fragrance of their food was rich enough to give those passing outside the walls the sensation of a full meal.

While the kitchen was still busy, the various households of the Yan Family had already arrived one by one and taken their seats. Seated at the head of the table, dressed in a traditional long gown and mandarin jacket, tall and fair-skinned, was the Yan Family patriarch: Yan Xu.

The Yan Family’s ancestors had been practitioners of traditional Chinese medicine, and in Yan Xu’s generation the family had opened a pharmacy. Through shrewd management, the Yan Family’s pharmacies had grown from a single shop to nearly a hundred locations, encompassing everything from Chinese and Western medicine to medical schools and hospitals. The patriarch was exceptionally well-preserved; a man in his forties, he could easily pass for someone barely past thirty.

With everyone seemingly present, Yan Xu realized his most beloved little sixth daughter was nowhere to be found, and his eyes began scanning with a trace of expectation.

Si Yitai, who had been massaging his shoulders, read his thoughts immediately and hastened to say: “Sixth Miss has difficulty getting around — she’s likely on her way and will be a little late.”

Then she smiled and added: “She’s probably nearly at the door by now.”

The elaborately carved Eight Immortals dining table could seat more than a dozen people at once. The long chopsticks, serving dishes, and bowls were all specially commissioned — gilded and carved with peony patterns, radiating opulence at every turn. Those seated around the table didn’t dare speak loudly, keeping their voices low and their tones hushed.

Growing impatient with the wait, Yan Qin grumbled to Fourth Miss Yan Ling beside her: “That Yan Qing is so full of herself. Every time, we have to wait for just her. Father is the same — he won’t let anyone start eating until she arrives.”

Yan Ling immediately hushed her and glanced nervously in the patriarch’s direction: “Fifth Sister, please stop. She’s probably almost here.”

The words had barely left her mouth when a girl dressed as a maidservant stepped over the threshold. She first performed a bow and then said: “Reporting to the Master — Miss has eaten something that disagreed with her. Her stomach hurts, and she cannot come.”

The patriarch’s expression tightened at once. He asked urgently: “What did she eat? Has a doctor been called?”

Jing Zhi answered unhurriedly: “It was the snow jelly.”

—