By the time Chen Yuli had finished whispering the full story of Meng Tujin’s family circumstances to Zhang Zaixin, he was incandescent with indignation.

How could any father hold his own daughter in such contempt? Tujin might not know how to express herself well, but she was quick-witted, diligent in her studies, and genuinely clever — how could she have been overlooked and dismissed like this?

Still fuming, he filled her bowl with sweets, and still fuming, he personally walked her home — and then still fuming, went and knelt before his mother.

“Is there something important you’d like to ask?” Chen Baoxiang raised an eyebrow.

“Your son asks that Mother speak on his behalf, and go to the Meng family to propose a marriage.” He said it with great indignation.

Chen Baoxiang gave a small, delighted sound.

This cold-blooded, unfeeling little creature — he had actually found someone he wanted to marry?

“Do you want to marry her because you feel sorry for her and want to help her, or because you genuinely care for her?” Zhang Zhixu asked, measured and precise.

Zhang Zaixin frowned: “Are those two things different?”

“Of course they are.”

“That doesn’t seem right.” Zhang Zaixin turned to look at his father. “Don’t you often feel sorry for Mother?”

Indeed — his admirable father, who felt deeply sorry for his mother: she who commanded all the armies under heaven, whose wealth was beyond counting, who had everything she could ever want. Zhang Zhixu would go to any length to coax a smile out of her; whenever she gazed at a flower or a blade of grass with a distant look in her eyes, he would ache with worry for a long while.

“That’s different,” Zhang Zhixu said. “I care for your mother, and because I care for her, I feel sorry for her. If you feel sorry for someone first, and that’s what stirs the feeling — then it’s something else altogether.”

Zhang Zaixin’s sharp mind encountered, for the first time, a question it could not untangle.

He did feel some sorrow for Tujin — but the world was full of people who deserved pity. One couldn’t possibly fall in love with someone purely out of sympathy.

But as for why he cared for this perfectly ordinary girl — Zhang Zaixin had no answer.

“In any case, I sincerely want to marry her,” he said at last.

Chen Baoxiang pushed herself up from her armchair: “All right — if that’s what you want, I’ll make it happen. Only, let me say this plainly from the start: if she doesn’t agree, we won’t use our position to pressure anyone.”

Zhang Zaixin’s hands tightened into a fist, a flicker of uncertainty passing through him.

They had grown up side by side — childhood companions in the truest sense. Though he had never once said anything kind to her, she had gone and fought on his behalf. Surely she — surely she wouldn’t refuse?

Meng Tujin did not refuse the match.

Though it must be said that throughout the entire proposal, she hadn’t heard a word of the matchmaker’s praises for Zhang Zaixin — she had been staring fixedly at Chen Baoxiang the entire time.

“After I marry in — I’ll be calling you Mother, won’t I?” she asked softly.

Chen Baoxiang reached up and stroked her hair: “You will, yes. Are you willing?”

“Yes!” Tujin nodded with great feeling.

She liked this woman so very much — if she could live under the same roof as her, it didn’t matter at all who the husband was.

Chen Baoxiang looked at her expression and rubbed her chin, wondering: was this a success for her son, or for herself?

·

The new examination champion was to be married. The wedding celebrations lasted for several lively, joyous days, and even the Sage Ruler herself paid a visit in person to the Marquess Manor.

“Your Highness.” Chen Baoxiang tugged gently at Li Bingsheng’s sleeve.

Li Bingsheng came back to herself and smiled: “Looking at these young men of the Zhang family — I always feel as though I’m seeing someone from long ago.”

She was in her twilight years now, her hair white as snow. Countless young men had passed before her eyes across a lifetime — and the one she still remembered, after all of it, was the one caught beneath those grape vines all those years ago, kissing him as his fists had clenched tight with nerves.

Chen Baoxiang lowered her gaze: “Your Highness is not well. You ought not to have left the palace.”

“Indeed — the imperial physicians say I am growing old.” Li Bingsheng said. “When one grows old, the mind wanders too much. Since Yuhuai passed away a few years back, I dream of him often.”

Chen Baoxiang went still.

Zhang Ting’an had died of illness at the Xuanhe Pass last year. Zhang Xilai had gone to receive his coffin and brought him home to be buried in the Zhang Family plot.

His Majesty had never asked after him — everyone had assumed she had long since moved on. It had never occurred to anyone that the old friend would still come to her in dreams.

“In my lifetime, the ones I have relied upon most are you and Lingyin. Neither of you has let me down. The flourishing of Great Sheng today — you two are no small part of it.” Li Bingsheng closed her eyes and leaned back against her chair, as though exhaling. “And my Crown Princess — I leave her in your hands as well.”

Chen Baoxiang’s throat tightened. She answered quietly.

As the years grew longer, familiar faces vanished one by one. It was hard not to feel the weight of it.

Chen Baoxiang went home and asked Zhang Zhixu: “Will you die after me?”

Zhang Zhixu looked up from his book and glanced at her: “Of course. I’ll dress you in your burial clothes and carry you into the coffin myself before I breathe my last.”

She laughed despite herself, and leaned into his side to read with him.

Her fingers trailed over the characters on the page — his brushwork, dark ink on the white paper — and she said softly: “Zhang Zhixu.”

The great immortal raised an eyebrow: “Those three characters ring a bell.”

“Well they should — I’ve been at your side long enough to have learned quite a few characters, at least.” She tilted her chin up with pride. “When the Sage Ruler grants you your new residence, I’ll personally go and write the plaque for you.”

Ningsu and Jiuquan, standing to the side, both wanted to say something — and both thought better of it.

Zhang Zhixu raised his hand to stop them, and then nodded: “Good. I’ll hang it in the main hall. I will never take it down.”

“Is that a promise?”

“It is.”

And so, in the forty-third year of Zhang Zhixu’s life, he rose to the position of Grand Chancellor. The Great Code of Sheng was completed under his hand; agricultural reform took root and flourished; the realm entered an era of peace and plenty. The new Emperor bestowed upon the Grand Chancellor a residence to mark the occasion.

Guests came in droves to offer their congratulations — and nearly every one paused for a moment at the entrance of the main hall, then moved on without remark to admire the beams and the calligraphy elsewhere in the house.

“I think it looks perfectly fine,” Chen Baoxiang said, indignant, standing with her hands on her hips and staring up at the plaque above the main hall.

The characters read: Fengqing Great Immortal. Crooked and lopsided, not easily made out at a glance — but singular, unmistakable, impossible to imitate. No forger alive could replicate the carefree abandon in each stroke.

“Indeed,” Zhang Zhixu said from behind her, and drew her hand into his.

Chen Baoxiang broke into a grin and held on tight.