Tomorrow was the day of departure, and there were still a great many trivial matters to attend to in the mansion before setting out. The Princess Consort of Prince Duan had sent someone over again with the two exceptional ginseng roots she had mentioned during the autumn hunt. Pu Zhu wrote a note of thanks and sent it back. She was run off her feet—not a moment even to drink water—and only when darkness had fallen did she manage to have everything arranged.

The first two days of her monthly flow brought, as usual, some aching in her lower back. Today, moreover, had been this flurry of work on top of everything else.

She lit the lamps in the bedchamber for Li Xuandu’s return, and once there was nothing left to do, she sent away the servants nearby, leaving only Luo Bao waiting outside for Li Xuandu.

She went to bed and lay down, but could not fall asleep. Eyes closed, her mind kept churning through all that she still had to do ahead.

As for sleeping together—that went without saying. The moment her monthly cycle ended, she would begin immediately.

Before, it was only because she had kept pushing him away and refusing to share his bed, and that had in turn made him all the more eager. He was completely without defense against her—as long as she was willing, he would welcome it gladly. On this point, she had full confidence.

Besides this great matter, once they reached the Kingdom of Que, two more important things awaited her.

The first was to investigate Li Xuandu’s true intentions, and those of the people of Que. On this point, she and the Emperor were actually of the same mind.

Li Xuandu treated her well now and was almost entirely accommodating, but what exactly was in his mind—what he intended for the future—he never spoke of it to her. She did not dare ask, for fear of pressing too hard and arousing his suspicion.

The second matter was his cousin, Li Tanfang.

Ever since she had learned from Luo Bao’s mouth of Jiang Shi’s assessment of Li Tanfang, Pu Zhu had begun to feel uneasy.

For Jiang Shi to approve of someone so—to speak frankly, her confidence in herself had weakened a little.

But she had another decisive advantage: she was already Li Xuandu’s wife. And now, regardless of whether Li Xuandu harbored feelings for that childhood sweetheart of his, he was on her boat. And by all appearances, he had no intention of getting off.

So—vigilance was necessary, but there was no need for excessive self-doubt either. She would wait until she saw this Li Tanfang in person, then decide on a plan.

Li Xuandu returned as he had said, not long after nightfall. He came into the bedchamber, told Pu Zhu she need not get up from the bed, asked a few questions about the preparations for the next day’s departure, then bathed, changed clothes, and lay down.

“Your Highness, how was it at the Daoist temple today, listening to the scripture?”

Pu Zhu did not, in truth, want him going to the Daoist temple.

Spending all day mingling with Daoist priests who sat in meditation, refined elixirs, and pursued immortality—what future could that lead to? What if he eventually saw through all earthly things and actually became a Daoist himself? Then where would she be?

For this trip, she had specially instructed Luo Bao not to pack any Daoist yellow-bound scriptures for Prince Qin—a few military strategy books would be far preferable.

Li Xuandu said offhandedly that it was fine, then asked whether her body could manage it and whether she would be able to set out tomorrow.

“I can! I would not delay my maternal grandfather’s birthday celebration. Besides—it isn’t only Your Highness who wishes to see his elderly self. I do too, and I’m practically desperate enough to sprout wings and fly there tomorrow!”

She answered him sweetly—never mind just a backache. Even if she were broken in two, she would lie down and be carried the whole way before she let anything delay the schedule.

“You have worked hard. Sleep early. Tomorrow we must be up at first light.” He hugged her gently, saying this softly, and continued to knead her lower back for her.

Pu Zhu enjoyed the kneading he was giving her. Gradually the soreness and fullness eased a good deal. She closed her eyes contentedly, but her mind was still turning over yesterday’s events.

Yesterday she had used Shen Gao’s summons as a pretext, and with the prospect of their future children, had applied pressure on him. Judging by his reaction, it had absolutely worked.

Her strategy was right.

She decided to take advantage of the good atmosphere and remind him once more.

“Your Highness—if I say something wrong, please do not blame me. The Daoist arts—those kinds of things—are fine to listen to occasionally for diversion, but they’re obscure and mysterious beyond measure. Has Your Highness ever witnessed anyone ascend to immortality on the spot, or live forever without aging? If we have children someday, will you teach them to sit in meditation and refine elixirs like you?”

Li Xuandu gave a soft laugh, made a sound of acknowledgment, and continued kneading her lower back.

She seemed to be growing drowsy, her eyes half-closed.

Li Xuandu, however, was growing increasingly restless and unable to settle his mind. He was thinking about what had happened at the Daoist temple today.

He of course trusted his woman. What Xiao Shi had said only served to confirm further that Shen Yang had designs on her.

Yet even while one’s own person still lived, another man had the audacity to fix his eyes on one’s wife like this.

And on what basis? Power. The power he had once been born to possess—power that he had never found worth noticing precisely because it had always been his.

Now he had lost it. Like a beast caged, its claws and fangs stripped away. His own brother of the same father wanted his life—that was one thing. But even ambitious subordinates were already impatiently beginning to covet his woman.

Li Xuandu felt a surge of heat, got out of bed and went to the writing table, poured himself a cup of water, drank it, set the cup down, and was turning to go back when his hand accidentally caught the teapot, knocking it over. The remaining water inside gurgled out.

“What happened?”

Pu Zhu was genuinely tired that evening, half-asleep, and heard the noise in a daze. She asked once.

“Nothing. The tea water spilled, that’s all.”

He righted the teapot. He saw that the water had soaked a section of his sleeve. “Are all the clothes packed away? I need to change. This sleeve is wet.”

Pu Zhu closed her eyes again and said, “On the floor, that one trunk. Everything is packed for the road tomorrow, the rest of the clothes and odds and ends have been moved out. I believe there’s some of your inner wear in that one. Shall I find it for you?”

“No need!”

Li Xuandu went over. “I will look myself. Your back hurts. No need to get up.”

He opened the trunk, crouched, and searched for his clothes.

Pu Zhu, fighting off her drowsiness as she waited for him to return, waited a moment and saw no movement from him. She yawned. “Your Highness, haven’t you found it yet? I think it’s under my red garment—it should be easy to find…”

Then, without warning, she remembered something. Her heart lurched, and in an instant her sleepiness was completely gone. She swept aside the bed curtain abruptly and saw him crouching before that trunk, his back perfectly still, head bowed—as if staring at something in his hands.

She could not even spare a moment for shoes—barefoot, she leapt off the bed and flew to him. Leaning over and looking past his shoulder, she saw that sure enough, in his hands was that small booklet she had just that day stuffed into the trunk.

She instinctively reached to snatch it. He had already straightened up, stepped aside—her hand caught nothing. He lifted his eyes to look at her, pointing at the booklet in his hand, a look of pure disbelief on his face. “This is yours?”

Pu Zhu was consumed with regret—how could she have been so muddled? Something she had hidden away that very afternoon, and in the confusion of busyness, she had turned around and been careless about it. And what wretched luck. Not even one night had passed, and it had fallen into his hands just like that.

Her face went white in an instant. Her guilt made her too afraid to meet his eyes. She tried desperately to salvage the situation. “Your Highness, please let me explain… I wanted… wanted to give Your Highness a son sooner…”

Li Xuandu flipped through the booklet a few more pages, and nodded. “I understand. Were you waiting until after your monthly cycle was done, and then in the following days, were you going to be indisposed in one way or another, until the propitious day arrived before you’d lie with me? And of course you’d have had to coax me into doing it facing east. I’m so easy to fool, entirely at your command—you must have felt quite pleased with yourself, yes?”

“I didn’t…”

He tossed the booklet at her feet, interrupting her words. He looked at her sidelong.

“What do you take me, Li Xuandu, for? That I am so desperate for you to bear me children?”

He had not erupted in fury. That final remark was even delivered with what seemed almost like a laugh. Yet the anger and disappointment in his eyes could not be concealed—she could see it clearly.

The more he restrained himself like this, the more alarmed Pu Zhu became, and even somewhat afraid. She steadied her nerves, trying hard to recover the situation. She walked quickly to him, stretched out her arms, and held him tightly, looking up at him.

“Your Highness, I was wrong. I should not have deceived Your Highness about this. I heard that Your Highness had a cousin in the Kingdom of Que with whom marriage had once been discussed. I was afraid I could not measure up to her, and so wanted to conceive and bear a child as quickly as possible. I failed to consider Your Highness’s feelings, and I was certainly wrong—but it truly was to hold onto Your Highness’s heart!”

Li Xuandu stood unmoving—neither returning her embrace nor pushing her away.

He looked down at the face she held upturned toward him.

Such a beautiful face. Such a bewitching mouth.

Could he still trust her?

She had deceived him even in something like this—played him for a fool. There were no words to describe the feeling of that moment when he had unwittingly opened this booklet just now.

It would not be too much to call it shock.

This Princess Consort of his—beneath the surface she presented to him, what kind of heart did she harbor?

The “genuine feeling” that had deeply moved him that night—her having loved him and thus saved him—how much of it was real?

Seeds of doubt took root in his heart, spreading rapidly. The wall of trust was so fragile and could not withstand the assault—in an instant it crumbled.

All manner of intimate moments flashed through his mind. The way she had held him tightly beneath him, calling out to him in that soft, tender voice. Looking back on it now, even this felt like mockery.

Worse still—he had been blinded by desire and allowed this woman, who was full of lies and calculation toward him, to almost cause him to send away his loyal servant who had accompanied him for many years.

A wave of deep self-contempt and anger swept through Li Xuandu’s heart.

When one stripped away the desire that clouded one’s eyes and looked back on her various performances before him, everything suddenly became crystal clear.

“Luo Bao!”

He suddenly called out.

From outside the bedchamber, a voice answered.

“Step back. Keep your distance. Let no one near!”

There was no further sound from outside the chamber. Inside the chamber, too, there was perfect silence, not even half a sound.

“I’m afraid not.”

He finally spoke again, looking at her, saying slowly:

“Last night, you wept before me, saying that even setting aside yourself, think of the children. You used a child that had not yet even come into being to speak to me at every turn. You wanted to use the children as leverage over me, is that not so? You have never changed. You have merely switched tactics to force me into action, so that someday you would have the chance to take the position you have always dreamed of—the Empress’s seat. Is that not right?”

Pu Zhu’s heart thudded. Her whole body went weak, and the arms holding him began to go slack involuntarily.

He continued: “Seen this way, that day when you used every possible means to save me—if I were to say that it was nothing more than your calculation after weighing the options—would that be unfair to you?”

He studied her, a corner of his lips curling up in what looked like a self-mocking, cold smile.

“That explains it all. I had never been able to understand: in He Xi, you had schemed and gone to any lengths to captivate the Crown Prince’s heart. After being forced to marry me, what virtue or capability did I have, such that in so short a time, you could be wholly devoted, wholeheartedly, as my wife?”

Pu Zhu’s face went alternately red and white.

All of it was his own conjecture. He could not see into her heart. She was entirely capable of denying it, insisting she had come to love him and feared losing him.

But all the garments that might cover her shame had been stripped away, layer by layer, without mercy, until at last she stood as though unclothed—not a single stitch to hide behind.

And not only that—he had even used such a contemptuous tone to bring up again, for the second time, the old matter of her having tried to win over Li Chengyu in the past. She felt as though she had been struck hard across the face, and from the depths of her heart surged a feeling of deep shame, resentment—yet utterly powerless to refute.

One moment ago he had been holding her with tender affection. Now he would not let the matter go, turning ruthless and heartless to this degree!

Had she killed someone, or set a fire? As for the matter of Li Chengyu—was he going to hold that over her for life, dragging it out from time to time to humiliate her?

If not for his own dithering and refusal to strive, what need would she, a woman, have had to expend so much effort? Had he acted with even a little ambition, none of this would have been necessary.

Her face flushed deep red. She could no longer contain the resentment and fury in her heart, and she released the arms holding him.

“Yes—I have gone to every length trying to conceive and bear a child, precisely to apply pressure on you. And what of it—is that wrong? I want to be Empress. Is that wrong? You are my husband—if I don’t depend on you, who do I depend on? The Emperor is pressing you at every turn, as though a blade is already at your neck. Does this count as my deceiving you? I cannot believe you fail to see it clearly, and I truly do not understand: what exactly are you still waiting for? For the blade to fall? Yes, I used schemes on you. But it was only to push you—to make you rise up and strive, so that in the end you might reclaim what was rightfully yours from birth. Am I harming you? Is that worth this much anger?”

“Li Xuandu, you are a useless and petty man! I am very disappointed in you!”

She still was not satisfied, and raised her hand to give him a rough shove.

Li Xuandu apparently had not expected this response from her. He stared at her, an expression of pure bafflement on his face, and then before he could catch himself, she shoved him again. He stumbled and took several steps back.

Once he had steadied himself, his expression darkened with fury. He pressed his lips tightly together, glared at her for a moment—and then abruptly stretched out one hand toward her. “Give it back!”

“Give back what?”

“The bound hair.” He said coldly.

Pu Zhu’s heart jumped. “What are you going to do?”

He said nothing. He walked with a dark expression straight to the vanity table. With a crash, he yanked open the mirror cabinet—too much force: the entire cabinet was pulled out and knocked forward, everything inside scattering to the floor. All the face powder, rouge, and hairpins and ornaments she had needed for the next morning lay strewn across the ground. Several jade bracelets shattered on the spot into several pieces. Even the mirror on the table trembled and swayed unsteadily. Had it not been leaning against the wall, it would surely have fallen and smashed.

He picked up the small brocade pouch that contained both their bound locks of hair, stepped through the debris on the floor, and turned toward the incense burner.

Pu Zhu cried out, “Don’t you dare touch it!” and launched herself at him, snatching it from his hand in one move and clutching it behind her back, refusing to let him have it. Seeing him reach for her, she turned to flee—but he blocked her. With nowhere to go, the two of them struggled in silence: he trying to take it, she refusing to surrender it. Not a word between them. Only the sound of their increasingly ragged breathing filled the bedchamber. Even the candle flames nearby were stirred into a gentle flickering.

In the midst of the scuffle, her feet slipped. She staggered—and he caught her arm and wrenched it behind her back. She was pressed face-down onto the surface of the vanity table.

The bronze mirror, jolted by the impact, finally lost its balance and swung down toward Pu Zhu’s head. Li Xuandu swept it aside with one hand. It fell to the floor.

His hand held her arm pinned, with considerable force. Pu Zhu felt as though her wrist was about to be twisted off, yet her fingers still clung tightly to the brocade pouch, teeth clenched, refusing to let go.

She lay flat on the table, her garment slipping from one shoulder in the tussle, baring half of her snowy back. On that side, the butterfly bone protruded from the strain of her twisted arm, making it stand out starkly. So they remained locked in that standstill for a moment. The pain was becoming almost more than she could bear, and she let out a stifled groan. Then she felt the pressure on her back ease—he had released her hand and let her go.

Pu Zhu lay across the vanity table, unable to rise for a moment. When she had steadied herself, clutching that little brocade pouch she had fought so hard to keep, she stood upright, turned her head, and saw that he was already heading toward the exit.

She smoothed her garment back into place, fixed her eyes on his retreating back, and rubbed her aching wrist. Her heart was still full of anger. Then she suddenly saw him stop, turn his head, and look back at her. In a cold voice he said, “At least you have some self-awareness. You are indeed far inferior to Tanfang. You are not fit to even carry her shoes.” Having said this, he left her behind and walked out of the bedchamber.