In the first year of the Shengli reign, just after the New Year had passed, snow fell heavily across the land. Buddhist pagodas of varying heights stood silhouetted in the white mist, and overnight Luoyang had been transformed into a realm of immortals. When Ming Huashang lifted her gaze, she could see the golden phoenix soaring into the clouds above the Wanshen Palace, nine dragons half-hidden in the fog — and even this great snowfall could not conceal the phoenix’s spirit, that magnificent air of wings poised for flight.

Ming Huashang looked away and sneezed from the cold.

Zhao Cai was her usual self, nattering on and on: “My lady, it is one thing that you love to sleep in on ordinary days, but today is the day you must pay your respects to the Old Madam — how could you dare oversleep again?”

A great red cloak wrapped Ming Huashang from head to toe, its edges trimmed with rabbit fur, the dense and soft collar covering most of her face, muffling even her voice.

Zhao Cai thought she heard her young mistress say something, but when she turned to look, that face — more exquisite than any New Year painting — was buried in the white fur, and it didn’t appear she was speaking. Assuming it was just the wind playing tricks, Zhao Cai went on as usual: “My lady, you really cannot go on being so careless. You are the eldest legitimate daughter of our Duke’s household, the true-born daughter of Duke Zhenguo himself. In the past, no one dared say a word when you were inattentive — but you turn sixteen this year after the New Year, and it is time to speak of marriage. The Madam passed away early, so your marriage must be arranged by the Old Madam. If you do not make yourself more agreeable, how will the Old Madam think of you?”

Zhao Cai went on from morning greetings all the way to marriage, as though a floodgate had opened — a long, ceaseless torrent of words. She first surveyed the eligible young gentlemen currently in Luoyang, then emphasized at length Ming Huashang’s superior family background, and concluded: “My lady, even though you have never fought for first place and have always been too lazy to compete for a reputation in music, chess, calligraphy, or painting, with the Duke’s household and Second Young Master on your side, you are certain to make a fine match.”

Zhao Cai truly earned her place as her personal maid — she could make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and make it sound so pleasant. The imperial capital was packed with aristocratic clans; marquises and earls were everywhere, and noble young ladies were especially numerous. Was it that Ming Huashang never fought for renown in the four accomplishments because she did not wish to?

Even her hopelessly biased personal maid, when counting advantages one by one, knew that Ming Huashang’s sole edge lay in her family background — which showed just what a thoroughgoing deadweight Ming Huashang herself truly was.

Ming Huashang sighed again. Even Zhao Cai had more ambition than she did, and this made Ming Huashang feel a small, fleeting pang of shame. Of course, it was not shame at her own lack of effort — it was guilt that she might disappoint Zhao Cai.

Because she had lost even that one advantage of family background.

Today Ming Huashang had woken late not entirely from love of sleep, but because the night before she had suffered a terrible nightmare. In the dream, a slender and graceful young woman with an air as pure as orchids had come to the Ming household, claiming to be the true Ming daughter and producing physical evidence to prove it.

After a period of great chaos, her father, Duke Zhenguo, had emerged from the rear courtyard, apparently having completed his investigation. With an expressionless face he had spoken of an old affair from years past.

Long ago, Duke Zhenguo’s wife Wang Yulan had given birth to a rare pair of dragon-and-phoenix twins. The elder was named Ming Huazhang, and the younger was named Ming Huashang. Unfortunately, Wang Yulan had suffered severe hemorrhaging after delivery and had lost consciousness before she could even look at the children — which had given an evil servant the chance to act. When Duke Zhenguo named the children, he had not known that the younger of the twins had already been switched.

That evil servant was none other than Wang Yulan’s own wet nurse, Su Shi — addressed respectfully within the inner household as Nanny Su. Nanny Su had worked as a domestic in aristocratic homes but also owned land in the countryside, making her a woman of modest means by local standards.

Yet that small property was nothing compared to what the Duke’s household offered. It so happened that Nanny Su’s daughter-in-law had just given birth to a girl of her own. Overcome by greed, Nanny Su quietly swapped the two infants — letting the girl who should have been a farmer’s daughter, Ming Huashang, enjoy seventeen years of wealth and luxury in Luoyang, while the true daughter of the Duke’s household was left to wander among commoners, taking root in the countryside as the granddaughter of a servant: Su Yuji.

Seventeen years later, Su Yuji — raised in a farming household yet still remarkable — discovered the whole truth and went to the Ming family herself. Only then did Duke Zhenguo’s household learn that the legitimate young mistress they had lived alongside for seventeen years was a false one.

When the truth was revealed, the entire Ming family was in an uproar. Duke Zhenguo had even been ready to have the servants hitch the carriage and send Ming Huashang back to the farming Su family on the spot. It was Heir Ming Huazhang who could not stand by and stepped forward to stop him — only then did the Duke reluctantly relent.

But even so, Ming Huashang was driven to a remote side courtyard to fend for herself, while the true daughter Su Yuji reclaimed the Ming name and was welcomed back into the ancestral fold. The Ming Huashang in the dream remained as much a deadweight as ever — eating, sleeping, taking each day as it came, with nothing weighing on her.

This was very like Ming Huashang: regardless of fortune or misfortune, she consistently persisted in not bettering herself. So on a moonlit night, after she lay down to sleep, she died without a sound, without a trace.

She did not even know how she had died.

After jerking awake, Ming Huashang lay for a long time in the dark, heart-stricken with terror, that gut-wrenching pain seeming to linger in her body long afterward, slow to dissipate. She stared at the bed curtains for half the night and did not manage to close her eyes until dawn.

Before long, Zhao Cai and Jin Bao woke her to go and pay her respects to the Old Madam.

She had lain awake thinking the whole previous night; by the time she stepped out this morning, Ming Huashang had calmed considerably. But she still could not work it out — who had wanted her dead? And why?

Before Ming Huashang’s identity had been exposed, she was merely an unremarkable girl of a military-aristocratic family in Luoyang. Her father, Duke Zhenguo Ming Huaiyuan, had been a minister under Gaozong. Now that the Empress Regnant held power, the Ming family was no longer in favor — yet with the shadow of their ancestors over them, they were not destitute either. Families like theirs were a dime a dozen in Luoyang, and there was truly nothing special about them.

Her mother, Wang Yulan, was a daughter of the Wang clan of Taiyuan, born into one of the Five Surnames and Seven Clans, carrying a name of great prestige. But under the suppression of Gaozong and the Empress Regnant, the great clans had long since become empty shells — they still bore their illustrious names but held not a shred of political influence.

Wang Yulan and Ming Huaiyuan had three children together: the eldest son had not survived, dying at two years old. The remaining two were these twins.

Sadly, Wang Yulan had also passed away after delivering the twins — Ming Huashang and Ming Huazhang had lost their mother the moment they were born. Duke Zhenguo had lost a son and then a wife, so he was exceptionally tender toward this brother and sister pair, doting on them to a fault. For their sake, the Duke had not even taken a second wife, and over the years had devoted himself single-mindedly to raising the two siblings — he had not even a single illegitimate child.

Their father had already inherited the title. But since the Old Madam Ming Zheng Shi was still living, the household had not been divided; they all lived together with the concubine-born Second Uncle Ming Huaiyuan and the legitimate Third Uncle Ming Huaihan and their respective families. Both uncles were married with children.

This was the entire Ming household — not particularly complex. Ming Huashang thought: could it be that the Second or Third branch wanted to kill her?

Possibly. Nanny Su had dared to swap a Duke’s bloodline — and Ming Huashang carried such inferior blood in her veins. How could she deserve to go on living in the Ming household?

Or perhaps it was that true daughter Su Yuji?

That was also plausible. After all, Ming Huashang had usurped her identity and family, enjoying comfort and privilege in Luoyang for years, and was now shamelessly clinging to the Ming household. It would be understandable if Su Yuji’s anger drove her to act.

Or could it be her father, Duke Zhenguo — or her elder brother, Ming Huazhang?

Each seemed to have a motive, yet none seemed a certainty. The Second and Third branches would eventually have to be separated from the main household; Nanny Su had swapped the Duke’s bloodline, not theirs — why would they need to reach out? Frankly, if it was a matter of inheritance and title, the Second and Third branches should have poisoned Ming Huazhang; what was the use of doing away with Ming Huashang?

The true daughter Su Yuji had arrived with such force and swept Ming Huashang down from her position. Ming Huashang had already been cast aside to a remote courtyard and was behaving meekly, not causing trouble or scheming against anyone. What need would Su Yuji have to drive her to total extinction?

As for Ming Huazhang — there was even less reason. If he had truly wanted Ming Huashang dead, he need not have stopped Duke Zhenguo in the first place; he could simply have let her be sent back to the Su family, where an accident along the road or at the Su home would have made her disappear without a trace. Why would Ming Huazhang take the unnecessary step of letting her stay in the household, only to dirty his own hands afterward?

Was it Duke Zhenguo, then? Ming Huashang tried to imagine it and could not picture that father who had always indulged her every wish being so ruthless.

After so many years of father-daughter feeling — just because she had been swapped by an elder, and deceived the Ming family — would Duke Zhenguo hate her enough to want her dead? Were all those years of his companionship and indulgence a lie?

Ming Huashang’s head ached from thinking. She hated this feeling — suspecting every person around her of wanting her dead.

She had not failed to wonder about the dream’s truth or falsehood — but everything had been too detailed. The small habits Duke Zhenguo showed when he spoke in the dream, the behaviors of those around her — they were identical to the real world in every way. Even now, Ming Huashang could clearly recall the face of the true daughter Su Yuji.

Could a dream produce a face she had never seen? Ming Huashang did not know. From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a fork in the path ahead, and her steps faltered — then she suddenly changed direction.

Zhao Cai was still up ahead listing the eligible young gentlemen of various households. When she came back to herself and found the space behind her empty, she was rather startled, then turned to see Ming Huashang huffing and puffing off in another direction, and quickly chased after her: “My lady, the Yanshou Hall is this way — where are you going?”

Ming Huashang could not forget the agony of dying in her dream, and was unwilling to suspect the family members she had lived alongside all these years. She needed to verify something — to find out whether last night’s dream was real or false.

She remembered clearly: in the dream, after her identity was exposed, she had been moved to the side courtyard. There had been a tall osmanthus tree in the yard — it had been the season of fragrance throughout the garden — and before going to sleep she had collected the fallen osmanthus petals, planning to make osmanthus cakes the next day.

Then she had never woken again. When she died, the tip of her nose was still wreathed in the faint, soothing scent of osmanthus.

Ming Huashang could bear the suspense no longer. She needed to go to that side courtyard from the dream and find out whether there truly was an osmanthus tree.

This place was desolate and rarely visited; no one had swept away the accumulated snow on the path. Ming Huashang stepped forward and found the snow reaching well above her calves — yet she did not hesitate, pressing ahead toward the courtyard as she remembered it.

Zhao Cai chased behind her, struggling to keep up: “My lady, what are you doing?”

Ming Huashang said nothing. The side courtyard from the dream was right ahead. She gave herself no chance to waver, and shoved hard at the courtyard gate.

Snow had piled up against it; opening it was not easy. Ming Huashang threw all her strength into the effort and managed to push it open a crack. Zhao Cai, watching from behind and growing frantic, hurried forward to help push: “My lady, what brings you to a place like this? If you like it here, I’ll send the manservants to sweep the snow right away — do take care not to slip and fall.”

Ming Huashang had no attention to spare for Zhao Cai’s chatter. She stared at the scene before her and lost the ability to speak.

In the dead of the first month’s winter, the courtyard held not a single trace of green — only one tree, bare and solitary, standing before the window. Although it looked nothing like what she had seen in midsummer, Ming Huashang had already recognized the familiar markings on the trunk.

Yes — this was the place. She remembered clearly: in the dream, while she had been shaking the osmanthus tree, she had noticed a bowl-sized scar on the trunk. The scar’s size and position matched the dream exactly, not a fraction different. And the arrangement of the courtyard, the layout of the rooms…

Ming Huashang’s shoulders slumped in defeat. She knew there was no more room for hope. Duke Zhenguo had always held her in the palm of his hand — she had never in all these years set foot in such a remote and cold courtyard. If the dream had been something she had fabricated out of thin air, how could she have known in advance every detail — the scar on the osmanthus tree, the orientation of the buildings — and dreamed it all precisely as it was?

That dream had not been idle fancy. It had been real — or rather, it had been a prophetic dream.

Behind her, Zhao Cai was still chattering about calling people to sweep the snow. Ming Huashang breathed out slowly and said quietly: “There’s no need.”

Zhao Cai did not hear clearly and leaned in: “What?”

“No need to call anyone. It would only cause a fuss.” Ming Huashang turned, picked up her cloak, and made her way unsteadily toward Yanshou Hall. “The hour must be late by now. Let’s go quickly to pay our respects to Grandmother.”

Zhao Cai hurried to Ming Huashang’s side, pulling her fur collar tight. “My lady, there is no need to rush. You are the Duke’s only daughter, the apple of the Ming family’s eye — what does it matter if you come to pay your respects a little early or a little late? Walk slowly and don’t catch a chill. If you like that osmanthus tree, I’ll have it transplanted to our courtyard right away.”

“Please don’t.” Ming Huashang quickly stopped Zhao Cai’s words and said quietly: “Zhao Cai, you ought to restrain yourself in the future — don’t go around all day saying things that amount to throwing your weight about.”

Zhao Cai was taken aback: “Throwing our weight about? It’s all ordinary matters — how is that throwing our weight about?”

Ming Huashang shook her head slightly and said no more. Right now she was the precious dragon-and-phoenix daughter of Duke Zhenguo’s household — coming a little late to pay respects, or speaking a little boldly, and no one would take notice. But once her true identity was exposed, ordinary matters would become instruments of death.

Ming Huashang still did not know how she had died in the dream — when, where, by what means, by whose hand — not a single clue. What divine figure had she offended to make someone want her dead?

Ah, right — she remembered that in the dream, Su Yuji had returned at seventeen. She and Su Yuji were the same age; she was sixteen this year. Which meant that in at most one year, she would lose her life.

Ming Huashang rubbed her own face in distress. She was nothing more than a plain, ordinary good-for-nothing who had lived on doing as little as possible for sixteen years. Her whole life she had always preferred lying down to standing up, and had never competed with anyone. The only people she might have offended were probably the teachers who had tried to teach her the lute, chess, calligraphy, painting, needlework, and embroidery. Was there really no way to talk things through rather than resorting to killing her?

Carrying this sorrowful bewilderment, Ming Huashang walked listlessly into Yanshou Hall. The maids waiting in the outer room saw Ming Huashang arrive and hurried out to lift the door curtain, greeting her warmly: “Second Young Miss, you’ve finally come! The Old Madam has mentioned you several times. Oh, why are your hands so red from the cold? Please, come inside.”

Inside the room, Ming Yu was kneeling at the edge of the sleeping platform helping the Old Madam knead her legs, and Ming Shuo was cuddled in the Third Madam’s arms, acting spoiled. When she saw Ming Huashang arrive, Ming Shuo let out a cold sniff and stood up reluctantly.

Ming Huashang removed her snow-dampened cloak. Once settled, she greeted each person in the room in turn: “I have come late. Greetings to Grandmother, Second Aunt, and Third Aunt. I hope Elder Sister and Third Sister are well.”

The Old Madam cast a brief, indifferent glance toward Ming Huashang, then withdrew her gaze, unruffled: “Sit down. How were the servants attending to you — why are the Second Miss’s hands so red from the cold?”

Although Ming Huashang was Duke Zhenguo’s only daughter, because the Ming household had not yet been divided, she was ranked together with the sisters of the Second and Third branches — and was counted second in order of age.

Zhao Cai immediately knelt to confess her fault. Ming Huashang said: “I must inform Grandmother, it is not their fault. On the way I noticed the snow and lingered to play for a while. This granddaughter’s unruliness is to blame — it has nothing to do with them.”

This was the only surviving daughter of the eldest son, and she had lost her mother the very day she was born — the Old Madam could not very well be too strict with her. She said: “Since you plead for them, we will let it pass. Bao Qin, fetch a hand warmer — bring it to warm the Second Miss’s hands.”

Bao Qin acknowledged the order, withdrew gracefully, and soon returned cradling a gilded hand warmer with a grape-and-bird motif. She knelt gently beside Ming Huashang: “Second Young Miss, please raise your hand.”

Ming Huashang looked at the most capable senior maid at her grandmother’s side, then thought of her own four maids’ names — Zhao Cai (Summon Wealth), Jin Bao (Embrace Treasure), Jixiang (Auspicious), Ruyi (As One Wishes) — and let out a deep sigh of regret for her own lack of refinement.

Ming Huashang raised her fingers, and Bao Qin, steadying the hand warmer, leaned forward and gently massaged Ming Huashang’s fingers, which had grown somewhat stiff from the cold. Ming Huashang truly wanted to say “don’t bother — just pour me a hot cup of tea,” but with Grandmother present she did not dare be so crude, and silently endured the maid’s graceful and painstaking service.

Before Ming Huashang had entered, the room had already been in the midst of conversation. Now that everyone was settled again, Second Branch Madam Zhao Shi eagerly picked up the earlier thread: “A’Niang, I have heard that Princess Taiping is hosting a banquet at Feihong Garden in a couple of days, and all the princes and noble young gentlemen will attend. Our family has three daughters yet to be married — A’Niang, what do you think of this Feihong Banquet…?”

When Second Madam Zhao Shi finished, not only did Second Branch’s legitimate daughter Ming Yu stop what she was doing — the Third Branch’s mother and daughter pair also raised their heads and fixed expectant gazes on the Old Madam. Everything unsaid was plain enough to see.

Princess Taiping was the most favored princess of the day. She was the Empress Regnant’s only daughter and also a daughter-in-law of the Wu family; she moved in and out of the palace freely, more resplendent than even the Crown Prince and Crown Princess. If she held a banquet, the Tang royal family’s people dared not fail to attend, and the princes and commandery princes of the Wu clan would also be present — it was, in short, the ideal occasion for Luoyang’s daughters to find a match.

Second Branch’s legitimate daughter Ming Yu was seventeen this year; Third Branch’s Ming Shuo was younger, but already thirteen — both were in the prime years for arranging marriage. If they could attend Princess Taiping’s Feihong Banquet and catch the eye of some prince or noble son, entering the imperial family in one step, the rest of their lives would be set.

Four pairs of eyes burned with urgency, waiting anxiously for the Old Madam to speak; even the maids pricked up their ears to eavesdrop. Among those present, it was probably only Ming Huashang who had no interest in this matchmaking banquet — oh, that is to say, the Feihong Banquet.

She was going to die within the year. What was the use of talking about marriage? Could marrying into the imperial family help protect her life?

It could not — and might even hasten her death. The Empress Regnant was aging, and at court the question of whether the Crown Prince would bear the surname Wu or the surname Li had never been definitively settled. The Empress Regnant had never made her position clear. If one accidentally chose the wrong side, never mind wealth and glory — the lives of an entire family might be forfeit.

Evidently the Old Madam had thought of this as well. She had lived through the bloodshed of the Chuigong era and still shuddered at the memory of those years when a wrong word meant beheading or exile. Now the Empress Regnant was aging, and the Great Zhou dynasty was again approaching a critical juncture — who could know which side fate would favor next?

Before the situation became clear, the Old Madam was not willing to stake her bet too early. Yet Princess Taiping’s invitation had been an honor — who dared not go?

The Old Madam looked somewhat troubled. Her gaze swept across Ming Huashang, who was studying her own fingernails with absolutely no ambition whatsoever — and in an instant, the Old Madam made up her mind: “We are honored that Princess Taiping has condescended to send the Ming family an invitation. However, the mountain paths to Feihong Garden are narrow and difficult for carriages and horses. For the young gentlemen it is one thing to ride — but it is truly inconvenient for the women.”

Both the Second and Third branches, hearing this, showed expressions of regret, understanding they would not be going to the Feihong Banquet. Then, unexpectedly, the Old Madam changed course and said: “The Second Young Master is skilled in riding and archery and has long held a fine reputation — this is a good opportunity for him to go and make a few friends at the banquet. Second Miss, you shall go together with your elder brother.”

Ming Huashang blinked, thinking she had misheard: “Me?”

As if by coincidence, the Old Madam had just mentioned the Second Young Master when a maid’s delighted announcement came from outside the door: “Old Madam, the Second Young Master has arrived.”

The door curtain was lifted, and a cold wind carrying flying snow surged in, scattering the warm and heavy fragrance of the room. Ming Huashang turned. Through the carved lattice screen she could see a tall, upright figure in crimson pass by, and a pair of slender, flawless hands lifting the glass-bead curtain — his fingertips more luminous than glass beads crackling with ice-crack patterns.

The five-colored glass beads chimed against one another, their clear sounds cascading, and the brilliant bead curtain made the face beyond it appear all the more radiant — like a white jade figurine edged with gold. Those deep black eyes swept the room once, and the entire hall was bathed in crystalline light and a radiance without end.

The young man paid no heed to the gaze that had frozen the room solid. He let the bead curtain fall and bowed to the Old Madam at the head of the room: “Your grandson Huazhang pays his respects to Grandmother.”