After the chancellors acknowledged the succession decree, several more ritual steps had to be completed before Li Xian’s position as the new Emperor could be considered settled. A realm could not go a single day without a ruler, and every day of delay added another day’s worth of uncertainty. So the ceremonies were simplified in every possible way, and the enthronement ceremony as well as the ceremony for the installation of the Empress were to take place the very next day. The Ministry of Rites was occupied with rushing to prepare the ritual vessels and ceremonial attire for the enthronement. Li Huazhang was busy redistributing the troops and changing the palace guard, as well as inspecting the venues to ensure the ceremony the next day would proceed without incident.
Li Huazhang worked within the palace until nightfall before he had finally arranged the broad outline of everything. His personal guards, seeing that it was late, urged him repeatedly: “Prince Yong, please do take care of your health. We will watch over what remains. Please return to the estate quickly and rest.”
By calculation, from the time the palace siege was being planned, Li Huazhang had not slept for nearly two days. He knew that tomorrow was the true centerpiece, and that only by replenishing his energy tonight would he have the strength to oversee the enthronement ceremony the next day. He did not press himself, and after arranging for his trusted men to reinforce the watch, he rode out of the palace.
But Li Huazhang did not go straight back to Prince Yong’s residence. The moment he was out of the palace gates, he went directly to Duke Zhenguo’s household.
In the Duke Zhenguo’s household, everyone hurried out to receive him when Li Huazhang arrived. In the past, Li Huazhang would certainly have gone straight to Ming Huashang’s courtyard, but now he was an unmarried man visiting from outside, and he needed to conduct himself with a guest’s propriety. And so he followed the proprieties of host and guest and first went to the front courtyard to pay his respects to the elder of the household, Duke Zhenguo.
Duke Zhenguo watched Li Huazhang walk toward him and for an instant felt as though the ages had reversed — he could not for a moment distinguish whether this was Li Huazhang or Prince Zhanghuai. Only when he heard a cool, resolute voice greeting him — still carrying what seemed to be the air of a place recently steeped in killing — did Duke Zhenguo come to his senses. This was Li Huazhang, not the Crown Prince.
Duke Zhenguo looked at the young man before him, and was suddenly overwhelmed with feeling. In temperament and talent, Li Huazhang greatly resembled the young Prince Zhanghuai — but this was largely because Duke Zhenguo had used Prince Zhanghuai as the standard in raising Li Huazhang from childhood, and Li Huazhang, through years of modeling, had sculpted himself into the image of the gentleman the world expected him to be. But stripped of that outer form, Li Huazhang’s true inner core was in fact more like the Empress Regnant.
The same decisiveness, the same steadiness, the same capacity to endure what ordinary people could not endure. Whatever he set his mind to, he would continue until he had seen it through.
This was the complete opposite of the kind-hearted Prince Zhanghuai. Li Huazhang’s innate audacity and wildness evidently came from the other half of his bloodline — his grandmother’s.
Duke Zhenguo sighed inwardly for a moment and asked: “How is the Grand Empress Dowager?”
Li Huazhang went quiet, paused for several breaths, and said: “The Grand Empress Dowager is gravely ill and will soon be moved to a detached palace to recuperate.”
The Empress Regnant and the Li family had been mortal enemies in matters of state, but by ties of blood she was their closest kin. To say nothing of Li Xian — even Princess Taiping and Prince Xiang would not dare do anything to their mother. They were willing to provide for the Empress Regnant with gold and silver and every comfort, allowing her to enjoy a peaceful old age — so long as she no longer interfered in governance.
But for a person like the Empress Regnant, stripping her of power was the same as putting her to death.
Duke Zhenguo gave a nod. He did not ask how the palace was faring or how the merits would be distributed from here on. He simply asked: “Have you eaten?”
Li Huazhang reflexively nodded: “I have already dined in the palace.”
Duke Zhenguo asked what he had eaten, and upon hearing that he had only had some pastries in the palace, said: “That can hardly be called a meal. The kitchen has had hot food ready for you for some time. Come along — eat first, then wash and get a good night’s sleep.”
Li Huazhang agreed and followed Duke Zhenguo toward the dining hall. The surroundings were all familiar sights, and the serving staff were all people he had known since childhood. The tension that had been strung tightly through Li Huazhang’s entire being gradually began to ease, in a way that even sleep could not have achieved.
There was no need to worry about tomorrow, no need to constantly scrutinize every unremarkable person as a possible spy. Back home, the most important things were eating and sleeping.
Li Huazhang looked around and seemed to hesitate over something he wanted to say. Duke Zhenguo seemed to discern what he was thinking and said first: “Are you wondering about First Young Lady and Second Young Lady?”
He had been seen through. Li Huazhang was flustered for only an instant before accepting it with composure: “Yes. Why haven’t you called them to eat with us?”
“No need,” Duke Zhenguo said. “Neither of them got much sleep last night, and today they’re both catching up on rest. It’s rare to have them off my hands. Bring the wine — let us two men drink our fill.”
Li Huazhang looked at the great fish and large cuts of meat that had been brought to the table and gave a helpless laugh. He had the attendants take the wine away and replace it with tea, and said: “I recall that First Young Lady has forbidden you from drinking wine. If you break the rule, next time I won’t know how to answer to Huashang. Today, we drink tea in place of wine.”
Duke Zhenguo was most displeased, declaring loudly that his health was perfectly fine and that such a little wine was not even enough to whet the appetite. Li Huazhang paid no attention and calmly but firmly had the attendants remove all the wine jars.
After the meal, Duke Zhenguo said a room had already been prepared, so that Li Huazhang would not have to go back and forth between the two residences, and suggested he simply stay the night at the Duke’s household. Li Huazhang was indeed tempted for a brief moment, but reason quickly prevailed over feeling. He would rather be Ming Huashang’s betrothed than Duke Zhenguo’s foster son. Now that they were engaged, he had to observe the proper decorum of propriety.
Li Huazhang said firmly: “No need for the trouble. Prince Yong’s residence is not far from here — I will simply return there. National Duke, please rest early. I will come again another day to pay my respects.”
Duke Zhenguo knew this child had had a strong mind of his own since he was small, and that once he had decided something, others would find it very difficult to change his course. He did not bother with further attempts to keep him and simply sighed: “Then take care on the road. Go back and rest soon — don’t overdo it.”
Li Huazhang agreed and, refusing to let Duke Zhenguo see him off, walked toward the outer gate. He moved through the familiar corridor scenery. His steps seemed a little slower than usual. The household steward saw through what the once-young Second Master was thinking and said tactfully: “Second Young Lady has been sleeping the whole day — it must be about time for her to wake up and eat something. Shall this old servant go and remind Second Young Lady?”
She was still sleeping… Li Huazhang felt both amused and exasperated, yet a person who could eat well and sleep soundly was the very image of Ming Huashang. He gave a quiet sigh and said: “No need. I will go and look in on her.”
Li Huazhang turned direction without the slightest awkwardness and walked toward Ming Huashang’s courtyard — with a familiarity that required no guidance from the steward. Jin Bao and the other maidservants were sitting beneath the window doing needlework when they suddenly saw Prince Yong arrive, and hurriedly stood: “Prince Yong.”
Li Huazhang raised a hand to stop their bowing. He stood at the doorway and looked quietly toward the room, through the screen.
Beyond the embroidered screen of flowers and birds, a silken quilt swelled in a gentle arc, and a figure lay still, facing inward. Her hair was spread across the pillow like drifting clouds and misty mountain peaks, like a crabapple sleeping through the spring.
For an unmarried man to enter a young woman’s inner chamber at night was highly improper — yet having come, he stopped at the doorway, neither approaching nor speaking, so that it was difficult to find fault with his conduct. Jin Bao was uncertain how to proceed and asked nervously: “Prince Yong, shall we wake the young lady?”
Li Huazhang gazed quietly for a moment, then shook his head gently and lowered his voice: “Let her sleep in peace. I will come another day.”
He turned to go, but paused at the doorway, and drew from his sleeve a single camellia blossom. He said: “Today while searching the palace, I happened to see a branch of camellia in bloom. Every other flower remained tightly closed, but this one alone was bold enough to open early. I was not in a position to prepare maltose candy for her this New Year’s Eve — so let this single spring blossom stand in its place. I wish Huashang another new year: peace, good health, and great joy.”
When Ming Huashang woke, she felt hungry first, and then noticed a flower on the other side of the screen. Rubbing her eyes and climbing up, with her hair in the state of a lion that had just rolled around in a sand pit, she asked: “When did we get a camellia in the house?”
Jin Bao said softly: “Young Lady, Prince Yong came by earlier — the flower was left by Prince Yong.”
Ming Huashang gave a sound of acknowledgment. Her first thought was that it must have been grown in the palace — she had always said their household could not keep camellia trees alive. Then she abruptly caught herself: “Second Elder Brother came?”
“Yes,” said Jin Bao, knowing the young lady had woken up dazed again and was still using the old form of address. She did not correct her, and replied: “Prince Yong came to look in on the young lady, and then left. He also said that since he hadn’t prepared maltose candy for the young lady on New Year’s Eve, he could only make up for it with a camellia blossom, and wished the young lady another year older.”
Jixiang came in from outside carrying hot tea. Upon hearing this, she said: “It is a good thing we all know Prince Yong’s character. If this were anyone else, to give only a single flower for the new year — he would surely be thought a stingy son-in-law making a perfunctory gesture.”
Ming Huashang had the maidservants bring the camellia over. She held it in both hands and turned it this way and that, examining the blazing red blossoms that were so out of place with the winter season. Softly, she said: “Not at all — I think sending a flower is lovely.”
That even in his most tense and most hectic moment, he had still remembered to prepare a new year’s gift for her — this thoughtfulness was worth more than any pearl or jade.
·
After Li Huazhang left Duke Zhenguo’s household, he did not return to Prince Yong’s residence right away. Instead he circled through the city several times, making his way toward a quiet and secluded place.
The street still held remnants of burst firecrackers. This particular alley, however, was perfectly still and cold — silent, as though the festival had forgotten it. Li Huazhang stopped before an unremarkable wooden door and knocked in an unhurried manner.
After the specific rhythm was completed, the door quietly opened a crack. The person inside looked at Li Huazhang’s face and only then opened the door fully, bowing in salute: “Chief.”
Li Huazhang gave a light nod and, without a word, stepped inside. The wooden door behind him immediately fell shut. Inside the enclosure that was plain and simple — as ordinary as could be — there were in fact bows and arrows, guards, and concealed lookouts stationed throughout.
Li Huazhang walked forward and asked: “How is the person?”
“Following your command, we captured him last night and immediately administered a sedative, replenishing it every two hours. In another quarter of an hour, it would be time for another dose.”
“No more doses.” Li Huazhang said. “Watch him closely. He is not to leave. Beyond that, nothing further need be done.”
The guard acknowledged the order. As he spoke, they had already reached the door. Li Huazhang placed his palm against the panel and pushed the room door open calmly.
The room’s light was dim. A figure lay on the couch, apparently unconscious.
Li Huazhang raised his clasped hands in a slight, formless bow — not in the least as though he were addressing a person in a stupor — and spoke with quiet composure: “Chief Han, forgive the great presumption I have taken. I hope you will not hold it against me.”
The other person remained completely motionless. Li Huazhang did not mind. He picked out a spot and sat down, and said in a measured tone: “The Grand Empress Dowager has decided to abdicate. She will shortly be relocated to Shangyang Palace.”
The room was silent as a sealed well; you could have heard a pin drop. It was as though he were speaking to thin air. But Li Huazhang knew Han Jie could hear him.
Han Jie had taught him many things, and so Li Huazhang understood all too well how many variables a man like this could introduce into a coup if left free. Last night, when he launched the action, the very first thing he did was dispatch his elite forces to ambush Han Jie and cut him off from the outside world. Only after confirming Han Jie was unconscious had Li Huazhang ordered the troops to surround the palace.
Li Huazhang also knew that he had only managed to carry out the ambush because he had the advantage of surprise, catching Han Jie completely off guard. He could restrain him for a short time, but certainly not for long. Yet that was enough — as long as Han Jie could be rendered unconscious for even a single day, it was sufficient.
Li Huazhang continued: “I know full well that I have failed the debt of loyalty and kindness owed to you, and I have no intention of trying to justify myself. But I feel I should say this to you in person: I learned a great deal from you over these years. I know I cannot hold you — whenever you choose to, you could escape within three days. But I still wish to counsel you: do not reconvene the Xuan Xiaowei.”
“Too many people have died at the hands of corrupt officials, informants, and secret prisons. This cycle of retaliation that has produced no winners — it must end. I am willing to take the first step and stand down. I will not further pursue my grievance over my father’s case. I will let the Grand Empress Dowager spend her remaining years in peace at her detached palace, and I will not hold accountable those who handled the case in those years. As long as you all lay down your authority and retire into private life, I will absolutely not pursue any investigations. But if you insist on assisting the Grand Empress Dowager in seizing power back, then I can only tell you — I will stop at nothing to kill you.”
After Li Huazhang finished speaking, he waited a moment. Han Jie gave no response. He did not demand one, and turned to walk out. He had reached the doorway when a voice behind him said: “The mercy of a woman.”
To release the Empress Regnant’s most trusted shadow agents back into the common world, not knowing when they might rise again — if that was not a woman’s soft-hearted mercy, what was it?
Li Huazhang was not surprised. He said with composure: “If every person is unwilling to lay down the weapon, then the hatred will never cease. Someone must take the first step back. Then let it be me. Besides — to be as reasonable and tender-hearted as a woman: is that a bad thing?”
Han Jie gave a cold laugh and said with mockery: “I once said that among that group of people, you, Xie Jichuan, and Ren Yao each excelled in your own way — but the one who was truly most formidable as an operative was Ming Huashang. I never imagined I would find myself proven right by my own prediction. For your sake, she was actually capable of going that far.”
At the mention of Ming Huashang, Li Huazhang’s eyes softened considerably: “I am fortunate to have encountered her.”
Han Jie scoffed and said: “If you had enthroned yourself, I could at least understand it. But you expended so much effort, did not hesitate to drag Ming Huashang into it, and in the end you pushed your uncle onto the throne. All I can say is: foolish.”
Li Huazhang understood all too well that human hearts could change. But Li Xian was the Crown Prince, and only by acting in his name could this operation have the most legitimate justification. If Li Huazhang were to be put forward as Emperor instead, why should Prince Xiang not be considered too? That would fracture the Li family’s unity before the enterprise even began, and the coup would certainly fail.
And on a personal, emotional level, Li Huazhang had never entertained any thought of becoming Emperor. What he had always wanted was to clear the name of his father and elder brother, restore the Great Tang, and return peace to the realm — not the imperial throne. As for the debate privately circulating at court over whether the line of Li Xian or the line of Li Xian’s brother was the more legitimate one, Li Huazhang had never given it any weight.
“Believe it or not, I have never had any desire to be Emperor.” Li Huazhang said to Han Jie. “Not seeking to satisfy all, only to have no shame before my conscience. Someone will see to your meals three times a day here. Stay if you wish, go if you must — but do not go to Shangyang Palace to find the Grand Empress Dowager. The common people and court officials have lived in fear for far too long, all because of the question of whether the realm would bear the name of Li or Wu. To end the endless internecine struggle between the Li and Wu families will allow the court to direct its full attention to governing the realm and benefiting the people. Let the Zhou-Wu dynasty and the rule of the cruel officials be thoroughly consigned to the past. The Great Tang’s moon should be clear and unblemished.”
Han Jie let out a contemptuous sound and asked mockingly: “On what basis do you claim that the Li family’s moon is the brightest?”
“I will prove it to you.” Li Huazhang did not linger. He pulled open the door and faced head-on the pitch-black, freezing winter outside — so cold that water turned to ice the moment it fell. “In ten years, the Great Tang will without question be a realm of peace and tranquility, more prosperous than even the Zhenguan era.”
·
The third day of the third month, the upper-si festival. Spring sunlight lay warm across the world. Magnolia, crabapple, peach, pear, and apricot blossoms had all opened. Chang’an was veiled in layers of deep and pale floral mist. Today the people were to go beyond the city walls for the ritual spring ablutions, and Ming Huashang and Ming Yuji went out together to stroll along the water. Even Ming Yu had come back from her husband’s household for the occasion.
Ming Yu kept Ming Huashang and her sister company as they wandered along the water’s edge, her attentiveness impossible to fault. And not only Ming Yu — the other families at the water’s edge, upon seeing the Duke Zhenguo’s household and especially upon seeing Ming Huashang, also came forward one after another to make conversation, the undercurrents of every exchange steering toward finding out when Ming Huashang and Prince Yong’s wedding would be held.
Ming Huashang took in all these changes and could not help thinking back to those years before Li Huazhang had his identity restored — when she had gone out to banquets, how seldom anyone came to speak with her. In not quite a full year, the attitude of Chang’an’s noble ladies toward her had been turned from earth to heaven, and one could not help but marvel at the theatrics of the world.
Ming Huashang quickly lost interest, and Ming Yuji had no desire to exchange pleasantries with a crowd of strangers. They chose a spot away from the others and sat down to rest.
Those one could avoid, one could avoid — but relatives were a different matter. Ming Yu accompanied the two sisters as they sat down, and keeping a discreet watch on Ming Huashang’s expression, asked: “Second Younger Sister, your wedding to Prince Yong — that will be this year, I suppose?”
The twenty-second of the first month, while everyone was still immersed in the new year celebration, still not quite recovered from the sound of the firecrackers, Prince Yong, Princess Taiping, and the others launched the coup without any warning, compelling the Empress Regnant to abdicate and transmit the throne to the Crown Prince Li Xian.
Because it occurred during the Shenlong era, this turn of events came to be called the Shenlong Coup. On the twenty-third of the first month, the Empress Regnant abdicated. On the twenty-fourth, the new Emperor’s enthronement ceremony was held. On the second day of the second month, the new Emperor restored the realm’s name to Tang and changed the era name to Jinglong.
The Zhou-Wu dynasty formally became history. No matter how many dramatic upheavals and spectacular events had unfolded, all of it dissolved into a single grain of dust on the pages of a book — one soft turn of the page, and it was past.
The mood of Chang’an’s sky changed faster than June’s rain. The enthronement ceremony had only one day’s preparation and was held with great haste, yet at such a moment, no one quarreled over the details. After the Crown Prince was enthroned, he conferred titles in succession: he installed Crown Princess Consort Wei as Empress, the third son by a concubine Li Chongjun as Crown Prince, and the youngest legitimate daughter, Princess of Anle, as Princess Anle. At the same time, with great grief, he posthumously honored the eldest legitimate son who had died in the Danfeng Gate incident, Li Chongrun, as Crown Prince Yide, and posthumously honored the Princess Yongtai, Li Xianhui, as Princess Yongtai.
To make amends for the agony of the Danfeng Gate incident — in which he had been utterly powerless and could only watch helplessly as his son was beaten to death — Li Xian personally arranged a grand funeral for Crown Prince Yide and Princess Yongtai.
But no matter how magnificent a posthumous ennoblement ceremony was held, the son and daughter who had died would never return. The grief in the hearts of the Emperor and Empress Wei was known to no one. The people of Chang’an busied themselves discussing how grand the funeral had been and how much it had cost.
Beyond this, the court officials who had rendered meritorious service in supporting the new Emperor during the Shenlong Coup were also a hot topic throughout the city’s neighborhoods. Among them, Prince Yong, Princess Taiping, and Prince Xiang were undeniably the greatest contributors.
The Shenlong Coup had not only turned the world of the court upside down — many people’s worlds within the court had also collapsed. The old Tang loyalists who had been carefully obsequious and smiling everywhere immediately held their heads high, while the luminaries of the day before came crashing down from the heights, smashed to pieces.
The Zhang brothers died on the night of the Shenlong Coup, and their family and relations by marriage could not escape. The Zhang family was subjected to a wave of investigations and settlements. All their property was confiscated into the imperial treasury, and moreover every offense they had ever committed was dug up one by one. A great many of them were charged with capital crimes, thrown into prison, and put to death. The Zhang family — once at the height of their power, with two dukes in a single generation — was finished.
Those who had cultivated and attached themselves to Prince Wei also fared no better. On the day of the coup, when Prince Wei heard news of the Grand Empress Dowager’s abdication, he was so overcome by rage and anguish that he spat a mouthful of blood — and on the strength of it, died.
With Prince Wei dead, the household of Prince Wei fell apart, like a great tree collapsed with its monkeys fled. His sons were prosecuted in succession and reduced to commoners. In the end, the only one who managed to preserve his posthumous honors was the consort of the late Princess Yongtai, Wu Yanji.
Prince Wei’s household crumbled into ruin, while Prince Liang’s household was left entirely unscathed — in fact, the father and sons of Prince Liang’s household were promoted to higher ranks and titles. This was naturally the accomplishment of Princess Anle, the daughter-in-law. To marry a daughter of such standing was to benefit every man in the entire clan — the allure of power and influence, plain for all to see.
As the falling leaf heralds autumn, those who grieved had their counterparts in those who rejoiced. The Duke Zhenguo’s household was one of those in the “rejoicing” camp. The Ming family overnight acquired a multitude of old friends and connections, all well aware that Prince Yong’s merit in the coup was unmatched, and that once the Emperor had finished paying tribute to Crown Prince Yide, he would inevitably bestow rich rewards on Prince Yong. Prince Yong’s title had already reached the highest rank of prince, with his fief encompassing Chang’an’s essential terrain and his authority commanding the affairs of the capital’s interior — to enfeoff him any higher would be to give him dominion over the entire court!
Ming Huashang, the future consort of Prince Yong, instantly became the most virtuous, filial, and exemplary woman under Heaven, and everyone was scrambling to cultivate a connection with her. Growing thoroughly weary of being asked, she offered a cool, mirthless smile: “I don’t know — it depends on what the palace arranges.”
Ming Yu read her expression astutely and immediately understood that Ming Huashang was displeased. No matter — her purpose in coming today had not been to fish for gossip. They all shared the surname Ming; that was a bond that could be neither cut nor severed. As long as she maintained a sisterly warmth with Ming Huashang, she would be secure for the rest of her life, never in a position of defeat.
Ming Yu smiled and, with good sense, changed the subject, speaking of newly available fabrics in Chang’an: “A merchant from the western regions at the Western Market has recently brought in a new cloth. I hear it is spun from threads made of peacock feathers. The skirts woven from it shimmer and flow like the Milky River, with colors that change at every angle. I was fortunate enough to obtain half a bolt, and since Second Sister is naturally gifted with grace and beauty, only you could truly bring out the spiritual quality of this fabric. I will have it delivered to you later.”
“No need.” Ming Huashang declined cleanly. “Clothing serves only to guard against cold and preserve modesty. I am already vain enough to wear skirts four panels wide — how could I condone killing birds and taking their feathers merely for the pleasure of a garment? Such a skirt is far too costly and precious for me. Big Sister should keep it for herself.”
Ming Yu was rebuffed and her expression became a little awkward. She glanced at Ming Yuji, who sat to one side playing with a round fan, and suddenly realized that in her eagerness to win Ming Huashang’s favor, she had neglected Ming Yuji entirely. Ming Yu quickly said: “What a clumsy tongue I have, never quite saying things right. What I meant was to give it to both of you sisters — as for what you’d like to do with the fabric, that is entirely up to you.”
Ming Yuji, hearing this, immediately said: “Absolutely not. I want nothing to do with a skirt stained with the burden of killing. Just give me money directly — that would be far more practical.”
Ming Yu smiled apologetically, knowing perfectly well it was impossible to simply give Ming Yuji money — was this a gesture of friendship or an act of provocation? Since nothing could be presented to Ming Huashang’s side, it seemed the only option was to find a back channel and present it to the palace instead.
In a flicker of deliberation between presenting it to Princess Anle or presenting it to the Eastern Palace, Ming Yu ultimately decided to curry favor with the Eastern Palace. No matter how favored Princess Anle might be, she was still only a daughter; there was a ceiling on how far she could go in this lifetime. Could the Great Tang produce yet another Empress Regnant?
Better to win over the future Emperor — that was the truly long-sighted plan.
At this thought, Ming Yu felt a certain wistfulness. Some people were simply born with good fortune. Take the current Crown Prince Li Chongjun: he was only the third son by a concubine, holding neither the advantage of age nor legitimate birth. No one would have imagined that he could ever have designs on the imperial throne. Who would have thought that the eldest legitimate son, Crown Prince Yide, would be beaten to death, the second son Li Chongfu branded a traitor and cast into the dust — with the two elder brothers gone in succession, the position of Crown Prince fell right into his lap.
Truly a windfall from Heaven. Heaven truly had its eyes closed.
Of course, the two whose fortune was best were the very pair before her. One had been sent to the countryside, but from birth had become the person who saved Prince Yong’s life — and had only to endure seventeen years of hardship before spending the rest of her life in comfort and glory. The other was more extraordinary still: simply on the strength of a sibling bond, she had become Prince Yong’s consort.
It would be untrue to say Ming Yu felt no envy. Had she only known from the start that Second Brother was of imperial blood, she would have gone out of her way to show him warmth and attention back in the Duke’s household. Perhaps the title of Prince Yong’s consort might have become hers. But in this world there was no “had I only known,” and Ming Yu could only press down these pointless suppositions and continue cultivating her relationship with Ming Huashang: “You are quite right — I spoke carelessly. When I go back, I will have the fabric thrown away.”
Ming Huashang said coolly: “Those peacocks have already lost even their feathers and their lives. If you throw the fabric away, their deaths would become a joke. It would be better to return it to the merchant. If the merchant cannot earn money from it, he will naturally stop hunting peacocks to weave cloth.”
Ming Yu agreed to everything with ready compliance, then said with a laugh: “Prince Yong has rendered such great merit this time, and is so devoted to you — Second Sister will have more wealth and glory than she could ever spend in a lifetime. Would you still be troubled over the cost of a single skirt?”
“That is beside the point.” Ming Huashang said with indifference. “Moreover, what connection do those two things have?”
Ming Yu smiled and said no more. Ming Yuji watched from the side as these ladies of rank changed their faces, and suddenly felt they were no different from the women of the common marketplace.
The same fawning toward the powerful, the same bullying of the weak. Those noblewomen she had once imagined to be untouched by the mundane world, elegant and beautiful — they were no more than this.
Whatever else Ming Yu went on to say afterward, Ming Yuji stopped bothering to listen. The outside world might be rushing in droves toward the Duke Zhenguo’s household, but Ming Yuji knew: these days, Ming Huashang was not happy.
The world outside was waiting for the Emperor, once finished with Crown Prince Yide’s mourning rites, to reward Prince Yong, Princess Taiping, Prince Xiang, and the meritorious officials of the Shenlong Coup according to their merits. But the delay itself was saying everything that needed to be said.
When a bird is gone, a good bow is put away; when a cunning hare is dead, the hunting dog is cooked. The fate of meritorious officials was not always a good one.