The gentle yet desolate voice came from… the middle-aged nun who was feeding Yang Buyao soup.
Yang Xinzhi’s birth mother… was it her?
Yes, it had to be. The loving tenderness in the nun’s eyes as she gazed at the robust young man couldn’t be feigned—such maternal instinct was impossible to fake. Yang Xinzhi asked with a choked voice, “Mother, how are you feeling? Why do they say something terrible has happened to you? Has your old illness returned…”
Before he could finish, the nun’s hands trembled more violently, and with a clatter, both the soup bowl and porcelain spoon fell onto the bed. Yang Xinzhi quickly moved to support his mother, while the serving maids and Wei Shubin helped carry the nun to a nearby couch where she could rest.
Yang Buyao struggled to sit up halfway in bed, breathing heavily as she said, “Sister… why trouble yourself so… I told you not to come when you’re unwell… take care of yourself first…”
Wei Shubin checked the nun’s pulse and found she was merely weak and fatigued, a common condition among Buddhist practitioners who maintained a vegetarian diet and spent long hours in meditation. There seemed to be no immediate danger. Seeing Yang Xinzhi sweating with anxiety, she offered some words of comfort and suggested he carry his mother back to her quarters for some hot soup and a few days’ rest.
Yang Xinzhi agreed, easily lifting his mother’s slight frame in his strong arms and heading toward the door. The nun nestled against her son’s shoulder, smiling contentedly with closed eyes, only to open them again.
Because Yang Xinzhi had stopped at the bedroom doorway. His father, Yang Shidao, stood before him.
The Prince Consort’s face showed complex emotions, looking at his original wife and eldest son with an expression between joy and sorrow, his thoughts seemingly far away.
Carrying his mother, Yang Xinzhi couldn’t bow to his father and kept his broad mouth shut, saying nothing. It was the nun—Lady Ma, Yang Shidao’s original wife—who softly sighed and told her son, “Let’s go,” before closing her eyes again. Yang Xinzhi shifted his shoulders, walked around his father, and descended the steps outside the room.
Yang Shidao silently watched his wife and son disappear into the glaring daylight outside, raising his hand in a slight bow, just as he had done earlier to his current wife, Princess Guiyang. Turning back, he said to Wei Shubin, “Please do your best to treat the Princess of Hailing.”
There was no avoiding it now.
Wei Shubin had nothing to say, so she sat down by Yang Buyao’s bedside and performed the standard examination. Yang Buyao’s symptoms were not unusual—just common postpartum retention of blood and discharge. Wei Shubin could prescribe the medicine with her eyes closed, directly using the “Crab Claw Decoction” and “Fragrant Bean Decoction” that had helped her own mother’s postpartum recovery days ago.
The Princess and Wei Shubin’s mothers were similar in age, both having borne several children and giving birth in the summer heat led to similar ailments. Based on Wei Shubin’s limited experience, although Yang Buyao looked frightening at the moment, with proper care there should be no danger to her life.
If one wanted to endanger her life, or even ensure her death… that wouldn’t be difficult either.
One tael of Achyranthes root, two taels of talcum powder, one and a half taels each of Tetrapanax and Ampelopsis… or elm bark cut finely and boiled—if she drank these slowly, she would bleed unceasingly… These medicines were meant for “dead fetus in the womb, retained placenta,” and while they were technically “postpartum prescriptions,” even traveling doctors might not know when they should or shouldn’t be used.
“Lady Yang, I heard that when you gave birth, the palace sent a Daoist master to assist with the delivery. Is this true?” Wei Shubin suddenly remembered this rumor and leaned close to ask the woman in the childbed. Yang Buyao weakly shook her head:
“How could I be so fortunate… Sister was the one who delivered the baby, who else would care whether my child and I lived or died…”
So it was just a rumor. Looking at Yang Buyao’s condition, she didn’t appear to have received proper care during childbirth. Wei Shubin had been suspicious—she felt the emperor didn’t care that much about Yang Buyao and her child, probably just telling Yang Shidao “Go take care of your niece” and considering his duty done.
So if the Princess of Hailing were to die from postpartum hemorrhage, wouldn’t that make everyone happy?
For the emperor and empress, it would remove a scandal tarnishing the virtuous ruler’s reputation; for Yang Shidao and the Fifth Princess, it would relieve them of responsibility and troublesome errands; even for Yang Buyao’s newborn son, it might be beneficial—the emperor could order Yang Shidao to bring the infant into the palace, giving him to a childless consort to raise, who could then retire as “Royal Mother of Some State” when following her adopted son to his fief, surely raising the child with utmost care.
As for Yang Buyao’s two daughters, they would naturally be devastated with grief. But their futures were already determined—like their eldest sister Li Wanxi, they would marry with the title of “County Princess.” Whether their mother’s improper relationship with the emperor would bring good or ill consequences for the two County Princesses remained to be seen. Putting herself in their place, Wei Shubin thought that simply being able to marry safely and live quietly would be the greatest luxury they could hope for.
If the peerless beauty Yang were to silently pass away in childbirth…
She looked at the lovely face on the pillow, weak from blood loss yet appearing even more pitiful, her expression serene and unconcerned. Yang Buyao was still her old self—her frowns and smiles were distinct and graceful, her appearance alluring and vital, yet inside she was even more cold and numb than former Crown Princess Zheng Guanyin, unmoved by everything in heaven and earth.
Including her own life and death, perhaps… Yang Buyao lay on her pillow returning Wei Shubin’s gaze, and after breathing heavily for a moment, suddenly asked, “Lady Wei… you haven’t entered the palace, have you?”
During their last meeting, Wei Shubin had deliberately led her to believe she was the emperor’s newly favored consort, thus hearing many secrets. That misunderstanding wasn’t hard to dispel—Yang Buyao only needed to ask the emperor’s fifth sister, Princess Guiyang. Wei Shubin hadn’t expected that pretense to fool her for long, and hearing the question now, she simply replied:
“I currently reside at Zixu Temple within the imperial gardens.”
The beauty’s pale cherry lips curved in a slight smile: “Then why… did you…”
Why indeed? Why did I involve myself in pursuing these matters? Why did I risk my own life, rushing about recklessly, and what results did I achieve in the end? Why, when there were shortcuts available and universally satisfying solutions that required no effort, did I stubbornly refuse to take them?
Wei Shubin searched her heart but found no answer. Yet this feeling was familiar—this confusion, this being tempted yet unable to decide, knowing the path ahead was strewn with flowers and brocade, yet turning toward thorns and obstacles to struggle with calloused hands and feet—this pain was familiar.
“One sheng of crab claws, two chi each of licorice and cassia heart, two taels of donkey-hide gelatin, one and a half sheng of fermented soybeans, one square cun of powdered deer antler…”
She slowly dictated the prescription to the serving maids and Yang Shidao standing behind her, letting them record and prepare it. Yang Buyao lay quietly listening, unconcerned. When the medicine was prepared and brought to her bedside, she drank it without question, compliant, obedient… hopeless.
If I had followed your suggestion and pinned the murder of the County Princess of Linfen on her nurse Lady Heba, Wei Shubin thought, you would be dead by now. Once you start taking convenient shortcuts for profit, there’s always a second time. It’s not easy to go against one’s conscience, but once you start down that path, there’s no turning back.
As it was getting late and the city gates would close, Wei Shubin spent the night at Cihe Temple. The next morning, Yang Buyao showed great improvement, but the middle-aged nun who usually cared for her—her aunt by marriage and Yang Xinzhi’s birth mother, Lady Ma—was even weaker than the day before. Wei Shubin’s limited medical skills couldn’t determine the cause, but fortunately that morning, Chai Yingluo was also summoned by Yang Shidao from her home.
Chai Yingluo first examined Yang Buyao, verbally praising Wei Shubin for “great progress and appropriate prescriptions,” though her gaze seemed to carry a deeper meaning. Wei Shubin said nothing, leading her to examine Lady Ma while Yang Xinzhi again pleaded at the bedside. Chai Yingluo concentrated intently while taking the pulse for a long time, finally sighing and asking:
“Aunt, forgive my directness, but who usually prepares your daily meals? Are there any enemies of yours in this temple? Who would… poison you?”
“Poison?” Wei Shubin and Yang Xinzhi exclaimed simultaneously. Lady Ma’s face turned ashen, but she shook her head:
“The Daoist master is overthinking. I am but a speck of dust in this world, harming no one—who would bother to do such an evil thing…”
Before she could finish, a young nun ran in from outside the room, reporting in panic: “Master, Master, there’s a group of armed men outside the temple, here to escort you to the palace to see Empress Changsun!”