After endless waiting with the entire nation holding its breath, the Eighth Prince finally arrived, dusty from his travels. The aging Emperor and the Eighth Prince, who had not seen each other in nearly fifteen years, were immediately awash in paternal love the moment they met, without the slightest awkwardness. The old man, trembling hands outstretched, asked after his son’s hardships living in the borderlands of Shu; the son wept with emotion, insisting again and again that his father, who governed ten thousand affairs daily and wore himself to exhaustion for the state, was the one who had truly suffered. Standing to one side, the Empress Dowager Li — thoroughly out of place, a middle-aged woman with no idea where to put herself — completed the picture of a perfectly auspicious family of three.

The assembled civil and military officials below were also very accommodating to the mood, each dabbing at their eyes with sleeves, moved by the profound father-and-son love within the imperial household. No wonder our dynasty enjoyed peace and prosperity with favorable winds and rains in all things — it was all thanks to this exemplary bond! The reunion of father and son concluded, and the aged Emperor took his son by the hand and, trembling, introduced him to the assembled court officials, one by one. “Come, come — this one is the Grand Preceptor of the Inner Cabinet, who survived near-death; that one is the greatly meritorious Grand Scholar of the Abyss Pavilion; those few over there are the five chief cabinet members; the ones behind them are…” There were too many names, and Minglan retained not a single one.

“Father, what does the Eighth Prince look like?” Rulan, always direct, asked what all the women present had been wondering.

Sheng Hong put on a face of loyal devotion and declared: “His Highness naturally has dragon eyes and phoenix pupils, martial virtue and refined bearing, a man of exceptional and commanding presence.”

All the women present believed him wholeheartedly — it was always better for the next leader of the state to be on the handsome side. Changbai stole a glance at his father and maintained a blank expression. In truth, the Eighth Prince was squarish-faced and large-eared — passable at best. They said the founding Emperor of the dynasty, that great hero who had subdued a world in chaos, had in his day been an exceptional-looking man — exceptionally ugly, that is — and the tenacity of his ugly genes had proven so robust that after several generations of improvement through beautiful consorts, they had still not been corrected. Though to be fair, a ruler of a nation required exactly this sort of safe, reassuring appearance.

The old Emperor had evidently reached his limit, and so the Director of the Astronomical Bureau, always conveniently intuitive, promptly divined the most auspicious date in the near future for the ceremony of installing the Crown Prince. A memorial of congratulations was duly presented by the assembled court officials, and the meticulously prepared officials of the Ministry of Rites and the Court of Imperial Sacrifices finally had their moment to shine. On the appointed day, before dawn had even broken, the Sheng father and son had already felt their way through the dark to attend the ceremony at the Hall of Heavenly Governance — kneeling, rising, prostrating, kneeling again, for a full day without cease. At last they received the imperial investiture documents, went to the Central Palace to express gratitude to the Empress, paid reverence at the ancestral shrines, and announced the matter to the ancestors before the ceremony was considered complete. Even so, Sheng Hong said the ritual had already been greatly simplified because of the chaos of the previous year, which had left the old Emperor’s strength and spirit depleted.

The common people of the capital demonstrated admirable awareness, knowing to rejoice at what the imperial household rejoiced in. That very evening, great fireworks were set off all over the city; those of means launched lanterns for the release of prayers and distributed charitable gifts widely to the impoverished, in demonstration that all under heaven celebrated together. Little Changdong was also very happy, for they had been given several days off from school in honor of the investiture ceremony. When he returned after the holiday, he told Minglan in secret that he had overheard some of the beggars who had come to collect rice and congee remarking, “We’ve had two of these in just a few months — if there were a Crown Prince investiture every day, that would be wonderful.” Minglan couldn’t help smiling.

Changdong was eleven now, his boyish frame gradually beginning to stretch out. In front of his father and elder brothers he was unfailingly respectful and proper, but around Minglan he remained as mischievous as ever. Minglan encouraged him to bring the essays his teachers had praised to show Sheng Hong; Sheng Hong did indeed commend him several times, and Changdong grew ever more diligent and hardworking, burning the candle at both ends, until he wore a glassy look when talking to people.

Afraid he might study himself dull, Minglan often counseled him not to be so fixated: “Gaining education is a way of offering one’s services to the imperial family. Of ten scholars, nine and a half are reading in order to become officials. But does being a good scholar necessarily make one a good official? You are already doing well enough in your studies. If you can’t make it to a prominent ranking, at least placing on the list is always within your reach. What matters most is gaining a broader understanding of worldly matters and human affairs. If you find yourself among colleagues and mentors one day, you will get on with people smoothly. If you serve as an official, you will be a blessing to the common people in your jurisdiction. Don’t turn your head into a jar of miso by reading too much.” When it came down to it, Changdong simply did not have Changbai’s natural aptitude — what he had was a stubborn, drilling kind of determination.

Changdong’s young face broke into a rueful smile: “I only want Mother to have a better life.”

Minglan looked at him for a long moment, then gently rested her hand on his head and sighed quietly.

After the investiture ceremony, the old Emperor had intended to transfer the affairs of state to the Crown Prince and spend his remaining days recovering in peace. But the Crown Prince, in his pure filial devotion, refused to have anything to do with court business or the various officials who sought audiences. He devoted himself entirely to his father’s care — personally tasting every spoonful of medicine before the old Emperor drank it during the day, and sleeping lightly on a cot in the old Emperor’s bedchamber each night, without a single day’s interruption or lapse. Within ten days, the newly installed Crown Prince had lost a full measure of weight, and his wide robes hung loose and swaying about him.

The old Emperor sighed and said: “My son’s filial devotion is profound. We are deeply moved. Yet you are the Crown Prince now, and the affairs of the state must come first.”

He wept and replied: “Among all my brothers, any might fulfill this duty. Yet this son has only one father.”

The old Emperor wept as well, and the two held each other in tears. When the officials of the inner and outer courts heard of this, they all sighed in admiration.

The Right Grand Commissioner of the Five Military Commands, Bo Tianzhu, was advanced in years and had been resting at home due to illness since the previous year. He also declared that he had not heard the saying “the heart wishes to provide, yet the parents are no longer there” without being moved — truly a man of loyal and filial character. That night he was summoned to the palace by imperial command, and surrendered his military seal to the Crown Prince.

Minglan listened to the news Changdong had pieced together, the corners of her mouth curving up slightly.

Half a month later, the great mourning bells of the capital tolled deep in the night — the cloud boards struck in solemn succession. Minglan counted carefully: four strikes. Then came the sound of startled footsteps outside, chaotic and scattered. A moment later, Danju came in to report: “The Emperor has passed away.”

Minglan’s awareness was insufficient for such occasions — she felt no particular grief. The old Emperor’s death was like the second shoe finally dropping from a rooftop; everyone had been gritting their teeth waiting for it, the long delay only adding to the anxiety, while in the meantime much innocent blood had been shed as fodder.

Every preparation had been made long in advance. The new Emperor ascended the throne the following day and issued a general amnesty throughout the realm.

The mourning rites for the late Emperor proceeded in orderly fashion. An imperial edict was sent throughout the land: all noble households and official families of the sixth rank and above were prohibited from holding banquets or entertainments for one year, and from conducting weddings and betrothals for one year; common people were to suspend celebrations for half a year; all titled ladies were to attend court in rotation to observe the mourning in proper succession. The civil officials also had no time to spare — in addition to wailing at the designated hours, they deliberated and proposed the posthumous imperial title for the late Emperor: “Rén” — Benevolent.

Then came the new Emperor’s succession proclamations: the Empress Li was titled Sheng’an Empress Dowager; the Imperial Noble Consort was titled Shengde Empress Dowager; the rest of the consorts in the rear palace were rewarded and elevated according to their respective ranks. At the same time, a decree was issued naming the new Emperor’s consort of the Shen family as Empress, to be the mother of the realm. And so the entire nation sank into a period of collective grief.

One small incident occurred during this time: a court official from the Bureau of Protocol, noting that the new Emperor’s rear palace was sparse and his consorts few in number, gauged the imperial will and submitted a memorial requesting that the new Emperor select women of talent and virtue to fill the palace, so as to ensure the continuation of the imperial line. The result was a resounding tongue-lashing from the new Emperor, who also stripped the man of his official cap and rank. The Emperor then declared with solemn righteousness: I already have a consort, and am in mourning for the late Emperor. I shall observe three years of mourning!

When this proclamation went out, some wept while others rejoiced. Various powerful and noble families in the capital had been waiting eagerly to send their daughters into the palace — with a three-year wait ahead, many of these young ladies would be past their prime. But there were also many who breathed a sigh of relief. Minglan herself heaved a great sigh of release — after three years, surely she would have been married off.

The late Emperor’s mourning rites occupied a full half-month, after which the imperial coffin was at last conveyed to the mausoleum. This farewell to the old and welcome of the new could be said to have reached its conclusion.

Rulan hastily shed the plain white mourning clothes she had been wearing for days on end and immediately rummaged out her favorite bright-colored garments. Molan continued composing poems in her “Songs of Lamentation” style, shedding a tear or two from time to time. Wang Shi’s attendants privately mocked Molan’s manner as suggesting “a woman who didn’t know any better would think she’d lost her husband.” Minglan continued her embroidery series she had taken to calling her “Brokeback Mountain” collection. In all honesty, she was no particular devotee of that kind of thing, but having arrived in this suffocating world, she had no other outlet for an increasingly eccentric state of mind.

At that time, the Duke of Qi’s household was also taking down its mourning decorations. Servants quietly and efficiently removed the white lanterns, white silk drapes, and the like. In the second household’s quarters, however, all was in disarray. Outside the door stood Pingning Junzhu’s most capable managing matron and several maids, letting only this mother and son speak with each other.

“You ungrateful wretch! What did you just say?!” Pingning Junzhu was trembling with rage throughout her entire body.

Qi Heng offered a cold, mocking little laugh. “I said: now that I have entered the Hanlin Academy, should a better marriage present itself, Mother would simply change course again. Why make any decision this early?”

A sharp crack — Qi Heng’s face snapped to one side, several finger marks rising red against his fair, delicate cheek. Junzhu’s voice rang out with fury: “You defiant, ungrateful creature — how dare you!”

Qi Heng’s eyes glistened with something near tears. He smiled through grief: “Mother clearly knows what is in my heart. We were only one step away — and yet you could be so merciless!”

Pingning Junzhu looked down at her own palm, feeling a dull ache somewhere inside. She took a few trembling steps backward, then forced herself to stand firm and said in a low voice: “That day at the banquet, the two of us were seated together. I had meant to sound out Madam Wang, and had barely said two words when the wife of the Yongchang Marquis cut in, opened her mouth, and declared right away that she had taken a liking to Minglan. She had even named her preferred match clearly. How, in that moment, was I supposed to say anything? Go and compete with her openly?”

Qi Heng knew his mother’s proud nature — under ordinary circumstances he would have long since softened his stance. But today there was nothing inside him but a tide of burning anger. He gave another cold laugh: “… Mother, with your quick and sharp mind, you must have thought in that very moment of cultivating a connection through the Yongchang Marquis household as well — and what’s more, a daughter-in-law of legitimate birth would put you one rank above everyone else!”

Junzhu was utterly stopped cold. She had never imagined that the gentle, obedient son who had always yielded to her could wear such an expression. Ever since she had told him of this matter, he had greeted her with nothing but a cold face. Junzhu drew a slow breath and said, with great difficulty, “I only spoke of it with my old friend from the Wang family — nothing has been settled. If you truly dislike it, we’ll let it go. But… after this, you must never think of seeing her again.”

These words brought Qi Heng to a standstill. A wave of feeling surged through his heart, and tears brimmed in his eyes.

Junzhu saw her son’s state and was moved to her own tears: “Don’t blame me for grasping at power and influence. From the time you were small until now, you have always been surrounded by people cherishing and sheltering you, and you have never tasted what it is to be reduced and struggling — yet since the upheaval of the Shen-Chen year, you have seen for yourself the faces of those who shift with the wind. There are even those who mock us behind our backs…”

Qi Heng recalled the days of that earlier time, his complexion going pale, his handsome brows drawing together.

Junzhu reached out with aching tenderness and drew her son close, speaking in a soft voice: “Is this not all because of that word — power? If you had your own uncles, if your father held a hereditary title, if we had sufficient strength and capability, you could marry whomever you wished — why would I not want to see my son’s heart fulfilled? Even if I let the Sheng household send their daughter of the lesser branch through the door as a side consort for you, would that not be acceptable? But now… Heng’er, we only look prosperous on the surface. After your grandfather passes in another year, the Marquis of Xiangyang title will go to others. Your great-aunt does not get on with our branch of the family. We have no support from either side. With a new Emperor newly ascended, they say every new reign brings new court favorites — and your father’s standing is yet uncertain. These years in the salt administration, there have been countless people staring at him with red-eyed envy, waiting to seize on any mistake and pull him down. How could I not think more carefully for the sake of this family?!”

She began to weep, her sorrow genuine and deep.

Qi Heng’s vision blurred. In a daze, a memory rose suddenly to mind — Minglan as a young girl, crouching down in the dirt and using a flower stem to trace two even parallel lines in the earth. She said they were parallel lines — however close they looked, they would never touch.

He had deliberately teased her then, and caught a caterpillar to drop on her skirt. The little girl shrieked in fright, stamping her feet repeatedly to fling it off. He had burst out laughing and pointed at the two lines now smudged together under her footprints. “See,” he said, “they’ve touched after all.”

The little girl, as exquisitely delicate as a porcelain doll, was clearly furious. Her fair skin had flushed a luminous pink, like lotus petals yielding their juice — a color so vivid it made one want to reach out and touch it. He quickly bowed in apology, but the small girl was not inclined to forgive easily. She scooped up a lump of mud and hurled it at him, then turned and ran.

He wanted to give chase, but was held back by the young attendant who had come running at the noise.