Finally having the chance to see him as a young boy—Pu Zhu was genuinely thrilled. She glanced sideways at Luo Bao standing beside her, who still looked so young and green; noticing that he kept stealing glances her way with obvious bewilderment, she gave him a cheerful little wave, then returned her full attention to the field, her gaze fixed intently on Li Xuandu.

He rode his horse back and forth across the polo field, charging left and lunging right, shouting at the top of his lungs one moment and laughing with abandon the next. His skill with the mallet was superb, seemingly unstoppable. That youthful, exuberant energy of his surged like a force that could pierce the clouds, and Pu Zhu found herself staring in rapture, unable to bring herself to blink even once.

After a while, he had apparently grown too hot. Drenched in sweat, he seized on a brief lull in the game, wheeled his horse over toward where Pu Zhu sat, and in one fluid motion stripped off his outer robe—leaving only a white inner garment—then casually rolled up the discarded robe and tossed it across.

Luo Bao was quick-eyed and quick-footed; he rushed forward to catch it. To his disbelief, the tiny little pipsqueak at his side was even faster. His hand had barely grazed the robe Prince Qin had thrown—he’d managed to snag just one sleeve—when the other half was seized in the grip of the pipsqueak’s two small hands.

One big, one small. The two of them each clutched a half of the robe firmly, facing off against each other, neither willing to let go.

Pu Zhu and Luo Bao stared at each other for a moment. “Let go!” she declared. Taking advantage of his split second of hesitation, she gave a yank and wrenched the robe away.

Prince Qin’s robe had thus been snatched by this small pipsqueak who had appeared from who knew where. Watching her hug it happily and plop back down in her seat, Luo Bao grumbled inwardly a couple of times. There was nothing to be done. He could only give up.

Pu Zhu hugged the stolen robe in both arms, her heart sweet as honey, and continued watching Li Xuandu play polo. Then all at once, a commotion broke out behind her. Someone bellowed loudly: “Out of the way! Everyone, out of the way!”

A disturbance arose outside the polo ground. Someone was forcibly shoving aside the spectators watching the match and barging in, and an argument quickly broke out—which swiftly escalated into a brawl between both sides.

The newcomers struck with utter recklessness, actually using polo mallets to beat people. One after another, they knocked down those who stood in their way; several among them were beaten until their heads split open and blood poured freely.

Before long, someone in the watching crowd recognized who these people were, and whispers began to spread.

“They’re the brothers of Prince Jin’s Manor secondary consort!” Pu Zhu heard someone say.

Prince Jin was the second son of the current Emperor; he was nearly thirty now. His household, in addition to his principal consort of the Shangguan family, had two secondary consorts—one surnamed Hu, one surnamed Zhuang. The Zhuang consort had entered the household later, only two years ago. Though her background was modest—her family was nothing more than a petty sixth-rank capital official—because her elder sister was especially favored by Prince Jin, her brothers from the Zhuang family had grown arrogant. At eighteen or nineteen, they were at just the right age to be fond of amusements; they swaggered through the Southern Market with their household slaves, and quite a number of people here recognized them.

The brothers of Consort Zhuang also enjoyed polo; they regularly came here to bet on matches. Seeing that it was them, who would dare block their way? Everyone hastily cleared a path, and those who had just been beaten could only consider themselves unlucky.

Pu Zhu looked more carefully. She saw a dozen or so thuggish-looking men approaching from across the way, carrying mallets and swaggering pompously as they escorted a young man of eighteen or nineteen dressed in fine green robes, who was striding toward her with an air of complete self-importance. As he walked, he tossed a leather ball idly in his hand, paying no attention to anyone around him. He reached them quickly; a man who appeared to be the head of his household slaves pointed in the direction where Pu Zhu was sitting and announced: “Move aside! My young master wishes to sit here!”

Luo Bao was furious.

Prince Qin had seemed to have something weighing on his mind recently. His desire for amusements had dwindled; he was no longer like before, when he would frequently leave the palace to come here and play polo with others. Today was the Winter Solstice, and the palace was crowded with people. He seemed agitated—likely seeking to escape it all—and after paying his respects in turn to Empress Dowager Jiang and to the Emperor and Empress, he had come here.

Yet in just under half a year’s absence, when had someone like this appeared here? Luo Bao stepped forward, positioning himself in front of the little pipsqueak. “Do you people have no respect for law?! How dare you strike people at will—such arrogance!”

“Dogs that stand in the road deserve to be hit; keep them around to guard the gate? Get out of the way, or we’ll beat you too!” The other man tilted his nostrils skyward, his smile cold and hard.

Luo Bao erupted: “Do you know who my master is? I’d say you’re courting death!”

“Oh? And who is that? Say it and let’s hear—see if we’re afraid.”

Luo Bao was about to announce Prince Qin’s identity, but then suddenly remembered: he had always come here incognito to play polo with people, and had forbidden him from revealing his identity to anyone. He hesitated; his mouth had already opened, only to close again.

The other party sneered: “Neither man nor woman—could it be your master is the same kind of androgynous creature as you?” When the words landed, a burst of laughter erupted from the crowd.

Luo Bao cast anxious glances out at the field, searching for Li Xuandu’s figure.

After their laughter subsided, the men turned ugly, scowling fiercely as they said: “Whatever your background, clear the way for my young master!” At a wave of the hand, the dozen or so burly slaves swarmed forward and roughly shoved Luo Bao down to the ground.

On the field, the dozen or so riders had all galloped to the opposite goal, where the contest for the ball was at its most intense. Combined with the surrounding noise, the commotion on this side had apparently not yet caught Li Xuandu’s attention.

Seeing how things were turning, Pu Zhu urgently tried to step back first, but her legs were short and small; she had barely risen from her chair while clutching Li Xuandu’s robe when several burly slaves came charging into her, and she toppled face-first to the ground, striking the corner of her forehead against a small stone on the ground.

All around her were the feet of big, hulking men. She didn’t know which one it was, but one of them actually stepped down hard on the flesh of her leg.

Pu Zhu screamed in pain.

In this small body of hers, if her luck was poor and she got stepped on a few more times, she might not even keep her life.

She continued to cry out at the top of her lungs while scrambling on all fours to get up. Just as she was struggling, she suddenly felt a pair of arms lift her up from the ground. Through her tears, she turned her head—and saw Li Xuandu. Relief washed over her instantly. She cried out, “Brother Prince Qin!” and instinctively, just as she had done before, stretched out both small arms and wrapped them tightly around his neck.

Li Xuandu could see that she had been badly frightened and was clinging to him like this; he also noticed the broken skin at the corner of her forehead, where several beads of blood were welling up from her fair, pale skin. His heart aching, he hurriedly reassured her over and over: “Don’t be afraid!”

“Brother Prince Qin, they stepped on me too—it hurts so much.”

She pointed to one of her legs.

It truly hurt. That stomp just now had felt as though the flesh had been crushed right in; even now, tears kept blurring her eyes.

Li Xuandu, with his palm over her robes, gently rubbed the small, plump little leg that had just been stepped on, and softly comforted her.

Luo Bao had already picked himself up from the ground. Seeing that the little child’s forehead was also cut, he hastily drew a clean handkerchief from his person.

Li Xuandu took it, carefully pressed it against her wound to stanch the bleeding, then hooked his foot under the chair that had just been kicked over and flipped it back upright. He set the small person in his arms back down into the seat, ordered Luo Bao to hold the handkerchief to her forehead to stop the bleeding, and then bent down toward her. His voice was gentle as he said: “Don’t cry. Elder Brother will get justice for you.”

Having said this, he took down his riding whip from where it hung nearby, straightened up, and turned away. His expression had shifted to something grim and dark; his gaze swept coldly over the crowd of household slaves across the way—and then he swiftly raised his arm. With a sharp crack, the whip lashed across the face of the head slave.

That blow fell full across the man’s face with terrifying force. A single stroke split the skin open on half the man’s face; blood streamed freely, and two of his teeth were knocked out.

The man crashed to the ground, clutching his face and groaning in agony.

The surrounding slaves were left stunned by this young man’s ferocity. They watched him swing his whip and knock their man flat, then step right over him and stride toward their young master—too shocked to block his path.

Li Xuandu stopped in front of Consort Zhuang’s brother.

This Zhuang fellow was also stupefied by the young man’s savagery. Feeling those two eyes fix on him, an invisible, crushing pressure seemed to bear down—instinctively, his heart quailed. But with everyone watching, he was unwilling to admit defeat; he puffed out his chest and declared: “Who are you? Do you know who I am? My sister is in Prince Jin’s household…”

Before he could finish, he let out a wretched scream.

Li Xuandu, his expression dark and without a word, applied the same method: a single stroke of the whip landed across Zhuang’s head and face.

The Zhuang brother’s face bloomed red.

He had barely clutched his face when Li Xuandu gave him a vicious kick, sending him flying, and then brought the whip down across his body.

“Help—! What are you all still standing there for?! Get him—beat him to death—!”

The Zhuang brother was in such pain his vision was going black; he rolled on the ground like a slippery eel, shrieking himself hoarse.

Li Xuandu remained expressionless, though his eyelid twitched slightly. He tossed down the riding whip, picked up a polo mallet instead, tested its weight, then swung it hard and brought it cracking down on Zhuang’s head.

That skull instantly split open, caved in on one side; dark blood flowed from the wound. The man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he passed out cold.

Only then did the household slaves snap out of their daze. Driven by the head slave who had been struck with the whip earlier, they rushed forward in a confused scramble.

“Kill him—!”

That Zhuang family head slave was accustomed to lording it over others in ordinary times; the only role he knew was being the one who beat people. Never had he been flogged across the face with a riding whip like this before. Clutching the eye he could no longer fully open, he bellowed.

Just then, a shout arose from outside the crowd: “Stand down—! Everyone stand down—!”

People turned to look, and saw the gate officer of the Southern City Gate arriving at a run with several soldiers.

This young man had often come here in the past to play polo and gamble with people; besides claiming his surname was Li, no one knew his exact identity. Among the crowd, he was the youngest—a young man of few words—yet his skill at polo was extraordinary, and his manner was generous and freehanded; every time he won money, he would scatter it all to treat everyone to drinks. So the people who frequented this area over the years were all quite fond of him.

They had no idea why, but he had been absent for nearly half a year, and people had missed him. When they saw him appear today, everyone was delighted. Now, watching him square off against Prince Jin’s imperial relatives, they feared he might be outnumbered and come to grief—and so someone had rushed off to summon the city gate officer, who happened to be patrolling the area near the Southern Market at year’s end.

“Stand down! Under the Son of Heaven’s feet, does no one respect the law?! No brawling is permitted—!”

The gate officer led his men charging in, shouting at the top of his voice.

The onlookers, fearing the young man might suffer, hurriedly pushed forward those who had been beaten bloody by the Zhuang family’s slaves, letting them come forth and voice their grievances—offering testimony to clear the young man.

The Southern Gate officer had operated in this area for years and had often run into Prince Jin’s young brother-in-law; he had long since grown tired of the man’s overbearing manner. But given his own low rank—responsible only for maintaining public order—he had never dared to antagonize him too much. Now, seeing him knocked flat on the ground with his skull cracked open, eyes rolled back white and unconscious, the gate officer nearly burst out laughing. He held it back with great effort, turned his gaze to that audacious young man, and was just wondering how to plead the young man’s case and reduce his offense when his eyes landed on the young man’s face—and he froze.

Li Xuandu was a frequent visitor on hunts outside the city; which of the gate officers on the four sides of the city didn’t know him? The man recognized him at a glance, and relief immediately washed over him. He quickly led his men straight to Li Xuandu and knelt: “Paying respects to His Highness Prince Qin!”

The situation reversed in an instant.

The onlookers had been worried on his behalf, and had never in a thousand years imagined that this young man who had often come here to play polo with them was someone of such standing. They glanced at one another—shocked and thrilled in equal measure—and hastily followed the gate officer in kneeling, crying out their respects to His Highness Prince Qin.

The Zhuang household slaves were both stunned and terrified. They had not expected either—that this disheveled, wild, and uninhibited young man would turn out to be the fourth Imperial Prince, the famous His Highness Prince Qin. Having fallen into his hands today, not one of them dared say another word. Even their unconscious master was forgotten; they scrambled to their knees to beg for mercy, not daring to lift their heads.

Li Xuandu, seeing that he had been recognized by people who knew him, smiled to himself with a touch of bitterness.

He could never come here to play polo again after this. Even if he did, these people would surely not dare compete against him with all their might anymore. If that were the case, how would it differ from playing with the palace guards?

He pushed down the regret in his heart, waved a hand for the gate officer and the crowd to rise, tore the ribbon from his hair, turned back, strode past the still-unconscious Zhuang brother lying on the ground, and returned to stand before that small pipsqueak from the Pu family—who was clearly now in a state of shock. He picked her up, and under the watchful eyes of the crowd, left with quick, long strides.

Near the exit of the Southern Market, they passed by a stall selling candied hawthorn skewers. He heard the vendor calling out to attract his business, glanced back, and seeing the peddler’s clothes to be clean and neat, he stopped. He took a skewer of candied hawthorns and held it out to the small pipsqueak who was still lying motionless against his chest.

Luo Bao, following behind them, quickly stepped up to pay.

Li Xuandu carried her directly to a spot beside a river outside the Southern Market where fewer people were about, and set her gently down on a stone beneath an old willow tree. Then he crouched down in front of her.

“Does it still hurt?”

He glanced at the injury at the corner of her forehead as he asked.

The bleeding had stopped, but the skin around the cut was still red and swollen. Fortunately the wound was small, and children’s skin healed quickly; he would send her some medicine for the bruise later. Once healed, it likely wouldn’t leave a scar.

Pu Zhu held the candied hawthorn skewer in her hands, took a bite, and shook her head.

Li Xuandu smiled, and used the handkerchief to lightly wipe away the dust on her face, his movements gentle.

“Your nerve is something else—you actually sneaked out again! Is this what you normally do?”

He wiped her face as he softly scolded her.

He could hardly believe it. The Grand Tutor’s granddaughter, Pu Yuanqiao’s daughter—was this wild? More daring than any boy.

Pu Zhu pouted: “No I wasn’t! I used to stay home like a good girl. I only sneaked out because I wanted to find you, Brother Prince Qin.”

Li Xuandu gave a wry smile.

When all was said and done, the little pipsqueak wasn’t at fault—he was.

“Brother Prince Qin, you eat too!”

Pu Zhu held out the candied hawthorn skewer she had bitten, raising it to his lips.

Li Xuandu looked at it.

The topmost hawthorn was coated in what was unmistakably a glistening layer of her saliva.

His heart recoiled, and he turned his face away: “Brother Prince Qin is grown up—I don’t want sweets. You eat it.”

Pu Zhu knew perfectly well he was put off by her saliva, and inwardly groused about it: before, you didn’t mind at all. She was not about to let him off the hook that easily, and her lips curved down as though she were about to cry again.

Li Xuandu, completely helpless, finally opened his mouth reluctantly and, with great effort, bit off one hawthorn—didn’t even chew, just swallowed it whole. He nearly choked.

Luo Bao, along with a servant from the Pu household who had caught up with them, stood at a bit of a distance on the open ground, watching this scene. They were so astonished they nearly lost their eyeballs.

Pu Zhu, however, was perfectly content.

They had shared a skewer of candied hawthorns together. That made him one of her own people.

She raised the skewer and licked it, smiling until her eyes curved into two little crescent moons.

Li Xuandu had no idea of the little twist of reasoning going on in her head. After laboring to swallow the hawthorn that had been lodged in his throat, he asked her: “How did you know I was here?”

Pu Zhu blinked: “A’Lai from our house was in the Southern Market buying things and happened to spot you. He came home and told me. I wanted to see you, so I came to find you.”

So that was it.

“What did you come to find me about?” he asked again.

“Brother Prince Qin, do you like the fairy-like young lady in the carriage from that day?”

Li Xuandu frowned: “I don’t know her.”

“I heard Brother Prince Qin also has a cousin. Do you like her?”

Li Xuandu stared at her: “Why are you asking this?”

Pu Zhu coaxed him, her two little dangling feet kicking gently at the air. “Just tell me! I want to know!”

Li Xuandu had no desire to discuss such things, and certainly not with a small pipsqueak. “All right, I’ll take you home. Let’s go!”

Li Xuandu stood up.

“Brother Prince Qin—you don’t like the fairy sister from that day, and you don’t like your cousin either. What you’re thinking about isn’t taking a consort and getting married now; it’s wiping out the Eastern Di and bringing back your aunt, Princess Imperial Jinxi.”

“Am I right?”

Li Xuandu stopped walking. He stared at the little pipsqueak sitting on the stone, happily licking her candied hawthorns.

“How do you know this? Who told you these things?”

His tone had grown serious, and he was clearly astonished.

What he had in his heart—especially bringing his aunt home—was something he had never mentioned to a single person. Yet here it was, laid bare in a single sentence by this small pipsqueak. Had he not heard it with his own ears, he could scarcely have believed it.

Pu Zhu said: “What’s so hard to guess? I heard my Father and Grandfather talking at home before. His Majesty the Emperor doesn’t want to establish a Western Regions Protectorate, and Father was very disappointed. Father said you also wanted to establish one, and that you even spoke up for Father before the Emperor.”

“As for bringing Princess Imperial Jinxi home…”

Pu Zhu ate the last candied hawthorn and held it in her mouth, puffing out her cheeks as she said, muffled: “That day, my Father had already gone so far outside the city gate—and Brother Prince Qin, you still chased after him, just to ask him to bring some books to your aunt. So I guessed that Brother Prince Qin must love your aunt very much, and can’t bear for her to live somewhere so far from home. You want to bring her back.”

Li Xuandu was momentarily at a loss for words, and was all the more astonished by this small pipsqueak’s “cleverness.” He fell silent.

Pu Zhu saw that he had gone quiet, swallowed what was in her mouth, and assumed a small grown-up air as she sighed: “The Princess Imperial is so pitiful! I’m sure before she left, she must have had her own beloved too—yet she bore a responsibility that should have fallen to a man, and married herself off to that place so far away. Who knows if she’ll ever be able to come home in this lifetime.”

“And my Father too—it’s nearly New Year, yet he still has to leave me and Mother to go beyond the frontier. Whenever I think of Father, my heart aches! But as for you, Brother Prince Qin…”

The more Pu Zhu thought about it, the more aggrieved she became—genuinely aggrieved. On impulse she clambered up onto the stone, stood on tiptoe, planted one hand on her hip, and stretched out the other, straining with all her might toward Li Xuandu’s face.

“But what about you, Your Highness?”

She switched in irritation to the formal form of address—she didn’t even want to call him Brother Prince Qin anymore.

“How old are you? And you’re busy getting married! Getting married is one thing—but you’re marrying two at once!”

“Think about your aunt. Think about my Father. Have you no shame?”

Her small, fair finger jabbed toward his forehead in its habitual manner, and when it was almost close enough to poke him, she abruptly came to her senses.

He was not the Li Xuandu of before. Now he was the proud, high-and-mighty Li Xuandu who had everything going his way.

Seeing how ruthlessly he had struck down Consort Zhuang’s brother today, she knew he was no soft touch. If she truly went too far in humiliating him and angered him, things would go badly.

She quickly withdrew her hand and put it behind her back, held her breath, and peeked at his reaction.

Fortunately, he didn’t seem angry. He was still silent, saying nothing. Not only was he not angry—Pu Zhu could detect, beneath his expression, a trace of a distress that had seeped out against his will.

She watched him for a moment, and suddenly felt a pang of sympathy.

Instinct told her that right now, he must also be troubled about the matter of taking a consort.

She thought of his first lifetime.

When he was young, he had once thought that taking a consort and getting married was his greatest worry—but he had not known that the savage beast of fate had already opened its bloody jaws just a short distance down the road ahead, quietly waiting to devour him.

But now, he had her.

She was his little lifesaver, his protector.

“Brother Prince Qin.”

Pu Zhu thought for a moment, and called out to him again, softly.

Li Xuandu raised his eyes and looked at her.

Pu Zhu bit her lip: “Everything I said just now was nonsense. Please don’t be angry.”

Li Xuandu gave a wry smile: “Brother Prince Qin isn’t angry. You weren’t wrong. Compared to your Aunt and your Father, Brother Prince Qin really is quite useless.”

Pu Zhu’s eyes lit up like bright stars: “Brother Prince Qin, it’s not too late now! If you really don’t want to marry this early, and you don’t want to take your cousin as consort—why not go to your Imperial Father and make it clear right now? That way you won’t ruin her entire life. It would be for her good too, don’t you think? She could have the chance to marry someone who truly likes her! And Brother Prince Qin—you have so many things you can do! You absolutely must not just give up like this!”

“My Father—he has never given up hope of opening the Western Regions, and he has kept working toward it all this time. Do you know what he does, Brother Prince Qin? He keeps detailed journals recording the full account of every diplomatic mission. I’ve read them—every single mission he’s undertaken has been a matter of life and death. He gives his life in service to the court. After all these years, he refuses to give up because Father says the hot blood in his heart has never cooled. He wants to wrest the Western Regions back from the hands of the Eastern Di people, and open the passage between East and West! Brother Prince Qin, can you bear to let down the years of toil and effort he has poured into this for the court? Perhaps in a little while, when Father returns from this trip to the Western Regions, perhaps the Emperor will agree to establishing a Protectorate—and then you will have the chance to realize your own ambitions too!”

Li Xuandu stood quietly by the riverside. Pu Zhu sat on the stone, watching his silhouette.

A moment later, he walked back toward her, took the handkerchief, and carefully wiped the corners of her mouth clean, his voice gentle as he said: “Let’s go. I’ll take you home.”

At Pu Zhu’s request, he brought her to the back gate. Watching him walk away, Pu Zhu couldn’t help but run after him. She caught the back of his sleeve lightly, and when the young man turned around, she tilted her small face up toward him and said: “Brother Prince Qin—at the Lantern Festival, I want you to take me to see the lanterns!”

The young man smiled slightly, reached out, and tousled the hat she wore on her head—without a single word—then turned and walked away with long, quick strides.

Pu Zhu slipped back inside and returned to her room. She said she had accidentally bumped her head against something inside. A’Ju felt very guilty and busied herself applying medicine to the cut, and there was no more to be said of that.

For the remaining days of the year, Pu Zhu had no more chances to go out, and after that, she did not see Li Xuandu again either.

That New Year, with Father away on his distant journey and Grandfather having no love of socializing, the Pu family’s celebrations were plain and quiet. But the outside world was buzzing with activity; as the capital’s ladies of rank made their year-end rounds of visits and calls, news of all kinds flew in every direction.

The first piece of news, naturally, was the matter of Prince Qin taking a principal consort.

It was said that at the Winter Solstice banquet in the palace that day, Empress Liang had arranged for both Xiao Chaoyun and Prince Qin’s cousin from the Que Kingdom to sit near her. The implication was unmistakable. And so the news that a daughter of the Xiao family would become Princess Consort Qin spread rapidly through the entire capital. Everyone was envious. The Xiao family, without question, became the most glorified household in all the capital that year-end.

While some households rejoiced, others wept. The Xiao family basked in glory without equal, but the year-end was not so pleasant for the family of the Zhuang consort in Prince Jin’s household.

Alongside the news of the candidate for Princess Consort Qin, word also spread of Prince Qin’s Winter Solstice fight in the Southern Market with the brothers of Consort Zhuang, and of his beating one of them badly enough to cause serious injury. This too made the rounds in a great wave. It was said that Prince Qin had personally called at Prince Jin’s door to apologize for having struck too severely that day; Prince Jin was magnanimous, and far from blaming him, took it upon himself to submit a memorial acknowledging his own failure to keep his household in order. The Emperor was displeased at the time, but given that Prince Jin had been prompt in self-examination and that no one is perfect—there will always be oversights—he reprimanded him, and the matter passed. But Prince Jin himself was not finished: he sternly rebuked Consort Zhuang, and after that, he favored her far less than before. As for the Zhuang family, they thereafter walked on eggshells, never again daring to step even slightly out of line. As it turned out, Prince Jin inadvertently benefited from the incident—because of the affair, he gradually earned among the court officials a reputation as the Iron-Faced Prince. But that is a side note.

Among all the circulating accounts of why Prince Qin had struck out so hard in the Southern Market that day, one version spread the most widely. It said that on that day, Prince Qin had a child of seven or eight with him; the child had been knocked down by Consort Zhuang’s people and hit the corner of their forehead. Prince Qin had struck out so severely—injuring someone to the point of serious harm—because he was avenging this child. Just whose child it was, and why Prince Qin should have guarded them so protectively, became a subject of endless fascination and gossip.

The old year passed quickly. After New Year’s Eve, the thirty-ninth year of Xuanning arrived.

On the first day of the first month, the court held its New Year celebration. A ten-day holiday followed, and on the eleventh day of the first month, court sessions resumed. That day was also supposed to be the day the palace announced Prince Qin’s choice of principal consort. The Xiao family, while outwardly composed, had been quietly preparing in secret and was simply waiting for the imperial decree to arrive. Yet that day, from early morning they waited until past noon, and from past noon they waited until nightfall, and still not a sound was heard. The Xiao family was burning with anxiety. Unable to come forward themselves, they sent someone to discreetly make inquiries, and at last obtained a piece of news: it was said that the Imperial Astronomer, in the divination ceremony at the Imperial Temple concerning Prince Qin’s marriage, had drawn an inauspicious hexagram.

The office of the Imperial Astronomer had existed since the Zhou dynasty; regardless of how dynasties rose and fell, the post had been passed down without interruption. For every great matter of state—sacrifices, celebrations, funerals, military campaigns, and the like—the oracle’s results had to be consulted first.

In the ancient kingdoms, the Imperial Astronomer had held an exalted position, and the auspicious or inauspicious outcome of a divination could directly influence the monarch’s decisions. By the present day, however, to say that a ruler was influenced by an Imperial Astronomer’s results was perhaps putting it too strongly; the role of the office was more symbolic in nature.

Since the founding of the Li dynasty, whenever divination had been involved, the results had invariably aligned with the Emperor’s wishes. A surprise had never occurred before.

But this time was the exception.

The Imperial Astronomer declared that the hexagram showed Prince Qin should not marry early. An early marriage would be inauspicious.

This was the reason the Xiao family had waited all day in vain.

When the news spread, the entire court was in an uproar. It was said the Emperor was extremely displeased at first, ordering the Imperial Astronomer to perform the divination again; but the Imperial Astronomer refused, citing the will of Heaven. It was then rumored that the fourth Imperial Prince personally went before the Emperor, and whatever he said—in the end, the Emperor accepted the result. He decreed that the marriage negotiations be suspended, and that the families of the young women who had been included in the pool of candidates, from the day they received the decree, should each seek their own marriage prospects and wait no longer.

The meaning could not have been clearer.

Prince Qin should not marry early—that meant he should marry later. As for when that would be deemed auspicious—well, that was the will of Heaven. It was really quite difficult to say.

The day before, the Xiao family had been the household envied by everyone in all the capital. The very next day, they became the object of everyone’s sympathy.

For those few days, no one knew how many people called at their door to console Madam Xiao; the moment these visitors stepped back outside, all manner of mockery circulated behind their backs. Madam Xiao, knowing that she had become the target of others’ ridicule, was enraged to the point of taking to her bed and closing the door to further visitors.

Within days, this news reached the Pu household as well. When Pu Zhu heard about it from her mother’s lips, she was so excited that night that she couldn’t control herself; she rolled back and forth on her bed, and finally rolled herself into her blankets, coiled up inside like a snail in its shell, muffling her delighted laughter.

She had known it all along. Whether it was Li Xuandu of his first lifetime, or the young Li Xuandu of this life—as long as he himself had made up his mind to do something, there was nothing in this world that could stop him.

The most pressing problem had been resolved.

She need no longer worry about him taking another woman as his wife!