For the sake of bringing home the remains of Commander Pu — the imperial envoy and Colonel-Commandant of the Left — from the wilderness of the enemy barbarians where he had sacrificed his life.

This was the only reason Pu Zhu could think of that might move him again.

She had her own basis for arriving at this judgment.

Setting aside that evening at the commandery office when he had personally admitted to her face that it was his respect for her father that had led him to give her money at the Fulu courier station — just looking at the recent events of the He Xi and Tianshui rebellions, even though he was consumed by his own ambitions for power and was scheming toward a seizure of power, when it came to the matter of national duty, he was still a person who could be counted on to some degree.

He had been enfeoffed as Prince of the Western Sea, nominally assigned to pacify the border — but in truth, he was an idle prince confined to a remote territory. To have him stay put obediently in his domain was, perhaps, precisely the Emperor’s intention.

One could not fault the Emperor for being so guarded against him. Given his past, any emperor would likely be unable to turn a blind eye.

So, given his still-sensitive status, the wisest course — the most self-protective course — upon learning of those events, was to do nothing at all: to stand aloof and let the chaos run its course, acting as if he knew nothing.

And yet what had he done?

He had promptly transmitted warnings to the central court, thereby preventing what would very likely have been a prolonged period of instability in those two regions.

What did that say about him? It surely was not that he had been foolish enough to act on impulse. Rather, amid all his scheming for power, this man also retained a certain capacity for putting the nation and its people first — he still possessed the blood and sense of duty that someone of the imperial family ought to have.

As an adversary she would inevitably face in the future, Pu Zhu had no desire to probe further into what he was truly thinking. But this particular “capacity” of his could, right now, serve as the very weakness she could turn to her advantage.

“Your Highness, my father gave his life ten thousand li from home in Wuli, and not even his remains received the treatment they deserved. I have heard that a captive from our own people who had surrendered to the enemy took pity on him and secretly rendered aid, so that my father at least came to be buried in the wilderness. He gave his life for your Li Imperial Dynasty and for the empire — and over all these years, what return have you given him? Not to speak of bringing him home — even his one remaining daughter was wrongfully punished and exiled to the frontier for eight years!”

“I have this one wish: to conquer Wuli and bring my father’s remains back to his homeland! Does he not deserve at the very least this most basic measure of dignity? And so I entreat Your Highness — today, you are not only helping me. You are helping a loyal minister who gave his life for the Li Imperial Dynasty and for the empire — Commander Pu of the Colonel-Commandant of the Left — to have his remains returned one day to his homeland, there to be buried alongside the wife he loved, with offerings and remembrance in perpetuity. Nothing more than this!”

A great wind rushed in through the western window in howling gusts. The green curtain beside Pu Zhu billowed and twisted wildly. Li Xuandu stood at the entrance of the hall with his back to her. It was some time before Pu Zhu saw him finally turn his head slowly and fix his gaze upon her.

“And so your goal is to become the Crown Princess?” He asked the question in a low, measured voice.

“Yes — and then to become the future Empress! Power is the minimum. With it, I will have hope of realizing my wish!” She did not flinch or evade, and her eyes did not so much as blink.

Silence fell again in the hall. The only sound was the howling of the wind.

Pu Zhu waited a moment longer. She looked at the great-sleeved, billowing silhouette standing at the threshold of the hall entrance ahead of her, and softly asked: “Your Highness — will you help me once more?”

Outside the window, a flash of lightning suddenly blazed across the sky. Hard on its heels, a peal of thunder rolled overhead, and rain came crashing down in torrents. Sheets of it slanted in through the wide-open window, quickly drenching the window ledge and floor, and water seeped outward in spreading pools, growing larger and larger.

Li Xuandu finally turned around. He stood at the threshold of the hall entrance with his hands clasped behind his back. His eyes were still red, and he said coldly: “What do you want from me?”

The tension in Pu Zhu’s chest eased. She spoke immediately: “I have heard that the day after the Grand Empress Dowager’s birthday celebration will be the start of the Crown Prince’s consort selection. I have already thought out a plan for you. After the birthday celebration that night, help me conceal the young lord somewhere. With the Princess Imperial searching frantically for her son, she will have no thought to spare for anything else. Once the Crown Prince’s selection is concluded, you can let the young lord come back.”

“You certainly think highly of yourself — so certain even now that you will be selected as Crown Princess?” His tone was lightly dismissive.

Pu Zhu answered vaguely: “I will do what is within my power, and leave the rest to Heaven.”

Once the Princess Imperial’s faction had ruined the Chen Family girl’s chances on the night of Empress Dowager Jiang’s birthday, she would immediately have Han Chijiao “concealed” — in this way, when the time came for her to be put forward as candidate for Crown Princess, the Princess Imperial, having lost her son, would have no energy left to interfere.

Naturally, what she meant by “concealed” spoke for itself — with Li Xuandu’s intelligence, there was no need for her to spell it out.

She paused briefly. “I could probably arrange this myself, but it might be a bit difficult. And given the young lord’s status, I worry that if anything goes wrong it would bring trouble afterward. But if it were Your Highness who handled it, it would certainly be effortless and leave no trace for anyone to follow.”

Li Xuandu’s lips pressed tight. After a moment he spoke, the corners of his lips curving slightly: “For someone so young, everything you do to achieve your goals has always been so utterly unscrupulous?”

Pu Zhu sidestepped the question and said only: “Your Highness, if you help me this time, and I successfully gain my position, in the future should you have need of my help, I can help you in return. After all, you hold leverage over me, do you not?” Her tone was entirely sincere.

Li Xuandu said nothing more. He simply looked at her.

Pu Zhu was afraid that if she lingered any longer, the steward and maid at Angu Temple would be looking for her everywhere. She said: “Your Highness, have you agreed? Give me a clear answer. If you are unwilling to help me, I will find someone else on my own. I know you have always been protective of your younger generation. Rest assured — I would not dare do him the slightest harm. It would only be a matter of keeping him from showing his face for a few days…”

“Just stay quietly in the Guo household!”

He suddenly spoke, cutting off her words, his tone brusque.

But in Pu Zhu’s heart, the tension eased once more. With gratitude she said: “Many thanks, Your Highness. I will take that as your agreement. I dare not impose further on Your Highness’s retreat and will take my leave now.”

Mentioning the word “retreat,” she truly could not help herself — her eyes stole a glance toward the jug of wine still lying toppled on the cloud-couch, dripping its last drops of grape wine. Suddenly she sensed his gaze sweep over her and gave an inward start. She hastily withdrew her eyes, performed a deep bow of gratitude toward him, and turned and walked out.

Li Xuandu still stood there — his robes loosely open, hands clasped behind his back — at the threshold, not stepping aside to make way, watching her with cold eyes.

To leave the hall, Pu Zhu had to pass directly in front of him. As she drew close to the threshold, she caught in her breath a trace of a faint sandalwood fragrance mingled with the scent of wine.

She was now very close to him. Though the light inside the hall was dim, she could clearly see that dark crimson trail of wine liquid left on his throat and chest.

Perhaps from nervousness, her heartbeat suddenly quickened. She held her breath, lowered her eyes, and carefully edged sideways past him, taking care not to accidentally brush against him and give offense.

Just at that moment, another clap of thunder rolled outside. Immediately after, a surge of wind heavy with misting water came rushing in once more through the wide-open window. Behind her came a tremendous crashing sound. Pu Zhu instinctively turned her head.

The scrolls of Taoist scriptures stacked on shelves along the wall had been sent flying by the wild wind and tumbled to the ground, strewn across the floor.

The dusk light was fading, the downpour outside making the hall even darker, as if night had already fallen. The scent of wine grew more pungent, pressing deep into the lungs.

Pu Zhu did not dare linger any longer. She turned her head quickly, stepped forward, and moved to leave — when the small cap she wore on her head was swept off by the wind. The bun she had pinned had not been fastened very securely to begin with, and without the cap’s constraint, the bun came loose instantly. Her whole head of black hair unraveled and tumbled down, and was then caught up by the wind, tossing and swirling — until she watched helplessly as a great sweep of her long hair flew directly toward him, wrapping itself around his face and neck.

She saw it plainly: he closed his eyes for a moment, stiff with the indignity of it, and turned his face sharply away.

Pu Zhu hurriedly snatched back her hair from around his neck, grabbed her cap from the ground, and without daring to look back, sprinted out of the hall door. She gathered herself, jammed the cap carelessly back on her head, turned to Ye Xiao, who was still standing outside the door, and said “I apologize for the offense just now,” then lowered her head and plunged into the curtain of rain outside.

She dashed down the steps, about to brave the rain back to the temple, when she suddenly heard Ye Xiao’s voice calling from behind. She turned and saw him rushing after her, holding out an umbrella, saying: “Young miss, take care!”

Pu Zhu accepted it gratefully, thanked him, opened the umbrella to shelter herself from the rain, and hurried out of the monastery, quickly making her way back to Angu Temple.

The afternoon flower-viewers at the temple had long since all gone. The steward and maid from the Guo household had noticed her absence and were searching the temple anxiously with the monks. Suddenly they saw her appear and let out a collective sigh of relief, all rushing toward her. They looked at her outfit with some bewilderment.

Pu Zhu closed the umbrella, smiled, and said: “I woke up from my nap and went for a walk in the back hills on my own. I did not expect it to rain so suddenly and was caught in it for a while before making my way back. I am sorry to have made you worry.”

Seeing that she had returned safely, everyone made arrangements to head back to the city. Pu Zhu changed back into her skirt and robes. Once they had entered the city, the downpour had already stopped. The sky that had darkened like night gradually brightened once more.

Back at the Guo household, Yan Shi had been worried because of the sudden change in weather. Seeing her return safely, she too let out a breath of relief and urged her to go back to her room and rest.

Pu Zhu returned to her courtyard, bathed, and changed into a fresh, dry set of clothes. She sat at the window, A’Ju slowly toweling dry her long hair. She gazed at the branch of a pomegranate tree outside the window dripping with rainwater, and in a state of quiet reverie went over today’s encounter with Li Xuandu in her mind. Lost in thought, Guo Lang’s wife sent over a bowl of ginger tea, saying she was worried she might catch a chill from being caught in the rain.

Pu Zhu accepted it and drank it down, thanking her with warm gratitude.

Yan Shi sent A’Ju to check on the young miss’s evening meal, then dismissed the two maids from the room. Pu Zhu then knew she had something she wanted to say privately. And indeed: she heard Yan Shi say with a smile: “Yesterday the Princess Imperial asked me privately for your birth date and hour, which I have not yet. I treat you as my own granddaughter. If you trust me, your marriage matters can be left to me to find a suitable arrangement for you. What do you think?”

Pu Zhu pretended to know nothing, and readily agreed.

Yan Shi saw this and inwardly nodded in approval.

The night before, Yan Shi had told Guo Lang about the possibility that the Princess Imperial had taken a liking to the Pu Family granddaughter. Only then had she learned that some students had privately suggested to Guo Lang that the Pu Family granddaughter be put forward as candidate for Crown Princess.

Guo Lang had refused.

His own granddaughter had turned seventeen this year, and the engagement had been arranged just these past two months. For a household of the Guo Family’s standing, this was somewhat late — not without reason.

The reason was simple. Before that bolt of lightning had struck and ruined the Mingzong temple hall, Guo Lang had also been hoping his granddaughter might become Crown Princess, which was why he had held off on arranging her marriage these past two years. But after the lightning bolt fell and he had successfully risen in position, and after he had determined with certainty that the post of Censor-in-Chief — one of the Three Excellencies — was also about to fall to him, he had immediately arranged his granddaughter’s betrothal.

Fullness brings overflow; a full moon then wanes — Guo Lang, who had spent most of his life in officialdom, understood this principle well. Once a position became too prominent, it would invite envy. Pu Youzhi had been a prime example right before his eyes. With his current status, to have a Crown Princess come from his own family would, in his view, not be advantageous in the long run. Holding steady in his current position and firmly maintaining the title of Crown Prince’s Grand Tutor — and in the future, the Emperor’s teacher — was sufficient. The status of imperial father-in-law was often a double-edged sword, easily turned to one’s own harm.

So when he heard the students’ suggestion to recommend the Pu Family granddaughter for Crown Princess, he rejected it on the spot.

Guo Lang’s wife, having understood Guo Lang’s intent, made her own calculations.

As for who would become Crown Princess — the matter had been under discussion for the past half year. At this point it looked as though the Shangguan Family’s prospects were slim. The selection should come down to either the Yao Family or the Chen Family girl.

Concerning the Princess Imperial’s matrimonial intentions, then, much would depend on the outcome of the Crown Princess selection.

If it was the Chen Family girl who rose to the position, then this marriage proposal would be deflected — one could not, by openly agreeing to it, directly offend both the Shangguan and Chen families.

But if in the end it was the Yao Family girl who was chosen by the Emperor, then agreeing to the marriage and forging an alliance with the Princess Imperial was worth considering — after all, powerful officials rose and fell with the times. Thirty years on the eastern bank of the river, thirty years on the western bank: just look at the once-illustrious Liang and Jiang families — had they not fallen from power and never recovered? Agreeing to this marriage could also be said to be laying a path for one’s own future.

Having thought it through, Guo Lang’s wife came to sound out Pu Zhu’s feelings. Seeing how docile and compliant she was — clearly a girl who, having suffered so much in the past, now depended entirely on the Guo household as her only support and looked upon it as her sole refuge — she was satisfied. She clasped Pu Zhu’s hands, her tone growing even warmer, and told her to rest well. In the future she could set her mind at ease — she would personally find her a good family.

After seeing off Guo Lang’s wife, with her endless expressions of acting for Pu Zhu’s own good, Pu Zhu smiled coldly to herself.

The hearts of people lay hidden behind their faces. Even biological parents did not always plan truly for their children’s sake, let alone her relationship with the Guo household.

If she had relied on the Guo couple in her previous life, she would never have become Crown Princess. It had been the Prized Consort Hu — watching from the sidelines — who had sent someone to propose her name. That was how she had been chosen in the end.

Now, as long as she kept the Princess Imperial’s side from stirring up trouble, everything should still unfold as it had originally.

On the strength of that last sentence Li Xuandu had thrown out today — though it had been a rebuke, commanding her to stay quietly in the Guo household — the meaning within was not difficult to read.

He should be willing to help her.

…

Deep in the night, Li Xuandu lay on his back in his sleeping chamber at the monastery in a single garment, staring up at the Taoist embroidered hanging of the Two Principles and Four Images on the wall opposite, turning over in his mind the scheme the Pu Family granddaughter had laid out for him today — asking him to abduct someone.

This woman — outwardly beautiful and frail, but with a heart as dark as this.

Was there anything that head of hers could not conceive, anything it did not dare to do?

Li Xuandu gave a cold snort of contempt.

That a man of the caliber and integrity of Commander Pu of the Left should have produced such a daughter was truly a pity.

Well. For the sake of her father, he would help one last time and be done with it.

He thought no more on it. He shook his robe, turned over, and swung his bare feet to the floor.

The lingering illness of heat and restlessness that plagued his body had still not fully healed. He had simply stopped taking medicine. As long as summer arrived, he would take up residence in a cool and secluded place, and when no one was nearby, he would keep his garments as light as possible.

He went to the ink-stone desk, bent over it, took up his brush, and wrote a letter. Then he called Ye Xiao in and said: “Tomorrow morning, deliver this letter to Marquis Guangping Han Rongchang.”

Ye Xiao took the letter and went.

Li Xuandu casually picked up the volume of a health-cultivation Taoist scripture that the monastery’s abbot, Li Qingxu, had given him two days ago, went back to the couch, lay back, and flipped through it at random. His eye landed on the section concerning “the method of guiding the hair,” which stated that the head was the gathering place of all the yang, that hair was governed by the kidneys, the kidneys belonged to the innate constitution and corresponded to the water trigram, wine was in its nature water yet carried the quality of fire, perfectly corresponding to this water trigram — and so on. The passage suddenly made him recall the scene from earlier in the day when the small cap on her head had been blown off by the wind as she left the hall, her long hair tumbling loose and sweeping over his face.

Cool and silky, like a serpent coiling against the skin — it had instantly raised a mass of gooseflesh all over him on the spot.

Though she had gone and he had immediately bathed and changed his clothes, now that he thought of it again, the place on his neck where her long hair had coiled seemed still to carry a faint itch.

Li Xuandu felt a particular revulsion. He got up, found a snow-white handkerchief, and wiped his neck with it. Then he discarded the handkerchief, snuffed the lamp, stretched with a long yawn, and lay down to sleep.