Pu Zhu went first to collect Li Hui’er.

Li Xuandu slowed his pace and followed behind. After she had gone, he stopped in the courtyard and called Luo Bao back, asking how he had gone about pleading for mercy just now.

Luo Bao lowered his head. “This servant simply admitted fault—for not attending to the Princess Consort with sufficient care in the past. The Princess Consort is kind-hearted. Seeing that I recognized my error, she did not hold it against me.”

Li Xuandu looked at him, a flicker of doubt in his gaze. “Just that?”

Luo Bao dared not repeat what he had actually said before the Princess Consort. He lowered his head further. “Just that. Your Highness saw just now—the Princess Consort needed to arrange her appearance, so this servant went over and held the mirror for her. This servant truly acknowledges the error of his ways. If not for Your Highness hinting to me, how would this servant have had this chance today to correct himself?”

Li Xuandu was silent for a moment, as though he let out a small sigh, then said quietly, “You have been wronged. She has a somewhat…”

He paused.

“She is young, and having a temper is only natural. Now that you understand, be more careful going forward. That said, you truly cannot attend to me for the rest of your life. The estate I mentioned this morning—it is yours. You will have somewhere to put down roots from now on.”

Hearing Prince Qin comfort him and speak to him this way, Luo Bao was immediately moved to tears. He knelt and choked out, “Your Highness must not think this way. What grievance does this servant have? It is His Highness who is in a difficult position. Being able to serve Your Highness is the blessing of this servant’s life. This servant desires no reward—only that Your Highness not think me clumsy and a burden, and allow this servant to serve Your Highness to old age…”

The sound of soft conversation and laughter reached his ears. Pu Zhu emerged from her quarters, leading Li Hui’er.

Luo Bao caught himself. “…and the Princess Consort!”

Li Xuandu also turned at the sound. Seeing Pu Zhu pause in the corridor, both eyes directed their way, he hastily nodded vaguely at Luo Bao, told him to go about his business, and turned to walk toward her.

Li Hui’er was wearing a water-red gauze embroidered cape trimmed with fur. She smiled and greeted her Fourth Uncle. She said the cape had been specially brought out for her by her Fourth Aunt, lest she catch cold. Li Xuandu nodded.

Pu Zhu directed her royal nurse to take Li Hui’er out first and board the carriage, then sent the other maids away. She asked with puzzled eyes, “What was Your Highness talking to Luo Bao about just now? He was weeping so.”

Li Xuandu’s heart gave a small lurch. He replied without expression, “Nothing. I just asked how he had begged your pardon. He knows his fault now. In future, if anything displeases you, say so directly. Do not bottle it up—you will only hurt yourself.”

Pu Zhu studied his manner and guessed he still did not know she had asked about his cousin just now. Clearly Luo Bao had grown wiser and knew some things should not be passed on. She nodded. “I know. I’m not the sort to bottle things up and make myself miserable!”

Li Xuandu thought: indeed, that was exactly who she was. When she could make others uncomfortable, she would not make herself uncomfortable.

“Let’s go. I will see you out.” He said gently. Seeing her still standing there as if she had something to say, he asked what else there was.

“Your Highness—Ye Xiao has surely already told you—it was Cui Xuan who sent the message yesterday. I…”

She looked at him somewhat uncertainly. “May I meet him once, and thank him in person?”

Li Xuandu nodded without hesitation. “Of course you should!”

He thought briefly. “On the way back, I will watch for an opportunity and arrange it for you.”

Gratitude showed on Pu Zhu’s face. “Thank you, Your Highness!”

She emerged from the temporary palace.

Outside on the road, carriages of all shapes and sizes were already lined up in rows, their arrangement chaotic yet orderly. Officials and ladies of rank each formed their own lines according to court seniority, awaiting the respectful reception of His Imperial Majesty and His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince.

When the appointed time came, the Emperor and the Noble Consort appeared and boarded the foremost large carriage first.

Then came the Crown Prince.

This morning, when Pu Zhu had encountered the Princess Consort of Prince Duan, she had been quietly told that the Crown Prince’s injuries this time were not light—his leg seemed to be fractured, and he would need at least several months before he could walk again. Yet as he now appeared before everyone, he looked well enough. Dressed in resplendent robes and seated upon the royal litter, aside from the scrapes still visible on his face from the injury yesterday, his lively and spirited bearing this morning made it appear nothing like the severity that the Princess Consort of Prince Duan had described.

The one small sign that something was amiss was Crown Princess Yao Hanzhen, who accompanied him.

The smile she wore looked somewhat forced. After the Crown Prince boarded the carriage, she followed him inside, let down the curtain, and did not appear again.

Having received the Emperor and the Crown Prince, everyone dispersed to their own arrangements—those riding carriages, and those on horseback. Pu Zhu, as before on the way here, shared the purple carriage with Huaiwei and Li Hui’er. They quickly joined the imperial procession and set off. They stopped to spend the night along the way, and so traveled three days.

On the evening of the third day, the Emperor’s procession was lodged in an imperial estate along the route. As night fell, Li Xuandu brought Pu Zhu out on horseback to a grove of trees a few li away.

She followed Li Xuandu forward along the path. Not far ahead, in the open ground before them, a familiar silhouette came into view.

Cui Xuan had already arrived, standing with his horse at hand.

He must have seen both her and Li Xuandu, but he did not come forward. He remained standing where he was, his whole figure swallowed by the darkness, visible only as an outline traced by the night.

Pu Zhu stopped and looked back at Li Xuandu.

Li Xuandu gave her a nod. Pu Zhu stepped forward alone, coming to stand before Cui Xuan.

Tonight the moonlight was full and bright. The droplets of autumn dew on the grass tips shone with a cold, crystalline gleam—like the light in Cui Xuan’s eyes.

He still stood as he always had—without speaking, without moving.

From the time she had left He Xi by imperial decree to now, less than half a year had in truth passed. Yet in this moment, seeing him again, Pu Zhu was suddenly struck by a sense of temporal dislocation, as though a great deal of time had gone by.

Pu Zhu smiled, gave a slight nod to her old friend, and said softly, “Are you well?”

“Thank you for the Princess Consort’s concern. Cui Xuan is well.” His voice was low, his reply formal and respectful.

Pu Zhu paused for a moment. “I asked to meet because I wished to thank you in person. That day, had you not sent word in time, Prince Qin would likely have been in grave danger.”

Cui Xuan tilted his head slightly upward. His face, which had been shrouded in the shade of night, now emerged clearly into the moonlight—his brows and eyes sharp and cold.

“The Princess Consort need not trouble herself over this.” He said.

“I have never liked to be indebted to others. That day when I attempted to assassinate him, he did not pursue it and let me go. Sending word that day was only to make us even.”

Cui Xuan’s voice was low, his manner still as respectful as ever.

Pu Zhu fell silent.

Cui Xuan stood there a moment longer, and then the first faint smile of the evening appeared on his face.

“Princess Consort, go back. I should be going too.”

He gave her a nod, turned, and walked away.

Pu Zhu watched his retreating figure as he was about to disappear from sight, and finally could bear it no longer. She took two swift steps forward and called out to him.

He stopped and turned his head.

Pu Zhu walked quickly back up to him.

“Cui Xuan—must you truly follow the Crown Prince and serve him?”

She said this with some difficulty, then explained: “Do not misunderstand me. I am not questioning your decision. I understand you. To say nothing of you—even I am striving with all my might for the future, willing to press on even if I must crack my skull and shed blood. It is only that the Crown Prince…”

She paused.

“Do you truly see hope in the Crown Prince, that you are determined to follow him?”

This—this was the one question she had truly wanted to ask him in person when she arranged this meeting.

In the back of her mind, she had been hoping that he might say, as he once had, that as long as she asked, he would do anything for her—so that she could tell him she did not wish him to pledge allegiance to the Crown Prince, did not wish that in some future day they would find themselves facing each other as enemies.

But Cui Xuan’s gaze shifted to the solitary male figure standing in the distance, resting there for a moment. Then he withdrew it, smiled, and said, “The Crown Prince is the heir apparent, the future Son of Heaven. Whom should I serve, if not the Crown Prince?”

“Cui Xuan has other matters and cannot linger. Princess Consort, please return.”

Having said this, he performed a farewell bow to Pu Zhu, straightened, turned away once more, walked to his horse, mounted, and rode off.

Pu Zhu watched the riding figure slowly fade into the moonlight, standing motionless where she was, a feeling rising in her heart that a friend was soon to be lost and their paths would part forever.

This feeling was so oppressive and so sorrowful.

She deeply regretted her decision back then.

Had she spoken then and asked Cui Xuan to help her accomplish what she needed, he would certainly have agreed without hesitation. The Cui Xuan of that time was still that powerfully built young man in He Xi who would do anything for her sake.

Yet she had not. She had missed the moment. And the world has a way of playing such tricks—when they met again, circumstances had changed, people had changed. He had become this General Cui who treated her with respectful distance and had a promising future ahead. She was still the same person as before, still struggling forward, yet still unable to see a clear future.

She no longer had any right to ask for his help.

How could anyone remain forever standing still? One must always choose a path and walk it. She was the same, and Cui Xuan was the same.

They had at last parted ways.

That silhouette on horseback had long since vanished from sight, yet Pu Zhu still stood as before, unmoving.

The autumn wind swept through the grass with a rustling whisper. Pu Zhu felt the cold pierce her to the bone, and could not help shivering.

The sound of footsteps gradually approached from behind her. A large cloak, still warm with body heat, was draped gently over her shoulders.

Pu Zhu steadied herself, forced back the stinging heat welling in her eyes, and turned to face Li Xuandu.

“What happened to you?”

Li Xuandu studied her.

Pu Zhu already wore a smile and shook her head. “Nothing. I thanked him in person, and now my heart is at ease.”

She glanced at him as he stood in silence and explained, “Your Highness, please do not misunderstand. He truly was my one and only friend in the past. That is why I wanted to thank him in person this time.”

Li Xuandu said nothing, only gave a faint nod, then reached out and drew her shoulder close, saying in a low voice, “Let’s go. Head back.”

That night, Li Xuandu saw that she was lying in bed looking listless, and asked whether she was feeling unwell.

After returning from her meeting with Cui Xuan, Pu Zhu had felt a chill. And since several days had already passed, she did not wish to be intimate. So she took advantage of his inquiry and said she was extremely fatigued.

Li Xuandu naturally would not press the matter. She slept through the night, and to her surprise, when she woke the next day, she had genuinely fallen ill—her head felt heavy and her feet light. Li Xuandu summoned the Imperial Physician Zhang, who was well versed in women’s ailments, to see her. Imperial Physician Zhang took her pulse and said she had caught a chill, prescribing several doses of medicine.

Pu Zhu recalled her previous life: whenever the Emperor’s concubines were ill during pregnancy, the imperial physicians were always exceedingly careful with their prescriptions, selecting only mild medicines that would cause no harm to the fetus.

Although her belly showed no sign of movement yet, she was still worried—what if a pregnancy had already taken hold, and she took the wrong medicine? So she sent Li Xuandu away, and reminded the imperial physician to prescribe only mild, harmless medicine.

Imperial Physician Zhang heard from the Princess Consort’s meaning that she might be pregnant? He dared not be negligent, and quickly took her pulse again—several times over—and found not the slightest sign. But since the Princess Consort herself had made this request, how could he refuse? He accordingly modified the prescription as one would for a pregnant woman.

Pu Zhu took this medicine and slowly recuperated, and did not recover until they had returned to the capital, when she regained her full energy and spirits.

The first thing she did upon returning was to inquire about the latest news regarding Ju A’mu.

Before leaving the capital, the people from Baibi had sent word that they had traced a possible lead to the Shen family’s old residence. Now that more than a month had passed, she was full of hope—but there had been no progress.

The Shen family’s old residence had been expanded and occupied a large area. Given the strict security and the difficulty of outsiders entering, fearing it would arouse suspicion, no further reconnaissance had been possible.

Pu Zhu was deeply disappointed.

Earlier, in a moment of impulse, she had hoped Li Xuandu would help her find Ju A’mu. At the time he had refused, and she had resented him for it. But now, she had gradually let go of that notion.

Even if the Emperor knew she was investigating the whereabouts of Ju A’mu, it would not amount to a great crime—at most, she would receive a punishment.

But if he learned that Li Xuandu was helping her search, then all would truly be lost. He would know she had gone over entirely to Li Xuandu’s side, and neither she nor Ju A’mu would be allowed to live.

She had finally managed to exchange a few words with Li Xuandu—she could not take any more risks.

She had her royal nurse pass on a message, telling them to continue searching patiently.

Back in the capital, Li Xuandu’s next great task was the journey to the Kingdom of Que.

Everyone throughout the Prince’s Mansion, high and low, had been busy these past several days making preparations for the Prince and Princess Consort’s departure. The date had also been set—two days from now.

After the royal nurse had gone out with the message, Pu Zhu rallied her spirits and began directing people to pack things up. Then she saw Old Nurse Huang walk in and toss her a meaningful glance.

She frowned and sent the maids away. “What is it?”

Old Nurse Huang said, “The Princess Consort is about to leave with His Highness for the Kingdom of Que in two days—it is a long journey. Today, being free, why not go to Biyun Temple to burn incense, pray for a smooth and safe trip there and back?”

Pu Zhu immediately understood this was Shen Gao’s arrangement, and dared not refuse. She told the mansion’s steward to prepare a carriage, and immediately used this pretext to leave the mansion and head to Biyun Temple.

Biyun Temple was not far from An’guo Temple—a small temple, nowhere near as famous as An’guo Temple, and with far fewer worshippers. But it was known for blessing the safety of those traveling by land or water, so worshippers often came to burn incense there on behalf of family members setting out on long journeys.

Pu Zhu arrived at Biyun Temple, entered, burned incense in the main hall, and upon coming out was led by someone to the rear meditation courtyard. Once inside, she found Shen Gao, as expected—dressed in plain clothes and with a false beard pasted to his face. Walking along the road, he looked completely indistinguishable from an ordinary person.

Who could have guessed that he was the man trusted most by the current Emperor in all of the Inner Court?

After she entered, Shen Gao invited her to take a seat. She did not sit, but stood waiting for his instructions.

Shen Gao studied her briefly and asked, “What is the state of your relationship with Prince Qin now?”

Pu Zhu said, “After we married, I have worked to please him in every way. Thanks to Imperial grace, I have not fallen short. He and I now live as ordinary husband and wife, and I can exchange a few words with him.”

Shen Gao gave a slight nod. “As for Prince Qin’s daily habits—have you detected any irregularities?”

“He leads a leisurely and idle life, often meditating in his private chamber and reading sutras. His associations are few—aside from the Prince Consort Han, I have seen no signs of him meeting privately with anyone, nor any hint of secret dealings with others.”

She paused. “Or perhaps his activities are concealed, and I have not been able to detect them. I ask the Director of the Inner Court to forgive this failure.”

Shen Gao paced to the window.

The meditation chamber was perfectly quiet. After a moment, Pu Zhu suddenly saw him turn his head and fix her with a look. “On your way back from the autumn hunt, I heard you caught a chill—and asked the imperial physician to prescribe mild medicine for you?”

Pu Zhu knew it was Old Nurse Huang who had been secretly observing and reporting this.

But this was something she had never intended to hide—she had hoped Old Nurse Huang would relay the message for her.

She wished to become pregnant, to use this to apply pressure on Li Xuandu. She wished to bear a child, to use this to solidify her position.

But all of this required the Emperor’s permission first, in order to dispel the Emperor’s concerns.

She nodded. “Yes. I hope to conceive as soon as possible. That way, he will truly come to regard me as one of his own, and lower his guard.”

Shen Gao fixed her with a gaze, his expression noncommittal.

“Please set your mind at ease, Director of the Inner Court. Everything I do is for the purpose of gaining his trust, so I may complete what His Majesty has entrusted to me at the earliest opportunity. His Majesty is like the sun and moon moving through the heavens—how many brave soldiers and mighty armies have fallen before His Majesty’s Imperial Might? The previous unrest in He Xi and Tianshui is a cautionary example close to hand, to say nothing of Prince Qin. He is spent force at the end of its arrow’s flight. Even if he harbors secret ambitions, what has he to contend against His Majesty? He would be no more than a praying mantis trying to stop a chariot—overestimating himself, and his downfall is only a matter of time. No matter how foolish I may be, I could not fail to understand this. A wise person knows which way the wind blows. I only hope to complete the task quickly, bring back Ju A’mu, and receive His Majesty’s reward—then this life of mine would have no regrets.”

Shen Gao said, “And your children—should they come—you would not feel sorry for them?”

Pu Zhu did not even blink. “From childhood I was cast away to the frontier. I endured every hardship in He Xi, etched into my very bones and never to be forgotten. Everything I have now was bestowed by His Majesty. For women like me, the father who bore us cannot be changed, but people’s lives can certainly take new paths. As long as I render His Majesty meritorious service in the future, if I wish for one or two sons to see me through to old age, why should that be difficult to obtain?”

Shen Gao was briefly taken aback, then burst into hearty laughter. “Pu Zhu, His Majesty truly did not misjudge you. Set your mind at ease—as long as you fulfill your duties, prosperity, riches, and sons in your old age are no more than things within easy reach.”

Pu Zhu bowed in respectful thanks.

Shen Gao finally said, “The reason I summoned you here today is to give you a special charge: the Kingdom of Que is a grave hidden danger. On this journey there, you must apply yourself with the utmost diligence. Investigate thoroughly all of Prince Qin’s dealings in Que—in particular his private meetings with the King of Que and others, what was said, what was done. Spare no effort in finding out, and do not be negligent!”

Pu Zhu agreed, then hesitated and asked, “Where exactly is my Ju A’mu now? How is she faring? Could I see her once?”

Shen Gao glanced at her and said, “She is well. After you return from this journey to the Kingdom of Que, if there is merit to show, this will be considered. However, knowing how much you miss her, this time a token has been brought for you on her behalf. While there, she made a garment for you and had her son send it, so I brought it along for you.”

He placed a bundle on the table, then walked out of the meditation room, and in the company of several attendants, swiftly departed.

Pu Zhu unwrapped the bundle.

Inside was a fine inner garment—the stitching was familiar. It was indeed sewn by Ju A’mu. A wave of joy and sorrow washed over her. She wept for a moment, then collected the garment and hurried back to the city.

That evening she sat in her room staring at the garment Ju A’mu had made for her, lost in thought. Then she heard movement outside the door—she knew Li Xuandu had returned.

Today the Prince of Khotan had left the capital to return home. Li Xuandu and Han Rongchang and others had hosted a farewell banquet for the Prince, celebrating together the good fortune of having survived the tiger’s jaws that day.

She quickly put away the garment and rose to greet him.

Li Xuandu came in. Pu Zhu sent Luo Bao and the maids away and personally helped him change his clothes.

He seemed to enjoy having her help him change clothes lately—often he would not summon Luo Bao, and now as he stood there, cooperative at first, perfectly obedient—when she bowed her head to undo the jade belt at his waist, he suddenly reached over, encircled her waist, lowered his head, and kissed her.

In the warmth of his breath, Pu Zhu caught a faint trace of wine.

After some tenderness, he held her earlobe between his lips and in her ear murmured indistinctly, “Is your body feeling any better tonight?”

On the return journey from the autumn hunt, she had fallen ill and used that as an excuse to put him off. In the days since returning, she had also used fatigue as a pretext. Li Xuandu, seeing her so changed from those few nights in the tent—taking to bed listlessly, complaining of tiredness or exhaustion—worried something was wrong with her health, even suspecting he himself had somehow caused the problem and hurt her during those two nights. So for these ten-some days, he had restrained himself and had not forced himself upon her.

But tonight he had drunk a little wine. Coming back to find her attending to him at his side, her head bowed, gentle and soft, her hair neatly arranged in the lamplight, slender and enchanting—his feelings were stirred, and he could not help but hold her close to seek intimacy. Having asked the question, he got no response, and so he lifted her chin. Only then did he see her eyelids flushed and pink—she looked as though she had been crying. Startled, he asked, “What happened?”

He paused.

“If you are still unwell, rest early…”

Pu Zhu’s eyes reddened, and she threw herself into his arms.

Li Xuandu’s earlier romantic mood had evaporated completely. He consoled her without ceasing, and drew her to lie down on the bed, lying beside her to soothe her. After quite a while, he saw that she had at last gradually stopped crying, and asked again what had happened.

Pu Zhu said in a voice still hoarse with crying, “Shen Gao summoned me to meet with him today and put pressure on me, saying that on this journey to the Kingdom of Que, I must keep close watch on Your Highness and investigate whether Your Highness and the King of Que and others are secretly plotting together.”

Li Xuandu fell silent. He released her and slowly sat up.

Pu Zhu leaned against the headboard. “The Emperor’s intention toward Your Highness, and toward the Kingdom of Que, is to destroy them both at all costs. Even if you were both to submit wholeheartedly, it would be impossible to dispel the Emperor’s desire to kill…”

Her hand rested gently on her own belly, and she began to sob. “Your Highness… As for my own fate, I have no complaints whatsoever. But what of Your Highness’s children? Can Your Highness bear for them to spend their days in constant dread, never knowing if they will live to see tomorrow?”

Li Xuandu’s expression tensed with concern. His eyes fixed on the hand she was resting on her belly. “Zhu Zhu—are you with child?”

Pu Zhu shook her head. “…Not yet, as of now. But who knows—perhaps it will be soon…”

Li Xuandu was briefly still.

Pu Zhu scrambled up and threw her arms around his waist from behind, pressing her face to his back, murmuring in a low voice, “Your Highness, the more I think, the more frightened I become…”

Li Xuandu sat quietly for a moment, then reached back and drew her into his arms, gazing at a face still streaked with tears. Tenderly he said, “Zhu Zhu, do not be afraid. I will protect you and our child.”

“Your Highness—”

Pu Zhu stretched out her arms and held him tightly.

That night, Li Xuandu seemed to have something weighing on his mind. After bathing, he told Pu Zhu to sleep early, and went himself to the private meditation chamber.

Pu Zhu knew he must have been moved by what she had said, and felt a great deal of relief. She lay down on the bed, running her hand over her still-flat belly, hoping for what her heart desired. Eyes closed, just as she was picturing thoughts of a child, she suddenly felt a warmth below—as though something had seeped out.

She stilled. Her heartbeat quickened. Slowly she slipped her hand beneath the bedding, felt, and drew it back out. There was a faint smear of red on her fingertip.

Pu Zhu stared at her own finger. A heaviness came over her chest, darkness swam before her eyes, and she nearly failed to draw breath.

Her monthly flow had arrived!

Not only had it arrived—it had come two full days early, ahead of the usual date.