When they reached Noble Consort Hui’s Lanzhi Palace, they were not yet close when they saw Noble Consort Hui, dressed all in plain white and stripped of every ornament, kneeling outside the hall. Behind her knelt Second Prince Gu Cheng’an and a young palace consort. Recalling Lai Fu’s words, Gu Yanxi couldn’t help looking more carefully.

The consort kept her head lowered, her face hidden from view. From that brief glance, she seemed no different from the other consorts in the palace.

“It would appear you already know.” The Emperor drew near, his tone unhurried, betraying nothing of his mood.

Noble Consort Hui’s heart sank further with every passing moment — yet for her son’s sake, she had no choice but to stake everything on this.

“Cheng’an told me himself that he had done wrong and came to bid me farewell before going to beg forgiveness from Your Majesty.” Her forehead pressed low to the ground. Noble Consort Hui’s voice trembled. “This consort knows she has no face to plead on his behalf. Failing to raise the child well — that is this mother’s fault. Your Majesty, please allow this consort to bear some portion of his punishment. Spare Cheng’an… his life. Even if it costs this consort her own, she is willing.”

“No — I don’t want that.” Gu Cheng’an shuffled forward on his knees to place himself in front of Noble Consort Hui, tears streaming down his face. “Imperial Father, it was your son who was foolish, your son who listened to slander and committed these unforgivable acts. Whatever punishment you see fit to give, your son accepts it. But this has nothing to do with Mother. Imperial Father — please, in consideration of all the years Mother has served faithfully by your side without a single misstep, do not implicate her. All of it was your son’s doing. Your son was in the wrong. Your son accepts it all. Imperial Father!”

Gu Yanxi saw through their plan immediately. When Gu Chengde, to save his own skin, had let Noble Consort Rong shoulder everything and had not uttered a single word on her behalf, the Emperor had remarked on how heartless he was — and from that point on, had regarded him with even greater contempt. Now Gu Cheng’an had done the exact opposite, and that landed precisely on the Emperor’s most tender point.

Age had, if anything, deepened the Emperor’s tendency toward suspicion — and yet, perhaps in part because of that, he had developed a curious softness toward those who showed genuine feeling. Much like the Zhu Family.

Not to mention that Gu Cheng’an was facing nothing more than confinement — his reversal of fortune was only a matter of time. Even had he truly been bound for exile to the frontier, this display of mother-son devotion would have stayed lodged in the Emperor’s memory — and that consort whispering the right words into his ear in the quiet hours would turn any great matter into none at all.

A clever set of calculations, Gu Yanxi noted with cold detachment. Even so, he had ways to ensure Gu Cheng’an never recovered from this — if it came to that. But was there a point?

Hearing the Emperor’s long, satisfied exhale, Gu Yanxi’s expression beneath the mask grew cold enough to frost.

“At least you have some sense of responsibility. This matter never implicated Noble Consort Hui to begin with — did you truly think your subject was so muddleheaded?”

The weight in both mother and son’s hearts lifted in unison. Gu Cheng’an knocked his head hard against the ground. “Your son thanks Imperial Father. Your son — your son —” Crack! He slapped himself hard across the face. Half his cheek swelled up almost immediately — testament to the force he had used. “Your son is unworthy. Your son has disappointed Imperial Father.”

Looking at the second son kneeling in repentance before him, the Emperor found himself thinking that he had simply neglected him too much over the years. The boy had only done all this to earn his acknowledgment. Now that he understood where he had gone wrong and showed both remorse and filial devotion, with the right tempering and guidance, he might yet be capable of something.

Footsteps approached. Gu Yanxi glanced back, then took an unobtrusive step to the side.

“Chief, the investigation is complete. This young woman is a distant relation of the Tong Family — barely a Tong daughter by any real measure.”

Gu Yanxi asked casually, “Has she been living with the Tong Family all this time?”

“Not entirely. When she was ten years old, she wrote a letter to the Old Madame of the Tong Family herself. The story goes that life on her father’s side had become unbearable, and she gathered her courage to ask for help. The Old Madame took pity on her and had her brought over and raised in the household.” The agent paused, then added, “These details all come from inquiries made on this end and have not yet been verified. Your subordinate has already dispatched someone to Yuzhou—”

“Yuzhou?” Gu Yanxi cut him off. The moment he heard that name, something in him went taut. Seeing that the scene on the other side was still unfolding in a display of paternal and filial warmth, Gu Yanxi led the agent further away. “Tell me everything.”

“Yes.” The agent collected his thoughts, making sure not to leave out anything of importance. “Tong Yi is the daughter of a woman born to a branch of the Tong Family that had long since lost its standing — that branch had already fallen into obscurity. Her mother had married into a prosperous household as a wife, but passed away when Tong Yi was nine years old. The man remarried, had a son, and Tong Yi’s circumstances became difficult. She wrote to the Old Madame of the Tong Family, who took pity on her and brought her into the household, where she has been raised ever since. Your subordinate has confirmed that Tong Yi’s name has indeed been entered into the Tong Family’s genealogical records — registered under the second son’s name.”

“When she was brought back, was she alone?”

“She also brought along a mute manservant. She claimed her mother had rescued him—” The agent’s head snapped up. Something was wrong. No mother would place a man — mute or not — in her daughter’s care.

“Investigate, and quickly.”

“Yes.”

“Wait.” Gu Yanxi’s brow furrowed. “Also look into whether Tong Yi entered the palace of her own choosing or under some compulsion. Additionally — investigate her circumstances within the Tong household these past years, and find out who her tutors have been.”

“Yes.”

Gu Yanxi made his way back to stand behind the Emperor. By now, father and son had somehow achieved a degree of warmth between them — the scene looked less like a monarch come to confine his son than like a father who had just been reunited with a child he had long estranged.

“All right — everyone rise.” The Emperor, looking on with evident satisfaction as his second son rushed to help Noble Consort Hui to her feet, patted Gu Cheng’an on the shoulder and stepped past both of them to reach the young consort, taking her by the hand.

Gu Yanxi caught the way Noble Consort Hui’s face contorted — only for a fraction of a second before it was smoothed away again. She turned to tend to the folds of her son’s collar, her gaze trailing sideways to watch.

The consort finally lifted her face. It was a pleasing face — a quality of open innocence with just a hint of charm beneath. The eyes she turned on the Emperor carried coy trust, as though the man before her were simply her chosen companion, and not the sovereign of a dynasty.

She had entered the palace of her own will — not under duress. Gu Yanxi confirmed that much.

The Emperor was clearly very taken with exactly this quality. He drew Tong Yi to his side and began walking inward. After two steps, he paused, looked back at Gu Yanxi, and said, “Cheng’an has erred gravely — yet knowing one’s wrongs and willing to change is itself admirable. He will be confined to the imperial residence for now. He is not to enter or leave without summons.”

Confinement had become house arrest. The stripping of rank had never come up at all. The breath Gu Yanxi had been holding sat lodged in his chest, rising neither up nor down. He had made every preparation. The evidence — witness and material — was ironclad. Conspiring against a frontier garrison commander, colluding with foreign enemies: crimes enough to condemn any subject to death many times over — and yet all of it had been wiped away just like that.

By tomorrow, would the Second Prince be a transformed and filial son?

In two days’ time — would the Great Qing’s heir apparent simply be declared?

Looking at Gu Cheng’an’s face — that carefully performed remorse with triumph gleaming just beneath — Gu Yanxi’s hands, folded behind his back, clenched slowly into fists. In this moment, his disappointment in his Imperial Uncle reached its peak.

The group swept inside. Lai Fu let out a quiet sigh, just about to follow, when a hand caught him by the arm.

“Where does Tong Yi stay?”

Lai Fu swept a glance around, and though he didn’t know what the Shizi intended, he lowered his voice and pointed the way. “The side hall on the left.”

“Your subject needs a quarter of an hour. Find a way to delay — don’t let the Emperor or Tong Yi go over there.”

“Yes — this old servant will do his best.” Lai Fu had long since taken the full measure of each of the princes — large and small. The older ones went without saying, but even the older ones were, to a man, cold-hearted and self-serving. If he wanted to see himself safely through to his last years, he had to keep close to the Shizi. And not merely for his rank or position — from the measure of his character alone, the Shizi was not the kind of man who abandoned those who had served him.

Author’s note: Surprised that Kongkong would write it this way? The truth is that an earlier draft went quite differently — the Second Prince was taken down with full force, and everyone who deserved to suffer got exactly what they had coming. It was very satisfying to write. But afterward, I realized it wasn’t right. The Emperor ought to be changing — particularly now, when his body has been hollowed out and he knows he doesn’t have long, he would become harder to read: softening in some ways, and worsening in others. There were also plot-structural concerns: if the Second Prince fell exactly the same way as the First Prince, the two storylines would overlap, and I couldn’t repeat that kind of arc just for the catharsis of it. So I rewrote it — changed it to a reversal — and in doing so, unexpectedly connected it back to a thread from much earlier in the story. It meant scrapping nearly five thousand words, but I’m very satisfied with it. Anyway — that was more rambling than necessary, but I wanted to share it with all of you.