After entering the palace, Duke Jin’an first passed by the Empress Dowager’s Baoci Palace. From afar, he spotted a small figure waving at him.
“Brother!” the Second Prince called out, his face beaming with joy. “Are you all better now?”
Duke Jin’an smiled and nodded.
“Are you going to see Her Majesty?” the Second Prince asked.
Duke Jin’an shook his head.
“I won’t be going,” he said. “His Majesty will soon be testing me on my studies, so I need to prepare a bit more.”
The Second Prince, all too familiar with the agony of academic scrutiny, nodded sympathetically.
“You’ve been ill for days—it’s only natural you fell behind. Father won’t scold you, don’t worry, don’t worry,” he said, mimicking an adult’s mannerisms as he reached out to pat Duke Jin’an.
However, being too short, he only managed to pat his leg.
Duke Jin’an laughed heartily, bending down to meet the child’s gaze with an encouraging nod.
The preparation wasn’t out of fear of failing to answer—but of answering what should not be said
“…Today, Grand Coordinator Gao came to visit Her Majesty and brought many gifts. I saved some for you, brother…” the Second Prince said with a cheerful laugh.
Duke Jin’an’s smile faltered slightly.
“Master Gao was here?” he asked.
This question was directed at the eunuch behind the Second Prince.
“Yes, the Empress Dowager even kept him for lunch,” the eunuch replied. “Both the First Prince and the Second Prince accompanied him, and they asked after Your Highness as well.”
Duke Jin’an gave a faint “Oh.”
“What gifts did he bring you?” he asked, taking the Second Prince’s hand. “Any treats?”
“No, no, just toys,” the Second Prince said with a grin.
“Then let me take a look,” Duke Jin’an said, leading the Second Prince by the hand toward his palace.
The Second Prince’s birth mother had died in childbirth, and he had been raised by Empress Song. Now, he lived and dined in the Empress’s palace.
The Empress was frail, and when the two arrived, they were told she was already resting. So they bowed outside the hall before leaving..
“…Has Duke Wei recovered from his illness?”
A woman’s voice came from behind the curtains.
“Yes, he has.”
A palace maid lifted the drapes and entered as she replied.
“…That’s good. Liu Ge’er has always been frail. People say there are few children in the palace, yet in truth, there are too many—one can never be too careful.”
Empress Song spoke these words from her couch.
The maid dared not respond to such remarks. She merely bowed her head and approached with a medicine bowl in hand.
As evening drew near, the room dimmed, the fading light softening the signs of age on Empress Song, now nearing forty.
She was the Emperor’s second empress, born of humble origins. Surviving all these years in the palace had not been easy, and the decades ahead promised even greater hardship.
The First Prince, not her own son; the young prince’s mother, the Noble Consort; the partial Empress Dowager; the ailing Emperor…
“Assign more attendants to Liu Ge’er,” Empress Song instructed.
The palace maid acknowledged the order.
“From now on, he is not to eat any outside food, no matter where it comes from,” Empress Song added.
The maid bowed again in compliance.
“Duke Wei shares Your Majesty’s concerns,” she remarked.
Having finished her medicine, Empress Song looked up at her.
“I went to check earlier—the two of them were in the room, and Duke Wei was carefully examining each item Liu Ge’er had brought back,” the maid said with a smile.
“That child may seem carefree, but he has a thoughtful heart,” Empress Song said, a faint smile touching her lips.
“Indeed, in daily matters too—whether it’s what Liu Ge’er eats or whom he meets—Duke Wei pays close attention,” the maid added.
Empress Song smiled faintly and reclined on the couch.
“Back then, the palace maids and concubines used to coax him by whispering that once a child born in the palace grew to his age, his father would come to take him home,” she said. “Ever since then, he’s been overly attentive to every child in the palace—especially after several consecutive births failed to survive.”
“But he isn’t as attentive to the First Prince. They’re only four or five years apart—they should have been playmates,” the maid remarked with a smile.
“He tried at first, following the boy around every day to watch him. But the First Prince wouldn’t allow it,” Empress Song replied, shaking her head with an amused sigh. “Later, when Consort Liu gave birth to this child—so frail at first, like a kitten, that no one expected it to survive—and then Consort Liu passed away, even fewer cared. That was when he finally got the chance to watch over the child every day. Over time, that watching turned into the bond they share now.”
“Such bonds are rare indeed,” the maid said softly. “There are so few children in the palace. Having someone by one’s side makes the loneliness a little easier to bear.”
Empress Song gave a quiet hum and slowly closed her eyes.
The maid said no more, carefully draping a light quilt over the Empress before retreating on silent footsteps.
Night crept in unhurriedly, enveloping the entire palace in its embrace.
The autumn mist dissipated as Jin Ge’er yawned, clutching a broom while pushing open the gate—only to startle at the figure standing outside.
“Y-Young Master Qin?” he stammered, wide-eyed at the man before him.
Despite the crisp autumn air, Qin Shi’san’s forehead glistened faintly with sweat. Three attendants stood beside him, but there was no carriage in sight—as if they had come on foot.
“Jin-Jin-Ge’er,” Qin Shi’san teased, deliberately mimicking his stutter with an amused smile. “Good morning.”
“M-Morning…” Jin Ge’er replied blankly.
“Is your mistress at home?” Qin Shi’san asked cheerfully. “I happened to be passing by and grew weary from walking. Thought I might stop in for some pastries.”
Young Master Qin was led into the rear courtyard, where his gaze immediately fell upon a young girl drawing her bow in the morning light.
Her long hair cascaded down her back, and the colorful arm strap binding her black sleeves stood out vividly.
With a soft twang, the arrow struck the straw target.
Though it didn’t hit the bullseye, it was a marked improvement from her previous misses.
“Had I known, I would’ve brought my own bow,” Young Master Qin remarked.
Cheng Jiao-niang turned her head to glance at him, then lowered her arm and put away the bow.
“Even if you had brought one, why would I let you use it?” she replied.
Young Master Qin chuckled.
“Fair enough—I’m not ill anymore,” he said.
Cheng Jiao-niang handed the bow and arrows to her maid and turned to walk away.
Young Master Qin waited for her to pass before following.
“I almost miss being ill,” he remarked.
“Truth or jest?” Cheng Jiao-niang asked, glancing at him sidelong. “Curing illness is hard work, but falling sick—that’s easy.”
Young Master Qin laughed.
“Jest, of course,” he said quickly. “Don’t take it seriously. If I scare myself like that again, I might truly die.”
The maids behind them—Ban Qin included—couldn’t help but stifle giggles.
The tea and pastries were served, steam curling upward.
Young Master Qin picked up a pastry, took a sip of tea, and sighed in admiration.
“Take these pastries, for instance—they taste entirely different before and after recovering from illness,” he remarked, then sighed again, his gaze settling on Cheng Jiao-niang across from him. “Truly, everything has changed.”
“Changed or not, what does it matter?” Cheng Jiao-niang replied, unfastening her arm strap and letting her sleeves fall loose.
“But it’s hard to let go,” Young Master Qin said, taking another sip of tea. “Zhou Liu-lang never used to lie to me. Yet now, when I asked him what happened here with you, he actually deceived me.”
He chuckled at this.
“And I—I didn’t even call him out on the spot like I used to. No laughing while jabbing him with my cane, no scolding him for his foolishness—‘Who do you think you’re fooling with such lies?’” he mused, as if reliving the scene. Then he glanced down at his hands. “Yes, things have changed. My cane is no longer at my side. I stand before him now on my own feet, yet somehow, I’ve lost the bold certainty I once had. It’s a strange feeling indeed.”
Cheng Jiao-niang finished her water and set down the teacup.
“Do you have anything else to discuss? If not, you may leave,” she said.
“Lady Cheng, can’t you at least lend an ear to someone’s troubles?” Qin Shi’san replied with a touch of helplessness.
“Why should I listen to your sorrows?” Cheng Jiao-niang countered. “Whether you’re in pain, grief, joy, or anything else—those are your own affairs. What purpose does it serve for me to hear them? They aren’t my feelings. Even if you tell me, I won’t feel them. So, what difference does it make whether you speak to me or to a tree?”
Qin Shi’san stared at her for a long moment.
“Cheng Jiao-niang,” he said, “how do you expect to endear yourself to anyone with such an attitude?”
Cheng Jiao-niang met his gaze, but before she could respond, Qin Shi’san spoke again.
“Of course, with your skill to bring the dead back to life, you’ve no need to seek favor,” he added with a faint smile. “But human interactions, after all, hinge on conversation. And conversation thrives on warmth.”
“What use is warmth?” Cheng Jiao-niang asked.
“There may come a time when rules are merciless, and then humanity must step in,” Qin Shi’san said, his eyes fixed on her. “For example—consider the deserters from the Northwest Camp: Fan Jianglin, Fan Shitou, Xu Maoxiu, Xu Sigen, Xu Layue, Fan Sanchou, Xu Bangchui…”
His voice was clear and measured as he enunciated each name. The maid, Ban Qin and Jin Ge’er, standing nearby, turned to look.
“Having committed murder and fled, the evidence is irrefutable. According to the law, they are to be beheaded, their corpses hung at the camp gates as a warning to others.”
At these words, the maids gasped, hands flying to their mouths—but the horrified cries escaped all the same.
Beheaded!
