“Replying to the Old Madam, Master is inside.”
Duanfang’s ears pricked; hearing the exchange, he quickly said to Hang Zhi, “Master, the Old Madam is here.”
Hang Zhi tossed aside the jade cup, slid into his shoes, and had barely taken a few steps before Old Madam Hang had already entered. Hang Zhi staggered slightly before steadying himself, and gave a deep bow: “Your son greets Mother.”
Old Madam Hang wore a teal padded jacket trimmed with sable fur, and in her ruby-ringed hand she carried an enameled hand warmer. Her figure was slender, her face angular and imposing—at first sight, one dared not take her lightly. In her youth she had been renowned as an iron-willed woman, and even Hang the Old Master often consulted her on external affairs.
The moment she smelled the mix of incense and wine in the room, her brows knit tightly. Seeing Hang Zhi’s drunken state, her anger rose instantly.
Supporting Old Madam Hang was Hang Zhi’s concubine, Wang Ziqi. She was the Old Madam’s niece, sharing six or seven parts resemblance to her, though her sorrowful brows gave her a fragile air. “This concubine greets Master.” She murmured softly, bowing with downcast eyes.
Hang Zhi only nodded faintly, then smiled at his mother: “If you had something to say, you could have sent someone to call me over. In this bitter cold, why trouble yourself to come personally?”
Old Madam Hang said, “And when have I not sent people to summon you? Yet each time the answer is the same: ‘His Lordship is drunk.’”
Hearing the resentment in her words, Hang Zhi gave a faint laugh, invited her to sit, and personally poured her a cup of tea. “Your son is on leave, and so drank a little too much. Since Mother came in person, what matter is so urgent?”
Old Madam Hang had meant to speak, but the fragrance of the incense wafted by again, making her frown deeply. “Why do you burn so much incense? Moderation is refinement—too much becomes excess. Someone, go extinguish it.”
The maids who had followed her moved to obey, but Hang Zhi raised a hand to stop them. “If Mother dislikes the smoke, then let me accompany you to sit outside for a while.”
Her face grew darker. Everyone present knew well why he burned that incense. The Old Madam could not bear it—after all this time, he still clung to sentimental attachments. Was a dead woman worth such constant sorrow, such self-torment? She dismissed the attendants, leaving only Wang Ziqi at her side. Duanfang glanced at Hang Zhi, who signaled for him to stay. He shrank into the corner like a statue.
“My son…” Old Madam Hang sighed heavily; her earlier fury was gone, replaced by deep lament. “Do you still blame your mother for that matter?”
“Your son would not dare.” Hang Zhi replied calmly.
“You would not dare—yet in your heart you still resent me?” She shook her head repeatedly. Hang Zhi lowered his gaze, silent.
Old Madam Hang said, “I have told you many times. It was an accident—Heaven’s will, her fate… The wood is already carved; the dead cannot return. Why must you still imprison yourself within it? Look at Ziqi—her looks, her temperament, her family background. To marry her, she would be mistress of any household. Yet she admires you, cannot bear to part with me, and willingly remains as your concubine. What more do you want? Why torment yourself so?”
Wang Ziqi quietly dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief.
Hang Zhi said nothing, standing obediently while being lectured. This was precisely what infuriated Old Madam Hang most—it was like striking a mass of cotton, powerless and unsatisfying. She slapped the back of her chair in anger. “My son, you have truly changed! All because of your dead wife, you have become unrecognizable even to your own mother! I hear that today Marquis Dingxi came personally to visit, and you pleaded illness to refuse him. I believed you truly ill, but instead you hide here drinking? That is Marquis Dingxi! A renowned former Grand Commander of the army! If he learns of such neglect, what will he think? Though you are Prime Minister, if he takes offense, even your position would not be secure!”
Hang Zhi pressed his forehead, stumbled toward the couch, and collapsed sideways onto it. Old Madam Hang, startled, thought her scolding had struck too hard and hurried forward—only to hear him murmur, “Mother, your son is drunk, I truly cannot endure. Let me sleep a while. Please…” Before the words were finished, light snores had begun.
She was furious, convinced her youngest son had grown beyond her control. With three heavy sighs she said, “You bear the rise and fall of the entire Hang family of Nanling—do not ruin the clan through stubbornness.” With a sweep of her sleeve, she departed. Wang Ziqi hastened after her. Duanfang escorted them to the gate, craning his neck until he saw the Old Madam leave the courtyard, then returned to the warm chamber and whispered, “Master, the Old Madam has gone.”
Hang Zhi lay sideways like a meditating monk. After a while, he waved his hand, dismissing Duanfang as well.
As footsteps faded, the thick incense seemed to conjure at any moment the sensation of a soft body pressing against his back, breath warm at his ear, a delicate voice calling him husband.
Truly, how tasteless this world is. Hang Zhi shut his eyes tightly, swallowing the pain that cut his throat.
Light footsteps approached again. Thinking it was Duanfang returning to tidy up, he groped blindly for the jade cup and stretched it out. “Pour wine.”
The sound of wine being poured reached him, then the cup was placed gently into his hand.
“Master, drink slowly.”
The soft female voice made Hang Zhi’s eyes fly open. Wang Ziqi stood before him, handkerchief in hand. His face did not change, but his gaze turned cold. “You did not leave with the Old Madam?”
Wang Ziqi, hair in a young matron’s bun, orchid hairpin adorning it, dressed in a plain scarlet jacket and pleated skirt, gold-thread bracelets on her wrists—indeed a delicate beauty, styled exactly to his taste. Yet Hang Zhi looked through her as if she were invisible.
“This concubine had a matter to ask Master, and so returned.”
“Where is Duanfang?”
“I did not see him outside, so I thought he must be within and entered.”
Hang Zhi frowned, rising to his feet. “From now on, do not enter without announcement.” With that, he drained the jade cup.
Wang Ziqi bit her lip. That woman could intrude even into his study, scribble turtles as she pleased, and he did not object. Yet she, just to enter this warm chamber, must have it announced. Bitterly unwilling, she twisted her handkerchief tighter.
“What is it?” Hang Zhi asked, going to the table to pour himself more wine.
Wang Ziqi moved to his side and raised her face. “The day after tomorrow is the Crown Princess’s birthday. Aunt said the Crown Prince has sent an invitation. Will Master be going?”
Hang Zhi said, “Why are you asking this?”
“I only wanted to ask… will Master have me accompany you? If I do go, what clothes should I wear…”
“You’re a concubine—would you accompany me to match with them?” Hang Zhi chuckled lightly. That laugh was like a knife stabbing into Wang Ziqi’s heart. The cousin who had once been infinitely gentle, could now say such cold, wounding words. If not for loving him, how could she have stooped to be a concubine! Besides, besides… Wang Ziqi’s face flushed a dark, livid purple.
“You stay home and keep my mother company. You’re closer to her than to your own mother anyway, so you should be delighted to be by her side.” Those glazed, gemlike eyes looked upon her embarrassed, delicate face without the slightest warmth. Hang Zhi slowly curled his lips. “Go now. I’m going to rest.”
***
Qian Jiaoniang, having sent Zhao Yaoqian off, happily took the front paw of the one-eyed dog and kneaded its soft pads. That Miss Zhao was simply like a meat pie falling from the sky—gifted, chivalrous, and perfectly matched with Xing Muzheng. She began to think about how to bring it up to him; surely the marriage would be settled.
Qingya came in carrying a box. Seeing Qian Jiaoniang grinning foolishly, and even the Big Sis sticking out her tongue in glee, she couldn’t help but press her lips together in a smile.
Qian Jiaoniang picked up Big Sis and spun in circles, singing a tune “Bodhisattva Barbarian” that Yanluo had taught her the day before, depicting the joy of everyone singing and dancing together—utterly cheerful. When she sang with feeling, Qian Jiaoniang even used the dog’s paw to drum a beat on the table. Qingya joined in her play, singing and tapping the box. Yanluo came in and was momentarily stunned, until Qian Jiaoniang laughed and pulled her in. Only then did Yanluo snap out of it and join in the song and dance. Three people and a dog made merry for quite a while before bursting out laughing and stopping.
“Phew, so hot!” Qingya flopped onto the table, pressing a hand to her flushed cheeks, the smile still on her face. “Why are you so happy?”
Yanluo wiped the sweat from her forehead, still looking at Qian Jiaoniang with excitement. It was rare for her to be so unrestrained—this mistress was indeed beyond her expectations.
Qian Jiaoniang, still smiling, set Big Sis on the heated couch. “My life’s been spared, of course I’m happy.” She turned to the box Qingya had just set down. “What’s this?”
“This was sent by Wang Yong—it’s full of invitation cards. The Marquis says you should pick somewhere you’d like to go. Oh, and he asked you to find someone to tidy up his rooms.”
Yanluo said, “I’ll go.” She happened to be free at the moment.
Qingya said, “No need to waste talent—just have Suier go.”
Yanluo knew Qian Jiaoniang never concerned herself with such small matters; if Qingya said it, that was that. She nodded and went out to call Suier. Qingya propped her head and muttered, “Never seen a marquis without even a servant by his side—has to borrow a maid from his wife just to tidy his rooms.”
Qian Jiaoniang only smiled and said nothing.
Qingya poured herself a cup of water, then opened the box. “Where do you want to go? For the imperial birthday and the three-day celebration, lots of fun gatherings pop up—flower-viewing parties, poetry gatherings, pitch-pot contests… Wait, I remember…” She lowered her head and rifled through the stack of invitations.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Qian Jiaoniang said.
“This one, you might have to go,” Qingya said, pulling out a bright golden invitation.
“Whose?”
“The Crown Prince’s.”
Qian Jiaoniang blinked, recalling the smiling Crown Prince she had seen at the polo field. She couldn’t tell if it was her imagination, but his gaze toward her had always seemed a bit strange.
“It’s the Crown Princess’s birthday—the Crown Prince always celebrates lavishly. For his own birthday, though, he never makes a big fuss. They say the Crown Prince and Princess are very much in love.”
“Is that so? Well, that’s nice.”
“But the Crown Prince still has a concubine—his bedchamber maid. When the Crown Princess entered the palace, she raised her to concubine.” Qingya tossed the card aside. “And so what if they’re in love? He still can’t be content with just one woman. When he ascends the throne, there’ll be three palaces and six courts—do you think by then the Crown Princess will still be in love with him?”
Qian Jiaoniang sighed. “Love or not, she’ll still be the future empress. People like us common folk have no say in such things—we just need to take care of ourselves.” Guarding one’s own heart is enough.
Qingya tilted her head in silence, then nodded. “True. Perhaps an un-loved empress might fare better than a beloved crown princess.”
“Exactly.” Qian Jiaoniang chuckled. “I’ll just find some excuse not to go to this banquet.”
