Chapter Twenty

“Longji,” Li Chengqi’s voice was slightly hoarse as he stared at me, “let her go.”

Li Longji’s hand suddenly clenched, then slowly loosened. He turned to look at Li Chengqi. Li Chengqi walked from the palace gate toward us, his lips pressed tight, saying nothing.

He didn’t speak until he was standing in front of me: “You all leave.” Though his words were directed at Li Longji, he only looked at me. I stared at him in a daze, not daring and unable to look away.

Li Longji was about to speak, but Li Chengyi yanked him out of the hall. Yiping had already taken the palace maids outside; the empty hall was left with only him and me, standing so close.

I watched the darkness in his eyes; yesterday’s words kept hammering at my ears, a chaotic buzzing, and on instinct I forced a smile and tugged at my lips.

After a long while, he finally said, “Tell me, what do you know?” I kept smiling and replied, “What does the Prince mean?

Yong’an doesn’t really understand.” He took another step forward, closing the distance, and I hastily stepped back.

“Are my mother and the Virtuous Concubine still alive?” He lowered his voice; it was hoarse, as if sanded down.

My body went rigid. I tried to retreat but could not move my feet; he was in front of me, and behind me seemed endless darkness. Waves of fear surged up in my chest.

He could have guessed everything without a single word from me—so why did he need to confirm it? He knew everything already; he should know I couldn’t say a thing.

Even half a word could send everyone down a path to death.

He slowly reached out and gripped my wrist tightly. “Yong’an.” He said only that name, and nothing more.

All my life, those two words had been called by countless people — only now did I not know how to respond.

I took a deep breath, as if bewitched, reached out and gripped his hand tightly, and whispered, “It happened quickly. There was no suffering.”

Forgive me.

His fingers were ice-cold as they seeped into my hand. I stared at him, afraid any sign of movement would alarm the guards outside the palace gate.

He stared at me too—clever as he was, he must have worked everything out from that one sentence. Those warm, gentle eyes lost all life and, in an instant, filled with despair and resignation.

We stood facing each other like that. He gripped my wrist with a meticulous, unrelenting hold, and I pressed my hand firmly against his.

After an unknowable while, he finally released me and said coldly, “The princess is burning hot—send for the imperial physician later.” He looked at me intently and added, “Now that things have come to this, I can no longer ask Imperial Grandmother the Duchess to grant the marriage.”

I smiled wryly at him, wanting to say something comforting but stopping myself. I only nodded gently and said, “Prince, take care of your health.”

He turned and strode out of the palace gate, spoke a few words quietly with the men outside, then left with his two younger brothers.

When Yiping came in, I was still standing there foolishly, staring at the empty gate, ignoring everything she said, until she gave a cry and I realized I had already slumped down to the ground.

By the eighth day of the new year, the king sent a birthday gift and I suddenly realized I had already turned thirteen.

After that day my fever never fully broke; only after five days did I begin to improve, and then I immediately accompanied Imperial Aunt to Luoyang for the rites.

The Wànxiàng Divine Palace had been completed for five years, and this was the first time Imperial Aunt decided to personally preside over the grand ceremony, host a banquet for the ministers, appoint Uncle Wu Chengsi to present the second offering and Wu Sansi to present the final offering — while the official crown prince, Li Dan, was neglected to the side.

An emperor’s mind is unfathomable; even the smallest hint can set off a storm at court.

In this single matter of the rites, Uncle Wu Chengsi’s shadow that had hung over him since his dismissal from the chancellorship was swept away, and he chatted and laughed with the ministers, visibly pleased.

After the rites, the Imperial Aunt seemed to be in high spirits; she laughed often at the banquet and gave the gifts meant for the congratulatory envoy to my father the King and to the various uncles.

I sat beside Princess Taiping, watching from afar; the Crown Prince still wore that indifferent expression, only replying when someone spoke to him, as if everything the Imperial Aunt did had nothing to do with him.

The seat beside him for the eldest son was empty, with only Li Chengyi and Li Longji attending him.

After a long while the Imperial Aunt looked at the Crown Prince and asked gently, “Has Chengqi fully recovered?” The Crown Prince rose hurriedly and said, “Although this illness came on fiercely, there is no great danger now.

Your servant has already instructed him to be sure to arrive in Luoyang tomorrow to pay respects to Her Majesty.”

Grandmother Huang gave a faint “hmm” and said, “Shen Qiu’s medical skills are remarkable. Let him put more thought into it.”

The Crown Prince hurriedly replied and then bowed before taking his seat.

I felt a bitter ache in my chest as I lifted my teacup, only to catch Li Longji’s gaze. His bright eyes held no warmth; he stared straight at me, making me uneasy. I quickly looked away.

At that moment, drums and music began in the Shrine Court.

From inside the hall, I could see the courtyard packed with nine hundred figures, all dancing to the “Great Music of the Shrine.” The formation was magnificent, as if it could swallow mountains and rivers.

Everyone in the hall couldn’t help but watch, their laughter and small talk gradually fading.

“Yongan,” Princess Taiping suddenly turned her head and, over the thunderous drums and music, said to me, “you still look pale. What did the imperial physician say?” I quickly set down my teacup and replied, “He’s nearly recovered; only needs another half month of rest to completely shake off the lingering chill.”

Taiping nodded and said, “There have been quite a few illnesses these days.

Chongjian has had a high fever that won’t break, so he couldn’t come to Luoyang with me.” When she mentioned her younger son being ill, I hurriedly asked, “Duke of Yingguo is sick too?

Is it serious?” Taiping gave a short laugh and said, “Not serious. Like you, he falls ill every winter — I’ve grown used to it.

Chengqi, though — he’s always been slight, but has never had a major illness; that worries me.”

I heard her muttering half to herself, and for a moment I was left speechless, unable to respond.

His illness was mentioned casually by Yiping, said to have been whispered within the Imperial Medical Office; at the time I was sick enough to barely register anything, and it stabbed me like a fresh wound.

Later when Shen Qiu arrived she didn’t bring it up at all — her pulse-taking and prescriptions were eerily calm. I stared at her multiple times wanting to ask, but in the end not a single word came out.

Taiping said a few more things, and I answered perfunctorily; after the banquet we returned to Taichu Palace.

Since that ritual, the Imperial Aunt-Grandmother would be permanently staying at Taichu Palace in Luoyang, so naturally I no longer returned to Chang’an.

The novelty of arriving in Luoyang a year ago had long since faded; the Daming Palace felt haunted at every turn, so moving to Taichu Palace was for the best.

At dinner, Wan’er came and said that Aunt Imperial had suddenly taken a fancy to go watch the Hu people’s songs and dances and wanted us all to go along for some excitement.

I hugged the brazier and looked at her, hesitating a moment before saying, “I don’t want to go.” Wan’er studied me closely and said, “It’s been almost half a month—why haven’t you gotten any better?” I knew she wasn’t talking about this illness but about that matter; my chest tightened and I murmured, “I can’t forget.

I’ve been holding back from asking you.”

Wan’er smiled and said, “If you ask me, I’ll tell you—will hearing it make you better?” As she spoke she sat down beside me and added, “Forget it.

Having too good a memory isn’t a blessing.” I glanced at her but said nothing.

She was silent for a moment, then said, “I wrote the edict deposing Xian myself; it was that very decree that drove him to his doom.”

I froze for a moment, then immediately understood.

The person who led her along the palace paths, the one she said cherished Prince Yongping, the one who made her kneel in the Penglai Hall begging regardless of life or death, the one she still couldn’t forget after all these years—was Li Xian, the prince who was ultimately sentenced to death on charges of treason.

She glanced at me and smiled, pale and weak.

“I still can’t forget every single character on the edict; I even remember the feeling of holding the brush clearly, yet I still have to sit by your imperial great-aunt’s side every day, smiling as I scheme against everyone,” she said, stunned for a moment, then added, “It’s been almost ten years in a blink.

Aren’t you still alive and well? Come on, Prince Yongping has arrived too—he’s in the hall keeping her company.”

I was so startled I stood up, but she pressed my shoulder down with one hand and laughed, “Don’t rush — have Yiping bring a warm piece of clothing.” After she spoke she called Yiping in from outside the door and personally directed the dressing.

I watched in the bronze mirror as Yiping held up piece after piece of jewelry; just as I was about to tell her to be casual about it, Wan’er spoke first: “I remember you have that upturned jade hairpin — why haven’t I seen you wear it in so long?”

I hurriedly said, “I don’t even know where I threw it,” and as I spoke I told Yiping, “Something casual will do.”

When we entered the Hall of Longevity it was already warm inside and full of people.

My imperial grandaunt and Wei Tuan’er were speaking softly; when they saw me come forward and bow they smiled and said, “Quick, go sit.” I rose and walked past the crown prince and the tables of the other sons, never daring to look up, and hurried to sit behind the only vacant table.

It was only then I noticed that the palacemaid attending beside me was an old acquaintance from in front of Fengyang Gate.

She gave a subtle smile and refilled my tea.

I looked at her and asked quietly, “What’s your name?” We’d known each other for over a year, yet I still didn’t know her name.

She hesitated a moment, then whispered back, “Your Highness the Commandery Princess, this servant is Yuan Yue.” After she finished speaking, she immediately bowed and stepped back.

I lifted the cup and pretended to glance casually at the others. When I passed the Crown Prince, I paused slightly; Li Chengqi still wore a faint smile, looking a bit thin after his serious illness.

The imperial grandaunt seemed very concerned for him, constantly asking about his medications and the doctor’s instructions. He answered each question with utmost courtesy, without a single slip or mistake.

Only when the singing and dancing began did the imperial grandaunt stop watching him.

Li Chengyi stood at his side; it seemed he noticed me looking that way. He glanced up at me and lightly bumped him with his shoulder.

Only then did he turn his head back, gave me a brief, indifferent once-over, and without any pause bowed his head and said something to Li Chengyi.

A sour tightness swelled in my chest and I lowered my head. All the laughter and merriment felt muffled, as if separated by a veil of mist, no longer clear to my ears.