That single sentence was like an impossibly fine thread wrapped around the very tip of my heart—any careless movement would tighten it, threatening to cut off life itself.

I gently traced the rim of my cup with my index finger, pondering how to respond—when suddenly, she smiled and said, “Alright, I won’t press you further. Yidu has already told me everything.” She sighed meaningfully.

I returned her smile. Whatever Yidu had said, at least it had smoothed over the lie. “There’s something else that’s been puzzling me endlessly,” I added. She tilted her head slightly, watching me expectantly. After a brief pause, I smiled again and asked, “How did Sister Wan’er know that the Prince and I would definitely enter the Imperial Garden through the West Gate?”

I had intended to shift the topic with this question, hoping to ease her suspicions. To my surprise, her expression suddenly darkened; she stood there silently for a moment before saying, “I once walked that path with someone—someone who happens to hold deep affection for the Prince of Yongping from his childhood. Thus, I surmised the Prince is almost certainly familiar with this route. If he wished to evade most of the palace’s watchful eyes, this would be the safest way.”

Her words were deliberately vague, yet I instantly sensed that “that person” held a position of great prominence.

After Wan’er left, Yiping entered to clear away the tea set and, while doing so, carefully gathered up my calligraphy practice sheets. As she worked, she couldn’t help but praise how much more refined my brushwork had become. Her comment jolted my memory—I suddenly recalled why I’d sought her out this morning, and hurriedly asked, “Did you handle the handwritten poetry scroll Wan’er gave me?”

Yiping paused to think, then placed the calligraphy sheets into a chest and retrieved from its bottom a slim volume bound in plain, unmarked cover. “Is this the one, Your Highness?” she asked. I took it, flipped through the pages, and exhaled deeply in relief. “Thank goodness—thank goodness! I’d feared for my life! If this scroll fell into the hands of anyone with ill intent, it would surely spell disaster.”

Yiping sucked in a sharp breath and cautiously glanced at me. “Shall I steal it and burn it, Your Highness?”

Burn it? I had never even considered that option. When Wan’er first stole it for me, she’d said this was the only surviving scroll in the entire Daming Palace—and she’d transcribed it from memory of her childhood. If I burned it… My fingers tightened around the scroll as I hesitated—until, unbidden, his intense, unfathomable gaze and his solemn warning flashed into my mind.

“Never mind,” I handed the scroll to Yiping. “Burn it. Even if hidden perfectly, it remains a source of danger.”

Though I cannot escape the palace’s hidden arrows, I must at least guard against its open perils.

The autumn night was cool, yet several startling peals of thunder echoed.

Hearing the thunder, I felt strangely unsettled. Just as I was about to hand the book to Yiping, I abruptly withdrew my hand: “If you burn things outside the palace, someone is bound to see. Bring in a brazier instead—I’ll say I’m feeling cold.” Yiping understood at once, nodded, and stepped out briefly before returning with servants carrying a brazier. She then dismissed the other palace maids and personally tore the book apart, carefully burning each page one by one.

I stared fixedly at the flames in the brazier, heart aching fiercely—had I known it would come to this, I would have read far more of it beforehand.

After Yiping finished burning the book, she fetched a pair of candle snips and meticulously poked at any unburnt fragments until every trace had been reduced to ash, fully mingling with the charcoal dust.

She straightened up, stretched her waist, and sighed, “Thank goodness I fumigate the bed curtains with incense every night—otherwise, someone might catch the scent and ask questions.” I rested my chin on my hand and gazed at her, feeling utterly exhausted after the day’s emotional turmoil. “You didn’t mention it, so I hadn’t noticed—now I’m suddenly so sleepy! By the way, I’d actually gone to the Yeting Palace to look for you today. Why didn’t you stay and take your medicine? Where did you go instead?”

“Has Your Highness forgotten?” Yiping picked up the incense burner she’d prepared earlier and walked slowly around the bed curtains. “Every month on the first and fifteenth days—the *shuo* and *wang*—the princes surnamed Wu must enter the palace to pay homage to His Majesty. Today, a palace maid sent by Prince Liang summoned me away and relayed some instructions.”

Wu Sansi? By seniority, he’s my maternal uncle—but since my father never particularly favored the Wu clan’s political influence, our family has kept a respectful distance from them. At most, we exchange polite pleasantries when we happen to meet in the palace—and even those brief greetings usually occur only because I often accompany my imperial great-aunt, Empress Dowager Wu. Come to think of it, the day Di Renjie was appointed chancellor was probably the longest conversation I’ve ever had with him. So why would he single out my maid to deliver private instructions?

I hummed noncommittally and asked, “What exactly did he say?”

“Truth be told, I don’t quite understand,” Yiping placed the incense burner on the small table inside the canopy bed and repeated what she’d heard: “This imperial audience requires the Princess to arrive earlier than usual—there’ll surely be some entertaining spectacle to witness.” I froze, a faint unease creeping up from deep within me. “Anything else?”

Yiping shook her head lightly. “Nothing more—just that one sentence. Then Miss Wan’er came looking for me.”

I hummed softly in acknowledgment and asked no further questions.

That remark left me distracted for several days, and the Great Ming Palace was shrouded in overcast rain for just as long.

That day, as usual, I fell asleep very early. Since the next day was the first day of the lunar month—the shuo-wang—I spent the entire night entangled in a thousand thoughts and worries; by the time I drifted into a hazy half-sleep, dawn had already begun to break faintly. I pushed aside the lotus-patterned canopy, only to find the candle in the incense burner extinguished; its rich fragrance clung thick and heavy within the dense curtains, making my head feel even more dazed and sluggish.

Yiping, hearing the movement, hurriedly lifted the curtains and entered to assist me with washing and dressing. Only after she had tied the silk ribbons of my skirt did I begin to regain some clarity: “This rain seems like it will never stop—have you been to the Inner Teaching Academy these past few days?”

Yiping stuck out her tongue and replied, “These past few days, the Princess has been feeling rather unwell, so I made up an excuse and didn’t go.”

What a lazy girl! I smiled at her and said, “Don’t look down on the knowledge taught at the Inner Teaching Academy—Wan’er herself came from there. Besides, while you’re still young, take this opportunity to learn more songs, dances, and acrobatic arts; who knows—you might one day perform for the imperial princes and rise to prominence in a single step.”

“The Princess is not even twelve years old—how can she possibly be instructing maidservants?” Yiping was only this sharp-tongued when speaking with me. “Miss Wan’er is the descendant of a renowned minister; naturally, I can’t compare to her. Besides, ever since His Majesty ascended the throne, palace maids have grown rather lax—after all, our sovereign is now a woman, and most of the imperial princes and grandsons are no longer residing within the palace.”

I tapped her on the head and whispered, “Say things like that only to me—understood?”

Yiping nodded obediently and gently guided me to sit before the dressing table. “Today you’ll be attending the banquet with His Majesty in the Lingqi Hall, Your Highness—do please keep your spirits up.” Gazing quietly at my reflection in the mirror, I said, “Keep it simple—I’d rather not steal the spotlight, especially with so many princesses attending today.”

Yiping complied without protest, murmuring softly, “Stealing the spotlight wouldn’t be so bad—His Majesty might just grant us a marriage edict out of sheer delight.”

I remained silent as she carefully affixed the crescent-shaped flower to my forehead. Only after she finished did I finally exhale deeply and say, “Breakfast should be especially hearty today—go instruct the kitchen to prepare something lavish, so that I won’t dare eat lunch and end up starving until dinner.”

Yi Ping nodded and departed to carry out my instructions.

Lifting my skirt, I walked to the palace gate. A heavy curtain of rain obscured heaven and earth. Rainwater streamed down from the eaves, cascading in countless rivulets. I drew a deep breath, still pondering tomorrow’s affairs: What kind of spectacle could possibly prompt Prince Liang himself to offer a warning—yet one so vague and ambiguous?

I thought for a moment, then gave up helplessly. If it’s not meant to be, then I simply won’t go—why overthink it?

When I snapped back to reality, I noticed a palace maid I’d never seen before standing beneath the distant corridor—she seemed intent on approaching me.

I casually dismissed the maid stationed at the doorway and beckoned to her. She immediately dashed over. Upon reaching me, she hastily performed a formal bow and withdrew a silk-wrapped bundle from her sleeve: “This is from Prince Yongping for Her Highness the Princess.”

Puzzled, I glanced at her, but she offered no further explanation—only extended the silk bundle a little closer. Not wishing to embarrass her, I accepted it; before I could utter another word, she bowed deeply and scurried off.

Once back inside my chamber, I deliberately drew the curtains, sat upon the bed, and opened the silk bundle. Inside lay a folded note and a book.

The handwriting on the paper was bold and vigorous, elegant yet unpretentious—truly a reflection of its author: “His Majesty has long adhered to Ji Kang’s philosophy of nourishing life. As the imperial palace holds no complete manuscript of *Shi Si Lun* (*On Casting Aside Selfishness*), I have transcribed this volume by hand for His Majesty’s reference.”

Only a few lines—no signature.

I had heard of Ji Kang’s *Shi Si Lun*, but most writings from the Wei-Jin period have been lost, and I had never seen a complete scroll. I picked up the volume and opened it; for a moment, I felt disoriented. Flipping through several pages, I found the calligraphy identical to that on the note… Could this truly be a transcription done by his own hand?

Holding the scroll, I felt as though I were touching his cool fingertips. The sound of rain falling outside gradually faded, leaving only the damp, humid air.

I stared silently at a page, only realizing moments later that I hadn’t retained a single character.

“Your Highness?”

Yi Ping softly called from outside the curtain. Hastily, I tucked the letter away, leaving only the book on the bed. “I’m feeling rather tired—I’d like to rest for a while,” I said, then reached out and lowered the hibiscus canopy.

“I’ll return in an hour,” Yi Ping murmured, “The banquet at Lingqi Palace cannot be delayed.”

I murmured an acknowledgment, then lay back on the bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Having slept poorly the entire night, drowsiness suddenly overwhelmed me, and I drifted off again.

When I awoke, it was already nearing the hour of Si (9–11 a.m.). Yi Ping had long since prepared everything, attended to me, and helped me tidy up once more. Then, escorted in a soft sedan chair, I arrived outside the Lingqi Palace. As I stepped down, a clear, bright peal of laughter floated out from within.

That voice was unmistakable—the Princess Yongtai, daughter of Prince Luling.

Though both were sons of the Empress Dowager, Prince Luling’s fortune seemed even less auspicious than that of the Crown Prince: having ascended the throne for only two months, he was abruptly demoted and banished from the capital, accompanied solely by his consort, Lady Wei, while all their children remained behind in the Daming Palace. Of course, two princesses were born during their exile—Princess Anle, who stayed with Lady Wei, and the younger Princess Yongtai, who was sent back to the palace.

For a seven-year-old princess, the previous turmoil felt distant and remote. The bright spring scenery of the Daming Palace was the very soil in which she grew—she had no idea how fortunate she was compared to her elder sister, whom she had never even met.

I sighed wistfully for quite some time, smoothed my robes, instructed a eunuch to announce my arrival, then stood quietly for a moment before entering the hall.

Inside the hall, incense smoke curled gently through the air. Behind the imperial dragon-bed, twenty-eight palace maids held pheasant-feather fans and carried gilded censers, burning agarwood and orchid-leaf-scented incense. Eighteen eunuchs in dark-blue robes stood silently behind them, each holding a ceremonial whisk. Delicate music played softly from behind the screen, its notes weaving subtly through the air.

Because of this banquet, servants had already used warming stoves to dispel the palace’s dampness, filling the entire chamber with gentle, soothing warmth.

Yongtai was still smiling as she sat back down. The Emperor, dressed in a crimson-and-gold robe with wide sleeves, reclined elegantly on a couch, his phoenix-shaped eyes lowered as he listened to Princess Taiping speak. Suddenly, he smiled warmly, shook his head lightly, and lifted his gaze toward me.

“Your Imperial Highness,” I bowed deeply.

The Emperor smiled gently and nodded, saying, “Please, be seated.”

I responded with a soft “Yes,” then bowed respectfully to each of the princesses before taking my seat behind the low table nearest the hall’s entrance. Only after settling in did I notice that several additional low tables had been placed in the hall today—still empty, with no one yet seated at them.

As the palace maids swiftly arranged the dishes, the Emperor appeared in no hurry to pick up his chopsticks. Instead, he glanced briefly at those assembled and smiled, saying, “Princess Taiping speaks truly—how time flies! They’ve all grown into young ladies already.” Princess Taiping, in turn, beamed and added, “Except for Yongtai, they’re all of marriageable age.”

Her flowing silk scarves whirled about her arms and waist, fluttering with her resplendent robes and tugging at everyone’s thoughts.

Once the Emperor had spoken, a betrothal was surely intended—yet no one knew which princess would this time be wed into a court minister’s family. The princesses seated at the banquet grew somewhat anxious, while Wan’er, standing behind the Emperor’s throne, wore an expression of quiet understanding.

I lowered my head, gazing into my jade cup, watching the emerald tea leaves settle gently at the bottom—utterly calm.

By age and by status, it was certainly not my turn at this moment.

Just as everyone’s thoughts were wandering, a eunuch from the palace gate suddenly entered to announce: “Your Majesty, several princes are waiting outside the palace gates.”