I had naturally heard much about him—before entering the palace, I’d heard tales of the Crown Prince’s jade flute, whose melodies were said to be endlessly enchanting. Even then, I’d already imagined in my mind a man of extraordinary talent since childhood, deeply versed in music and rhythm.

Alas, when I entered the palace to serve Empress Wu regularly, it was precisely when he was led out of the Daming Palace and deposed. To avoid suspicion, his father—the Emperor—had deliberately relocated all his offspring outside the Daming Palace, removing them from the very center of imperial power. Was this not, in fact, a wise strategy for avoiding disaster?

I gently shook my head, about to speak—when suddenly I noticed someone approaching from afar; they seemed to have spotted me, yet hesitated, unwilling to draw nearer.

I was well aware of the gravity of the situation, so I hastily said, “The Great Ming Palace has its own strict rules and protocols. Yong’an dares not casually inquire about matters concerning the imperial heirs or grandsons. I beg leave to withdraw.” With that, I turned to leave—only to hear footsteps approaching from behind—so I quickened my pace and returned to the banquet.

Chang’an operated under a ward-market system: each day, once the government offices’ water clock signaled the end of daylight hours, six hundred drumbeats would sound to close the city gates and initiate the nightly curfew. Except during the three days of the Lantern Festival, no one dared violate this rule. Although this banquet hosted by Di Renjie was unofficial and thus no one dared actually enforce the curfew upon guests, Premier Di’s rigid adherence to protocol meant he would never set a precedent by making an exception—so the banquet ended well before the official curfew hour.

Just as our carriage approached the palace gate, the distant, resonant beat of the curfew drums echoed through the air. I lifted the curtain and gazed out at the empty streets and, ahead, the brilliantly lit Great Ming Palace. For the first time, I found something appealing about palace life—the eternal music and dancing, the endless nights filled with captivating tales and tender confessions.

How wonderful is the Great Ming Palace? At the very least, the women within its walls need not compete for the favor of a single, supreme man.

After Di Renjie was appointed as chancellor, Shangguan Wan’er clearly became much busier, and the Emperor, naturally, grew even more occupied.

Summer was drawing to a close, and chrysanthemums were in full bloom throughout the Imperial Garden. With the Emperor no longer pausing at the Chenxiang Pavilion, people like me were quite happy to occupy it instead.

One morning, I idly rummaged through the hand-copied scrolls Wan’er had given me on the bookshelf—but try as I might, I couldn’t locate the volume containing Luo Binwang’s works. Could it be…? At that single thought, a cold sweat broke out all over my body.

Luo Binwang’s name had long been forbidden for discussion within the Daming Palace. Had Wan’er not secretly slipped me this banned text, I would never have dared lay hands on it. The Li Tang dynasty had faded into distant memory, yet Luo Binwang’s famous proclamation denouncing the Wu clan still echoed vividly in my ears. If anyone inside the palace discovered it, Wan’er would certainly deny all knowledge—and I would be left with no choice but to atone with my life.

I grew weary from searching and sat down, my heart pounding with anxiety as I tried to think clearly. Suddenly, I recalled that Yi Ping had tidied the cabinet the other day. She’d been suffering from chills and fever these past few days and was still convalescing—so if I wanted clear answers, I’d have to go to the Palace of Secluded Virtue myself.

After discreetly dismissing the palace maids on duty, I went alone to the Palace of Secluded Virtue—only to discover Yi Ping wasn’t there.

Her bedding remained unmade, and the medicinal decoction on her table was still warm; no one knew where she’d gone. Yet without clarifying where Luo Binwang’s handwritten scroll had ended up, I couldn’t settle my mind today. So I decided to wander the palace grounds in search of her. Along the way, I asked several people, but none knew her whereabouts. Then it struck me: Yidu had always been close friends with Yi Ping—so I asked someone for directions and made my way to Yidu’s residence.

As I approached Yidu’s door, I heard voices inside—and just as I raised my hand to knock, I realized one of them was a man’s voice.

Could it be that I’ve stumbled upon all the palace’s hidden secrets?

I was still hesitating when the door opened. Yidu showed no surprise—she simply bowed respectfully and said, “Has the Princess Yong’an come looking for this servant?”

I gave an awkward smile and replied, “I was actually looking for Yiping, but found her medicinal decoction still warm in her room, though she herself was nowhere to be seen. Since you two have always been close, I thought I’d ask what she’s been up to lately—why she’s skipping her medicine and running about recklessly.”

“I truly don’t know where Yiping has gone,” Yidu said with a faint, knowing smile. “Everyone in the palace says those who serve the Princess Yong’an are blessed with extraordinary fortune. Only today do I truly believe that saying is true.”

She was a favored attendant of His Majesty, so naturally she spoke more freely than ordinary palace maids. I merely smiled and said, “Since Yiping isn’t here, there’s really no reason for me to stay.” Just as I turned to leave, she softly called out to me again.

Yidu opened the door and said, “Though Yiping is not here, someone inside does wish to see the Princess.”

I paused, startled—and though I’d have preferred to refuse outright, propriety left me no choice but to steel myself and step inside.

A figure clad in pale moon-white robes stood by the window, quietly turning the pages of a book. Sunlight streamed through the window, enveloping that faint, slender silhouette; a faint smile seemed to hover on his face—yet perhaps it was only my imagination; it was hard to tell for certain.

Even in youth, his charm was so captivating it could be painted—yet his character was so uniquely refined that no brush could fully capture it.

I was still startled when he tilted his head slightly and smiled—a smile so disarming that my heart suddenly felt hollow and unsteady.

I hastily bowed deeply. “Your Highness, Prince Yongping.”

Li Chengqi nodded and said, “I never expected such serendipity between Your Highness and myself. I happened to see you at the window just now and impulsively invited you in—pray forgive me for this rather abrupt gesture.”

Yidu carefully closed the door and walked to the table to pour a cup of hot tea, then stepped back two paces to stand respectfully to one side.

I rose and smiled, saying, “I hadn’t expected His Highness the Commandery Prince to be here—Princess Yong’an has unintentionally disturbed you.” Earlier, when Yidu had spoken those words, this very thought had crossed my mind—yet I’d dismissed it as absurd. Little did I expect it truly to be him.

Li Chengqi walked to the table and sat down, gazing at me in silence. With no choice but to follow suit, I sat down as well. Though I didn’t know why he’d summoned me inside, at least his master-servant relationship with Yidu no longer needed to remain hidden from me.

“Since Di Renjie assumed the post of Chief Minister, it has been over a month since I last saw Your Highness the Princess,” Li Chengqi gently pushed the teacup toward me with a warm smile. “You’re dressed rather lightly—the autumn morning dew is still quite heavy; please have some hot tea first.”

Only then did I suddenly remember that I had rushed out wearing nothing but a thin dress, my hands already frozen with cold.

I picked up the cup and held it in my hands, yet remained uncertain of his thoughts, so I could only force a smile and say, “I heard from Sister Wan’er that His Majesty has instructed all imperial princes and grandsons to move back into Zhaoqing Palace, to remain constantly by His Majesty’s side and enjoy familial bliss together. Yong’an congratulates Your Highness!”

Li Chengqi gave a faint, indifferent hum: “All unmarried members of the imperial family will be moving back into Zhaoqing Palace—no doubt the palace will become much livelier.”

Seeing his calm, detached expression, I suddenly recalled that he had once been Crown Prince; indeed, my words just now were rather awkward.

After this awkward moment, he didn’t attempt to strike up conversation again, and I could only sit there in silence beside him. Just as I was mentally scrambling for an excuse to leave, a light, rhythmic knocking sounded at the door—so sudden that my hand jerked, spilling some hot tea onto my lap and making me wince from the burn.

He remained perfectly composed, taking another sip of tea as if nothing had happened. The person outside seemed to wait a moment before gently tapping again: “Yidu?”

It was Wan’er’s voice.

Instinctively, I glanced at Li Chengqi—and finally saw a flicker of disturbance ripple across his eyes. This was the Palace Servants’ Quarters; strictly speaking, a prince shouldn’t be here at all—let alone inside the chamber of an imperial palace maid. Such chambers had no inner or outer rooms, offering absolutely no place to hide a young man.

Li Chengqi seemed to have reached the same conclusion and gently shook his head, signaling Yidu to remain silent.

At the door, Wan’er appeared even more anxious, knocking and saying, “His Majesty urgently needs something—yet today’s on-duty staff are all newcomers, and they’ve searched everywhere without success. If you don’t go immediately, we’ll all face punishment together. Are you in there? Say something!”

From Wan’er’s tone, it was clear she wouldn’t leave unless the door opened. Since the door was locked from the inside, someone must certainly be inside the room.

Hiding was no longer an option. Li Chengqi set down his teacup lightly and gestured for Yidu to open the door. Yidu hesitated, visibly torn—after all, given their respective statuses, if Wan’er detected anything suspicious between Li Chengqi and herself, she would surely be the one executed, not the emperor’s legitimate grandson.

Yet, under these circumstances, this was the only option.

Yidu finally bit her lip and walked to the door. Just then, a sudden thought crossed my mind—I had no time to stop her, so I immediately set down my teacup, sat beside Li Chengqi, and gently placed my hand over his. His hand twitched slightly, and a faint, subtle smile flickered at the corner of his mouth. Though he didn’t look at me, he seemed to have already grasped my intention.

The Daming Palace abounded with romantic entanglements; if Wan’er saw me with him… she would surely choose mercy over severity.

His fingers were cool, and slowly, he turned his hand to gently clasp mine. That single gesture alone shattered seven-tenths of my composure.

A soft click echoed as the door lock engaged. Before Yidu could even grasp the handle, a pair of delicate, fair hands pushed the door open. Clad in a light-pink short blouse and a deep-purple long skirt that hugged her slender frame, the figure hadn’t yet fully entered when her voice rang out: “What on earth are you up to? Have you hidden a man in here—?” Her words cut off abruptly as Wan’er fixed us with her narrow, startled eyes, frozen in place.

The performance had clearly achieved its intended effect. Instinctively, I tried to pull my hand away—but he gently tightened his grip, and I felt a sudden warmth creeping up my ears.

Wan’er blinked, quickly regaining her composure and bowing deeply: “Your Highness, the Prince of Jun.”

Only then did Li Chengqi release my hand. He lifted his teacup lightly, took a sip, and set it back down on the table before offering a slow, faint smile. “There’s no need for such formalities,” he said. “When I return to Zhaoqing Palace, I’ll rely heavily on your care and attention, Wan’er.”

Wan’er smiled faintly and said, “Your Highness exaggerates. The Emperor is urgently summoning Yidu, so I shall not disturb Your Highness’s tranquility any longer. Still, the Yeting Quarter is where palace maids reside—should Your Highness wish to admire scenery, you would do better visiting the Chenxiang Pavilion’s chrysanthemum garden or the Nine-Bend Bridge, where I hear numerous precious Japanese koi have recently been released.”

Li Chengqi nodded and said, “It has been quite some time since I last entered the palace—I’d nearly forgotten the beauty of the Imperial Garden.”

“The Imperial Garden offers only modest views; the Furong Garden is truly the place to go,” Wan’er chuckled lightly. “I must confess, I envy Your Highness’s freedom to enter and leave the palace at will. People say the Furong Garden boasts several famed sights—the Ziyun Tower, the Caixia Pavilion, and the Penglai Mountain are especially renowned. Yet, I’ve heard whispers that none of these pavilions, terraces, or towers compare to the ever-present figure of Prince Yongping himself—frequently seen strolling through the courtyards, standing upon the terraces, or walking within the towers.”

Li Chengqi merely smiled, saying nothing.

Wan’er gave me a subtle, almost imperceptible glance before withdrawing with Yidu.

He remained silent, sitting quietly beside me. I stared at the grain patterns on the stone table, momentarily at a loss. Listening to my own increasingly audible heartbeat, I couldn’t decide whether to stay or leave. The courage that had propelled me to reach out just moments earlier now baffled me—I doubted even a thousandfold boldness would suffice to repeat such an act now.

He suddenly stood up and said calmly, “Would you like to take a walk in the Imperial Garden?”

I hastily rose to my feet: “I’ve just remembered there’s something urgent I must attend to—” A brief silence fell over the surroundings, after which Li Chengqi gently added, “This Prince will escort you back.”

Though his words were soft and gentle, they carried an undeniable authority. Helplessly, I nodded. Yet he suddenly fell silent and motionless, and I had no choice but to remain still and quiet before him—my heart growing increasingly uneasy.

After a long while, his smile deepened slightly as he said, “Thank you.”

I quickly turned my head away to look elsewhere. “As I mentioned at Chancellor Di’s banquet, I vowed then that I would repay this favor someday. Your Highness saved me first; I am merely returning the kindness now. Truly, Your Highness’s ‘thank you’ weighs far too heavily.”

He sighed softly with a smile but offered no reply.