Chapter Eleven: The Empress Dowager’s Letter

Yang Fugui watched as Li Yanhe ate Lin Miao-miao's leftovers, and said to him, “Brother Li, you truly cherish your wife. Just look at how much you care for her!”

As he spoke, Yang Fugui added a piece of meat to his own wife's bowl. Yang Lin-shi smiled but remained silent. She was a straightforward country woman, not given to saying sweet words. She pressed her lips together, hiding a smile. In truth, she already felt very fortunate—her husband was a good man, and she suffered no oppression from in-laws. Life was good enough.

Traditionally, men and women dined separately from the age of three, but in the countryside, such customs were less strictly observed. Moreover, Li Yanhe was still in mourning, and as for Lin Miao-miao and the others, their circumstances made such formalities even less relevant—they adapted to local ways as they went along.

Lin Miao-miao herself was a modern soul, not well-versed in ancient etiquette, and she was still just a child. Thus, the meal passed joyfully for everyone. There was even a rabbit, which had been butchered, but Lin Miao-miao hadn’t yet cooked it; she had simply salted the meat for later.

She planned to prepare a delicious lunch with it the next day. In her modern life, she had always loved roast rabbit, though her roommate could never stomach it. Because she was so fond of barbecue, Lin Miao-miao had devoted herself to perfecting the art—what made grilled food truly delicious?

She once succeeded in roasting a suckling pig, and her entire dormitory celebrated, even though Lin Miao-miao was not a graduate of Dongfang Culinary School. Her skills, however, were no less than those of the professional chefs. Thinking of her current situation, Lin Miao-miao couldn’t help but sigh. She wondered if her parents, upon her “death,” would be inconsolable, and whether her modern body was truly dead, or languishing as a vegetable.

Lying in bed, her mind whirled with these thoughts until, eventually, sleep claimed her. In her dreams, she became a wandering spirit, witnessing the face of the driver who struck her down. She flew at him, landing a punch squarely in his face.

Meanwhile, Li Yanhe, holding his chin, glanced at the restless child beside him and sighed.

That night, Yang Lin-shi smacked her lips as she reminisced over the rich braised chicken they’d just eaten. She said to Yang Fugui, “Expensive ingredients truly do make better meals.”

Yang Fugui said nothing, so she went on, “That Li Zhong doesn’t look like an ordinary person, and the little girl with him only ever talks about sugar and white rice. Don’t you think they’re unusual?”

“Do you think they’ll bring trouble down on our family?”

Growing impatient with his wife’s endless muttering, Yang Fugui replied, “They’re just staying for a month. You worry too much about nothing.”

“They gave us money to stay in our house. We shouldn’t ask questions, covet their things, or take advantage, and nothing will happen.”

After a moment, he added, “Our life is thriving now. Since we split from the family, we don’t have to give all our money to my parents. We can live our own lives.”

Hearing this, Yang Lin-shi nodded. She realized she’d been fretting too much—rather than minding her own business, she’d been worrying over others for no good reason.

She’d finally worked her way out from under her in-laws’ thumb; why not simply live well instead of letting her thoughts wander uselessly?

Lin Miao-miao thought she would have trouble sleeping, since she’d napped that afternoon. But as soon as Li Yanhe held her in his arms, drowsiness overtook her.

In the night, Li Yanhe heard doves cooing outside. He quietly left the room, Dark Seven following behind. Li Yanhe picked up the carrier pigeon.

To make communication with his subordinates easier, he always carried a special sachet that let his pigeons find him. He opened the message tied to the bird’s leg, raised his brows at its contents, then used a fire striker to burn the note.

Waving the pigeon away, he completed the whole process in absolute silence; even Lin Miao-miao, fast asleep on the bed, had no idea he’d left with Dark Seven during the night.

At the military camp in Da’an Pass, Yuan Sihan watched the newly returned pigeon. The message contained only a single word: “Wait.” There was no further instruction. Yuan Sihan rushed overnight to Da’an Pass, but the Third Prince, Li Tai’an, was close behind.

The next morning, after court, Emperor Yongchang sat in his study, reading the urgent dispatch that had arrived the night before from eight hundred li away. He opened the memorial, which read: “To Father Emperor, I am well. I am deep behind enemy lines, contending with many foes. This time, with the nomads invading, I will surely drive them out.”

After reading, Emperor Yongchang let out a cold laugh, tossed the memorial onto the desk, and said to Chief Eunuch Bai Qiu, “My sons are all grown up now.”

Bai Qiu bowed his head even lower, not daring to utter a word. At moments like this, the emperor simply wished to muse aloud; there was no need for anyone else to speak—just listen quietly. As a eunuch, how could he presume to comment on state affairs? Besides, when the emperor spoke of his sons growing up, it was not with genuine paternal pride. He was simply remarking on the careful calculations of Prince Shengxuan.

Emperor Yongchang said, “Prepare my carriage. We are going to Yongshou Palace.”

Yongshou Palace was the residence of Noble Consort Xianrou, Yuan Chuxia. By the time the emperor arrived, it was nearly noon, and Yuan Chuxia was sipping tea.

Bai Qiu was about to announce the emperor’s arrival, but Emperor Yongchang waved him off, not wishing to disturb the tranquil, almost picturesque scene before him.

Noble Consort Xianrou lived up to her title. Though she was born to a general’s family, she had none of that martial air. Instead, she was serene, elegant, and breathtakingly beautiful. Every time the emperor entered her palace and saw her, his heart would race anew.

They had been sweethearts in their youth, and even after all these years, Emperor Yongchang could still recall the stirrings of young love.

Seeing him, Yuan Chuxia smiled and said, “The sun is still harsh outside. Though autumn has begun, it’s still hot. Why linger outside instead of coming in?”

Emperor Yongchang smiled back, “I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

In that moment, they seemed like any married couple. Though Noble Consort Huang held a lofty title, she was still but a concubine; the emperor had only one empress.

With a wave of his hand, the emperor dismissed everyone from the hall, leaving only himself and Yuan Chuxia.

She smiled gently, handed him a cup of tea, and said, “Your Majesty, these are troubled times. Sooner or later, the imperial court will need the General’s Mansion. If you are so anxious, I could write a letter of dismissal for my brother, just in case…”

Survival in the palace demanded shrewdness; those who lasted were all astute. The harem and the court were deeply intertwined. There were too many women with too many faces in the palace. Yuan Chuxia was no fool—she understood why Emperor Yongchang had come today.

He looked at this dignified, poised woman as she sat quietly, neither fawning nor flattering. He smiled and said, “I didn’t come to talk about the General’s Mansion, nor about Grand General Yuan Sihan. I wanted to speak to you about Yanhe.”

“When he was in trouble before, you had many sleepless nights. Today, Yanhe sent a memorial assuring me of his well-being, so I came to tell you in person.”

Gazing at her, his eyes softened, and a genuine smile broke across his face. “I understand. Thank you, Your Majesty,” Yuan Chuxia replied, using the formal title. His visit to Yongshou Palace today was clearly for their son’s sake.

They shared lunch together. When the emperor left, Yuan Chuxia watched him go in silence, her thoughts inscrutable. She smiled faintly to herself. “When the court changes, so does the harem; every step shifts the next.”

As Emperor Yongchang departed with Bai Qiu, he suddenly turned to look back. He saw Yuan Chuxia gazing at his retreating figure. For a moment, a pang struck his heart—she was still standing there, yet something had changed.

After he left, Yuan Chuxia swayed, then coughed up blood. Smiling wryly, she said to the old maid behind her, “It seems I have only a few years left.”

“My lady, you…” the maid began, but seeing Yuan Chuxia’s gesture, she fell silent and withdrew.

Yuan Chuxia returned to her chambers to write a letter to Li Yanhe at Da’an Pass.

The letter soon arrived at Emperor Yongchang’s study. He read the consort’s letter to Prince Shengxuan, Li Yanhe. It was proper, with not a trace of impropriety—just like Yuan Chuxia herself. The tone of the letter also revealed the emperor’s own attitude.

He resealed the letter and handed it to Bai Qiu. “Send this off.”

Bai Qiu took the letter and departed, bowing low. No wonder Yuan Chuxia had retained the emperor’s favor for so many years—she was simply too valuable.

Just days earlier, Bai Qiu had delivered another letter for the emperor—also written by Yuan Chuxia, but this one was to Grand General Yuan Sihan. After reading it, the emperor had been greatly pleased.