When there’s no common ground, even half a sentence is too much—but for now, Jiang Nong and Yu Lingxin had decided to spare each other’s wretched lives.
To be precise, Jiang Nong unilaterally agreed to play their respective roles and coexist peacefully, on the grounds that the disasters of the previous life hadn’t yet occurred, and there was still room for redemption.
On the seventeenth day of the eleventh month, a heavy snow fell, blanketing everything in silver. Jiang Nong had never seen such a massive snowfall. She stood by the window in wonder—snowy days were actually warmer than usual. She reached out to catch a flake, but before she could count its petals, it melted in her palm.
Annoyed, she shook her hand off and caught a few more with her sleeve. But her robe was moon-white, and the snow was even harder to see against it.
Yu Lingxin, lying on a daybed reading, was roused by the wind. He looked up and saw Jiang Nong by the window, catching snow like a kitten, wide-eyed, examining the shape of each flake in her palm. He also noticed she’d deliberately opened the window toward him—letting the cold air blow his way.
If she still loved him, would she have let him suffer even a breath of wind?
He propped his chin up and watched for a while, then asked: “What are you looking at?”
“None of your business.”
Yu Lingxin got up, smoothed his sleeves, and stood beside her at the window. He caught some snow in his palm and offered it to her: “Count them.”
His body temperature was much colder than hers; the snow would last longer in his hand.
Jiang Nong lowered her head, her eyelids fluttering—clearly wanting to look at him but resisting. From his angle, he could see her lashes blinking rapidly.
She reached out and hovered her finger over his palm. He felt her warm fingertip just barely touch his palm—tingling, warm—but she was cruel: before he could savor it, she withdrew.
She discovered that snowflakes did indeed have six petals, just as the books said. How magical was heaven to create such exquisite little things?
Yu Lingxin asked: “Did you count them? How many petals?”
She frowned: “Can’t you see for yourself? Why ask me?”
“I can’t see clearly.”
She couldn’t quite name the feeling that arose—a guilty conscience, like poking at someone’s disability. She shook her hand off, turned away, and said grumpily: “Six.” Then she shut the window.
The next day, Jiang Nong was to host a banquet at Zhuoxue Pavilion for the noblewomen. Yu Lingxin briefly explained the current political situation.
There were three factions: Grand Chancellor Lü Chengchen, together with Imperial Clan Minister Han Yuncheng and Minister of Agriculture Wang Baozhen; Grand Commandant Situ Ming, who controlled the nation’s military; and Censor-in-Chief Li Zhishan, who oversaw judicial and penal affairs. They stood in a precarious balance, each waiting for an opportunity. The other officials had also picked sides—many had once supported other contenders and distrusted Yu Lingxin.
The Lü faction had been badly weakened; for now, the three factions were roughly balanced. The Commandant of the Guards and the Chief Steward were Yu Lingxin’s own men. But it wouldn’t be until next spring, when provincial officials came to Fengye for their annual audience, that he could promote his allies.
This time around, he’d been rushed and hadn’t yet had time to set everything in order.
Yu Lingxin had dealt ruthlessly with the Prince of Xishan’s followers, using connections as pretext to replace and imprison a wave of officials. The court was uneasy. Most of them were implicated in the succession struggle in one way or another—and seeing Yu Lingxin as no merciful ruler, they feared that one day old cases would be reopened and they’d be caught in the purge.
Yu Lingxin said they had two paths.
One: continue with iron-fisted suppression, purging wave after wave until the court was filled with obedient loyalists.
This was what he’d done in his past life—and the hatred it generated was beyond description. The poison sent into his palace would have been enough to kill every citizen in the city if poured into the moat. The bodies of maids and eunuchs dragged out could have formed a mountain. His ministers feared and loathed him, wanting him dead but unable to kill him—so they groveled and flattered, trembling, and from this came his reputation as a tyrant.
The moment he finished, Jiang Nong said firmly: “I choose the second!”
Who would be bold enough to choose the first? Yu Lingxin would—but she wouldn’t. He was a child of fate; she wasn’t. One misstep and she’d be ground to dust. She couldn’t live with one eye open every night.
She’d seen how stubbornly Yu Lingxin clung to life—his fate fierce, his five elements strong. His life chart could fell a tree. Iron-willed, impossible to kill: cinnabar didn’t poison him, an arrow to the chest didn’t kill him. Even being given a second life proved that calamity endures for a thousand years.
Yu Lingxin leaned back and spread his hands: “Then you’ll have to work a little harder.”
She thought: no amount of work is harder than the constant threat of death.
The second path: after making an example of a few, offer reassurance—the carrot and the stick. Yu Lingxin knew only the stick; the carrot would have to come from her.
As empress, her words and manner would reflect the emperor’s intentions. The noblewomen rushing to present themselves at court were proof of this—they sought to curry favor with the empress, to glean the emperor’s will, and convey it to their husbands, so that the ministers might know whether to expect thunder or gentle rain.
Jiang Nong understood this well—she’d seen it often in Xi.
But with a husband like Yu Lingxin, she’d likely have a harder time of it than her mother the Empress.
Biting her nail, Jiang Nong thought about how to handle tomorrow’s gathering. Just chatting and conveying intentions seemed too thin—the inner treasury was still empty, while these ministers’ households were dripping with fat.
Yu Lingxin sat there cracking nuts with a pop-pop sound. He flicked her hand away with his thumb and forefinger, pressed down on her lower lip with his right hand, and popped a pistachio shell into her mouth—while the kernel went into his own. “Bite this—it’s more satisfying.”
Before he could pull his hand back, Jiang Nong bit down hard, drawing blood. The pain shot through his fingertip, making him suck in a sharp breath.
She spat twice and hurriedly looked for tea to rinse her mouth. Last time she’d swallowed his blood, she’d burned with fever for three days.
The next day at noon, the floor heating in Zhuoxue Pavilion was warm and cozy. Green plum blossoms bloomed in the heated room, their rich fragrance lifting the spirits. Yu Lingxin had gone early to inspect the Golden Guard at the Northern Camp. As they parted, Jiang Nong put on a fine show of a loving wife, personally fastening his cloak—reluctant to see him go: “Your Majesty, take care, don’t catch cold, and come back early.”
The only trouble was that the cloak’s tie nearly became a white silk noose around Yu Lingxin’s neck.
He clicked his tongue, pressing her hand: “The Empress is most thoughtful. Let me do it myself.”
A young maid nearby couldn’t help but snicker—then, realizing her mistake, dropped to her knees with a thud, trembling.
Yu Lingxin’s fingers looped the thin cord and tied it himself. His expression unchanged, he said flatly: “Take her out.”
The staff of Xuan Shi Hall had been replaced again and again due to spies; the new ones were young, barely eleven or twelve. Attendant Xunliang had warned them that His Majesty had a difficult temper and they must be cautious—but they hadn’t taken it seriously. Now, as the guards seized her arms, the maid realized Xunliang had been telling the truth. She shook violently, kowtowing desperately.
Yu Lingxin’s cruelty wasn’t the loud kind—no raging, no smashing, no sword-wielding outbursts. It was cold, calm, even smiling, without so much as a glance spared—an unyielding brutality.
Jiang Nong knew what “take her out” meant. In her past life, she’d naively thought it meant a few lashes—until those dragged out never reappeared, and she realized she’d been too merciful in her judgment.
She grabbed his collar, smiling sweetly as she adjusted it—but in truth, she’d twisted it tight. He had to press her hand down just to breathe.
“Your Majesty, she’s very young. When I first met Xunliang, he was about her age. Young people are naturally a bit flighty. She needn’t serve in the main hall—have Tongye take her to a senior matron for proper training.”
“A few lashes as a lesson, then.”
“The cold makes wounds hard to heal. The New Year is coming—let this be an act of mercy.” Her eyes warned him not to push it—she’d given him face in public.
He gripped her hand firmly, his fingers sliding between hers, interlacing—then released: “As the Empress wishes.”
The young maid collapsed, tears in her eyes.
The other attendants breathed a collective sigh of relief.
Though they didn’t fully understand the dynamic, the staff of Xuan Shi Hall had grown used to it by now—good one moment, bad the next. Daily squabbles, big fights every three days, always ending as if nothing had happened—they never even separated. They could only take it as “love and hate are two sides of the same coin.”
It was good for them. Since His Majesty’s temper had turned, at least the Empress could shield them somewhat—preventing them from losing their lives for nothing.
After seeing Yu Lingxin off, Jiang Nong arrived at Zhuoxue Pavilion to find the noblewomen and princesses already present. They all rose to pay their respects—a dazzling array of silk and perfume, plum fragrance diluted by spices. The competition was fierce, but not unpleasant, adding warmth to the hall.
Several ladies presented gifts, offering early New Year’s greetings. Tongye whispered in her ear, identifying each wife—Madame Situ, for instance, was neither overly sycophantic nor deferential, clearly not in need of testing the imperial will.
Jiang Nong, cradling her teacup, smiled and responded to each in turn, showing no coldness, appearing easy to please—yet they could not easily discern her stance, leaving them unsettled.
After a round of pleasantries, Jiang Nong steered the conversation to the main point. Her slim white fingers traced the rim of her cup absently, and then she said with a hint of concern: “I come from the south, where I seldom see such heavy snow. Xi is not as cold as Tan, yet every year there are people suffering from frostbite. I cannot help but think how much harder winter must be for the people of Tan.”
Some caught her meaning immediately. The wife of the Chief Steward said quickly: “Every winter, many poor folk freeze to death on the streets. It breaks my heart, but I am only a woman of little influence.”
The others echoed her sentiment, lamenting the people’s hardships.
“Ladies, your empathy moves me deeply,” Jiang Nong said. “Both the state and inner treasuries are depleted. His Majesty and the ministers work in unity before the court, and surely you ladies are not content to fall behind. I propose that I take the lead—you add what you can—and we contribute to the people’s welfare. What do you think?”
Leave a Reply