When Zhao Yan swept her up, he was shocked by how alarmingly light she was.
He suddenly recalled that she had spent the entire night sewing the pouch; by now, she had likely been awake for nearly two days and nights. No wonder she had fallen into such a deep, sound slumber.
His black outer robe slipped from her shoulder, revealing a hideous red mark on her collarbone. He narrowed his eyes to inspect it; the injury looked as if it had been dealt by a blunt instrument, and the skin over her collarbone was already bruised a dark, sickly purple.
The body in his arms shivered suddenly. Weimo unconsciously buried her face into the wine-stained fabric of his chest, her warm breath imprinting onto his skin through the damp, semi-wet clothing.
Wei Xiao followed behind with a lantern, but upon seeing his master kick open the door to the side chamber, he hurriedly lowered his head to stare at the rain splashing against the ground. "Shall I summon the manor physician—"
"Fetch the Yuji Ointment."
Zhao Yan tossed her onto the silk-covered mattress, though he instinctively guarded the back of her head when she frowned in pain. As he pulled her outer robe back another inch, more tiny scars snaked down from her collarbone, looking like a mutilated map.
Her slender wrists hung limply off the edge of the bed; they didn't even look as thick as two of his fingers. On one, there was a burn scar the size of a thumbprint.
She had once claimed that she had accidentally broken one of Su Wanzhao’s hairs a fortnight ago, but looking closely now, the layers of old and new scars clearly showed she had been burned in the same spot multiple times.
Thunder rumbled outside the window. The porcelain jar of Yuji Ointment turned and lingered in Zhao Yan's palm. The rustle of her turning over on the bed tightened his throat. "She sleeps soundly enough," he muttered.
He pulled the silk quilt over her and lowered the bed curtains before turning to leave.
As he stepped out, Wei Xiao was waiting in the shadows of the corridor with an oil lantern. Zhao Yan took a portrait from his sleeve; the dim light illuminated the willow-leaf eyebrows of the woman in the painting.
"The birth chart of the Vice Minister Wen’s legitimate daughter has also arrived," Wei Xiao said, his expression slightly tense. "Consort De said... the third day of next month is auspicious for the betrothal ceremony."
His Consort Mother did not like Su Wanzhao and had personally selected a secondary consort for him. It was the woman in the painting: Wen Qingyu, the daughter of the Minister of Rites.
Zhao Yan glanced at it indifferently. "I will defer to Mother's wishes."
Wen Yuanzheng, Wen Qingyu's father, was a man of great talent and would eventually become a core pillar of his political faction.
***
By dusk, when Weimo awoke, the first thing she smelled was the faint, bitter almond scent of Yuji Ointment.
There was only a sliver of light left in the room, enough to discern her surroundings. She recognized this as the side chamber of Qinshui Pavilion.
In her past life, when she had risked her life to prove Su Wanzhao’s innocence and was nearly beaten to death by Zhao Yan’s orders, she had lain in this very room for over a month.
She fumbled for the flint on the bedside table to light the oil lamp. Beside it, along with the Yuji Ointment and a golden python-patterned jade belt, she found a set of neatly folded water-cloud silk robes.
They were a deep, vibrant purple—a color she had never worn before. Such an ostentatious hue hardly suited her current status.
She ran her fingers over the bloodstain on the eyes of the python on the jade belt—a stain she had inadvertently left while she was unconscious the night before. The sewing basket now contained peacock-silk thread, and the needles were still threaded with the same snow-silkworm silk she had been using before she fell asleep.
"Miss Weimo, are you awake?"
A knock sounded at the door, and Wei Xiao’s shadow was cast against the yellowed window paper.
"Master Wei, what time is it?"
"The fourth quarter of the You hour."
Weimo was startled. She had actually slept for nearly nine hours...
Outside, the faint sound of iron armor clinked. "The Prince has ordered you to try on that robe and see if it fits."
Weimo picked up an embroidery needle from the basket and began working on the python's claws under the lamplight. "The Princess Consort will not be pleased."
Wei Xiao tightened his grip on his sword hilt. "You are always saying you fear the Princess Consort won't be pleased. Is she... is she very unkind to you?"
Weimo’s lips curled, though there was no trace of a smile.
Words spoken unintentionally were the most thought-provoking. Every remark she let slip would erode the public's favor toward Su Wanzhao, bit by bit. Even someone as noble as a Princess Consort would eventually find herself at a dead end if she lost the hearts of those around her.
No further sound came from the room. Wei Xiao wiped his sweat-dampened palms, hesitated for a moment, and then tried again, "You were caught in the rain last night. Shall I fetch the physician for you?"
"I am grateful for your concern, Master Wei, but this servant is quite well."
Wei Xiao gave an awkward smile, muttering to himself, "There's no need to call me Master Wei..."
***
Weimo’s fingers moved with lightning speed, and she felt no fatigue even as the night passed. By the time the sky turned pale, the python's eyes, stitched with sky-blue silk, were finally complete.
The morning dew was heavy, soaking her coarse linen collar until it was icy and damp. She tucked the jade belt into her tunic and headed toward Zhao Yan's study. Zhao Yan rose every day at the fourth quarter of the Yin hour; he should be having breakfast in the study now.
Zhao Yan used his gold-inlaid jade chopsticks to pick up half a dark red osmanthus-chestnut cake. The thick, cloying smell of scorched sugar rushed straight into his nose. He frowned in displeasure. "Did you make this?"
"Cook Xue made it," Wei Xiao said, staring at the charred red pastry and feeling that it must be cloyingly sweet. "Perhaps... too much sugar was added?"
Weimo stood quietly at the bottom of the steps, holding the jade belt, and cast a secret glance at the small square cake being judged by the jade chopsticks.
Zhao Yan did not like sweets, yet he had a particular fondness for osmanthus-chestnut cakes. He loved the rich scent of osmanthus, the faint aroma of fresh chestnuts, and the subtle, barely-there sweetness. If sugar powder were added, it would become overly cloying, turning it into the very thing he loathed most. One had to replace the sugar powder with a small amount of rock candy and simmer it over a low fire to draw out the natural fragrance of the flowers and nuts—only then would it suit his discerning palate.
In her past life, she had spent hours picking osmanthus and steaming chestnuts, refining the recipe repeatedly, only so that Su Wanzhao could firmly bind this man’s heart through his stomach. Su Wanzhao only had to stir the osmanthus syrup with a silver spoon a few times before confidently claiming it was her own handiwork.
The jade chopsticks suddenly slipped from Zhao Yan’s grip. The taste from his memories flooded his tongue, leaving him instantly drained of his appetite.
As he stood up, he caught sight of the slender figure cowering at the foot of the stairs, clutching the golden python jade belt.
"Why are you not wearing the new clothes?"
Weimo lowered her head and held the belt out to him. "This servant’s status is low; I am unworthy of such fine material."
Zhao Yan felt a surge of pride and gave an annoyed huff. "Suit yourself."
As his fingers brushed the golden python on the black base, his breath hitched. The satin stitch provided a relief-like texture, making the gold-thread scales appear layered. The stitching in the softer areas was dense and uniform, not a fraction of a hair off. The python’s body exuded a majestic aura, the folds near its tail seemingly concealing the smoke of frontier wars, while its blue-silver vertical pupils held a gaze that seemed to swallow the world.
He had merely thought the little servant girl was narrow-minded, never expecting her embroidery to be so exquisite and magnificent.
The morning light warmed, and he looked at the woman’s dew-kissed long lashes. "When I attend court today, I shall wear this nine-clawed golden python belt."
Weimo hesitated and pulled her arms back two inches. "But the jade stones have not yet been inlaid."
The man reached out and seized her wrist. "Such vulgar trinkets are merely a burden."
When Zhao Yan left Qinshui Pavilion, the scent of peppermint gradually dissipated with him.
Wei Xiao looked at her in amazement. "The Prince has never been so happy. You are truly remarkable."
Weimo shielded her eyes from the rising sun. "Master Wei, do you have any fresh silver osmanthus and chestnuts?"
"I do!"
***
When he returned to the manor, Zhao Yan was famished.
On the low table under the Linfeng Verandah, a plate of osmanthus-chestnut cakes sat quietly. Unlike the ones from the morning, these two had a lighter sugar color and a much richer osmanthus fragrance.
As he bit into the cake, the crisp sweetness of rock sugar mingled with the astringent, fresh fragrance of osmanthus, washing over his throat. Zhao Yan’s chewing slowed, and his knuckles, gripping the teacup, turned white from the force.
In her later years, the Empress’s temperament had changed drastically, and even her cooking had become sharp and bitter. Every cake she brought him tasted nothing like the ones in his memories. In his past life, amidst all the delicacies of the palace, he had missed this elegant, subtle fragrance the most—yet after searching for over twenty years in vain, he had gone to his grave with that regret.
He finished both small cakes in one go. When he reached for more, the plate was already empty.
Still feeling unsatisfied, he crushed the remaining crumbs between his fingertips. "The Princess Consort was very thoughtful."
Wei Xiao poked his head in. "Replying to the Prince, this was prepared by Miss Weimo... just before she left."
"What?"
The lingering scent of osmanthus pierced through his fingertips. That frail, thin figure suddenly collided with his heart, causing his throat to bob violently.