Chapter 19
That night, Ye Ying dreamed once again.
What one thinks by day, one dreams by night. In her dream, distant green mountains loomed faintly, with a single thread of western wind.
On a sheer cliff stood a youth clad in crimson, sword dancing with extraordinary skill. His sword shadows gradually merged with the red maples, the fading sun, and the autumn waters—the hues of the mountains and the sky all infused into the sword’s momentum.
Upon waking the first time, the room was silent and still; outside, the moon shone brightly, stars faint. Stepping outside, she found the pond empty and the water cold, the world around her steeped in a chill clarity.
As the Zhongyuan Festival approached, the autumnal air grew thick. The summer’s cool rush of bamboo and rush mats had become a thing of the past.
Ye Ying lifted her gaze to the sky, reflecting on the dream just past.
She possessed a rare gift—upon waking, the details of her dreams remained vivid, and even within the dream, she could deeply feel the emotions she experienced. Perhaps a side effect of crossing worlds? Ha! How she wished every beautiful thing she dreamed might come true.
She knew that once Elder Liu received the letter, he would surely come to the capital. She had great faith in his medical skill, but as days passed since arriving at the mansion, she became increasingly aware of the stark realities of social hierarchy.
This was the capital, home to the illustrious Cui family of Boling, the emperor’s chief ministers, and those close to the throne. A name associated with such titles meant the person must be among the highest nobility here.
Seeking medical help, which might be difficult for ordinary folk, would surely be effortless for him.
Besides, even the Imperial Medical Bureau, which gathered the finest doctors in the land, declared there was no cure—could Elder Liu, a mere village doctor, truly possess such miraculous skill?
Yet she could not help but wonder: wasn’t Doctor Zhang also more skilled than the imperial physicians? Perhaps true masters did dwell among the common people after all.
She found herself sinking into a mindset much like Bai Zhu’s—longing for a doctor, yet dreading the inevitable answer from the next healer she consulted.
How strange. Hadn’t she known the truth from the start?
Ye Ying shook her head, a chill wind cutting across her neck, and returned to sleep.
When she awoke again, sunlight slanted into the room. Groggy, she stared for a moment before realization dawned—oh no, she was late for her duties in the kitchen, a grave matter indeed!
Since entering service, this was her first oversleeping. Without hesitation, she hurriedly dressed and tidied her hair. Just then, Su He entered with a smile.
“I saw you’ve been exhausted these past few days. You slept well this morning, so I didn’t wake you. Don’t worry—everything’s under control.”
Ye Ying paused, her first reaction not relief but a question: “How did the young master’s visit go?”
Su He studied her expression, then smiled knowingly. “Quite well.”
Upon hearing this, Ye Ying was at a loss—disappointed, or something else. After a moment’s blankness, she nodded. “That’s good. Thank you. If I ever oversleep again, please wake me.”
Su He smiled back. “We all serve the young master. No need to thank me. Since Bai Zhu asked me to help in the kitchen, it wouldn’t be fair to leave you to handle everything alone.”
Ye Ying opened her mouth to speak, but Su He had already changed the subject, and the matter was dropped.
On the way to the study, she bumped into Cang Wu, who said, “I was just looking for you, sister. The young master requested more snacks and drinks to be prepared. A distinguished guest will arrive soon.”
A guest at the Bamboo Garden was rare, and this one seemed important.
Ye Ying replied, “Very well,” then returned to the kitchen to contemplate.
At the cusp of late summer and early autumn, the street vendors in the capital carried specialties from the southern water towns—chicken head rice, tender lotus pods, jade-well lotus roots, water caltrops. The matron of the household favored sweet and soft delicacies, so the kitchen had been busy procuring these, much to Ye Ying’s benefit.
Outside the study, she was stopped. Cang Wu took the snacks and said, “I’ll go.”
Ye Ying glanced over and saw a man in a deep sage-green official robe standing guard by the door. His face was pale and clean-shaven, an arm resting on a fly whisk.
Could it be a prince?
Unable to enter nor wander off, Ye Ying sat quietly in the tea room where the maids rested, listening to the summons.
There were osmanthus and glutinous rice lotus roots, fragrant milk water caltrop cakes, chicken head rice stuffed with sugar, and a pot of sweet lotus seed soup. The lotus seeds had been carefully purged of their bitterness; the removed cores dried for tea, known to calm the spirit and reduce heat.
The lotus root was fragrant with glutinous rice, the water caltrops crisp and tender, gardenia flower cakes delicately sweet, and the honey-glazed chicken head rice oozed syrupy sweetness with every bite.
A simple yam cake concealed various fillings—red date paste, sesame, and fruit—each piece distinct. Sweet but not cloying, it carried the gentle grace of the southern mist, a refined scholar’s elegance.
The emperor smiled approvingly. “The snacks from Linnan rival those of the famed Honey Roasting Bureau. No wonder you looked down on them—your home must have something better.”
Back when he served in the Hanlin Academy, on nights when he was on duty, the imperial kitchens always prepared small refreshments for officials to stave off hunger and dullness.
For someone like Cui Yuan, a favored minister in the emperor’s confidence, the emperor often bestowed nourishing broths and soups.
Cui Yuan’s temperament resembled his grandfather, the revered Prime Minister Cui—unconcerned with mere appetite, a fact well known to the emperor. Yet today, on this incognito visit, he was surprised to discover such culinary skill within the Cui household.
Beyond the exquisite flavors and presentation, what astonished him most was the osmanthus-glutinous rice lotus root. Upon tasting, a faintly familiar sensation stirred—vague, yet elusive.
The emperor did not dwell on it, for since his ascension he had been locked in a struggle for power with the Empress Dowager, to the point of exhaustion and ill health. Now he required daily medication from the imperial physicians and calming incense just to sleep soundly through the night.
Poor rest at night often left him foggy and distracted by day.
His heart was especially troubled by his missing daughter, lost beyond reach—an ever-present worry that gnawed at him relentlessly.
Thinking of this, the sweetness of the cakes seemed to turn sour and bitter. The emperor looked at Cui Yuan, who was quietly savoring the delicacies. Originally, Cui Yuan was his most promising minister—young, talented, and rare in being as loyal as his grandfather. After some years of trial and the purging of remaining He faction supporters in court, Cui’s appointment as chancellor was inevitable.
Yet fate had willed otherwise.
His father had also perished on the journey back to the capital after uncovering the He faction’s crimes in Yuzhou.
Was heaven truly against him, leaving a hen to crow at dawn while traitors wreaked havoc and loyal men died without heirs?
Though the cakes were sweet, the emperor tasted bitterness and regret.
During a game of weiqi, sensing the emperor’s distraction, Cui Yuan asked gently, “Your Majesty, is something troubling you lately?”
The emperor sighed deeply.
“The Empress Dowager’s birthday approaches at month’s end. The He family intends to emulate the late emperor by hosting a ‘Thousand Elders Banquet,’ issuing an edict requiring officials to bring elderly family members over seventy, healthy and long-lived, to the palace to pay respects.” He sneered.
Cui Yuan’s lips twitched.
The previous emperor had been great in his prime but grew erratic in old age. In pursuit of immortality, he heeded a wandering Taoist, amassed concubines, obsessed over elixirs, and devised the Thousand Elders Banquet as a guise of imperial favor, secretly attempting to harness the luck of long-lived elders to extend his own life.
Now the Empress Dowager seemed to be following the same path.
Cui Yuan said nothing, but the look in his eyes conveyed irony and disgust clearly enough for the emperor to understand.
For a man of such integrity, how deep must his loathing be to reveal such a countenance?
The emperor did not feel his imperial authority insulted.
He and the Empress Dowager were not mother and son by blood; countless deaths and bitter feuds lay between them, a feud to the death.
He wished he could tear her apart with his own hands.
But he could not. She was his mother in law and law; as long as he reigned, he had to maintain the semblance of filial piety for the world’s sake.
Even though she had destroyed his birth mother, his children, his consorts—all who had treated him with genuine loyalty—he was bound to act dutifully.
Yet the Empress Dowager was mortal flesh and blood; she would age, grow ill, and die—one day she would walk before the emperor himself. Then he could purge her minions and bring justice to those once persecuted by the He family.
She must be afraid, too, hence treading the late emperor’s path in defiance of fate.
The thought alone brought him a secret satisfaction.
But the emperor’s visit today was not merely to ease his mind.
“Do you still remember Liu Miao from Linnan?”
Cui Yuan nodded.
Liu Miao, former head of the Imperial Medical Bureau and master to the current acupuncturist Zhang Yu, possessed exceptional healing skills. Seventeen years ago, he was dismissed from court after failing to cure King Ling, and Zhang Yu was implicated as well.
The emperor looked at Cui Yuan. “In truth, I did not punish him out of anger for King Ling’s case. I sent him away for another matter—something only I trusted him with. But he betrayed that trust.”
Cui Yuan could not fathom what secret the emperor had buried in his heart for seventeen years, never confiding even in his grandfather, now seeking him out instead—a man gravely ill.
It must be of utmost importance.
“I beg Your Majesty, please speak freely. I shall not refuse,” Cui Yuan said.
The emperor spoke slowly, “I have a daughter.”
“Back then, when King Ling was gravely ill, I was deeply troubled. Drinking with your grandfather at the mansion, after some wine, I was with a favored concubine…”
Ye Ying heard her name called—it was a little maid she played with often, beckoning her to help tend the flowers along the garden wall.
Bai Zhu was gone, and today the mulberry leaves were absent too. Among the servants of Bamboo Garden, besides the two young scribes, Ye Ying was now closest to the young master.
Though she was a novice at horticulture, she directed with her own aesthetic sense: “No leaving branches on the south side, none left on the north, none low on the east, none high on the west. Remove the coarse and keep the fine, cut the straight and leave the slanting…”
The little maid, confused, snipped heedlessly, leaving the once lush hydrangea bare.
Bare… the two of them crouched by the shrub, worried.
Cang Wu called softly, “Sister Ying!”
Ye Ying turned to see the guest had silently departed.
The eunuch in an ash-colored robe had yet to go far. Curious, Ye Ying stole a glance and caught sight of a pale apricot-yellow figure flickering through the corridor. The face was indistinct, but a noble aura radiated unmistakably.
Could it truly be a prince?
Ye Ying gazed curiously but, seeing nothing further, withdrew her eyes.
The Cui estate was splendid. As the emperor admired the surroundings, his peripheral vision caught a delicate profile—familiar, yet strange. Turning for a better look, he saw only an unfamiliar young maid’s back. Perhaps a trick of the eyes.
His mind still heavy with thoughts of his lost daughter, he had little heart for scenery. He returned to his sedan chair and said, “Return to the palace.”