Song Juguang wore darkly-coloured sleep attire, her figure slender and tall. She held the teacup, respectfully and deferentially standing before Jiang Changbai's bed, no different from the other maids. Jiang Changbai looked at her in astonishment, a great shock in her heart. For a moment, she didn't know what to do, her extended hand halting in midair, and then she awkwardly drew it back to scratch behind her ear. "Didn't Bixia say she was thirsty?" Song Juguang asked, lightly holding the cup up before Jiang Changbai. Yet Jiang Changbai didn't take it, only staring at her. Song Juguang, seeing this, didn't actually say much more; she neatly drank half the hot water in the cup. Then, she held the cup before Jiang Changbai again, not forgetting to explain herself. "Just now, this minister also felt a bit thirsty." Only at this did Jiang Changbai hesitantly take the cup, her palm sensing the heat seeping from the cup. She sighed softly, and swallowe...

Translator's note: The title for this one is a nightmare to try and render in English, since there's no concise way to convey 和亲 (heqin), a marriage meant for establishing peaceful relations between nations. As a result the title of this chapter is far clunkier than the others have been, much to my dismay. Also, apologies for another late update—life has been getting the better of me. - At a pace neither neither frenetic nor slow, in the end, the group didn't manage to make it back to the palace before morning court the next day. When they returned, it was already noon, and the sunlight seeped through the wide open windows, lighting up the ink on the inkstone so it shone grey. The carved wooden doors of the Shengru Palace, the heavy, gold-plated window lattices, all seemed to have gained a layer of warmth. Xie Qianbing was just standing before the desk, her brows faintly furrowed, her hands carefully and cautiously flipping through the memorials on its surface. The desk bef...

Sanshu's home was even more dilapidated than Xiao Douding's; the courtyard gate, which hadn't been repaired in a long while, clattered in the wind, and in the corner of the yard was piled a dust-covered dustpan and basket, the vine on the trellis having withered long ago, a few dried loofah gourds hanging down, and smoked meat as stiff as wood. Thinking on it, one knew that it wasn't often visited by its owner; even the smoked meat was dejected, hanging from the hemp rope that was about to snap, like a suspended beam. Song Shijiu entered the room directly; the aunt had covered her mouth and nose, and was crying without speaking, a few tears dropping before she wiped them away, and she said with a choked voice, "He's beyond hope." Song Shijiu grasped her hand, and gently patted it a few times. "No need to panic." Once she finished speaking, she headed towards the low bed. The room was incredibly small, and once the group entered, it seemed crowded...

Douding'r's home hadn't been this bustling in a long while; his aunt, Shijiu, Shiyi, Tu Laoyao, and two young children sat neatly around a table, the sounds of pots and bowls and ladles and plates bumping against each other rising and falling in succession; the couple of people had taken off the strips of cloth, and, washing their hands, had started to eat; only Chun Ping still covered her face, a leg lifted in habit, raising a mantou underneath. Eating like this wasn't convenient at all; she could have taken a bowl of food and gone to eat in her room alone, but she didn't much want to leave Song Shijiu, and so she went through this exasperatingly slow, incredibly complicated process. Song Shijiu asked a bit about his Sanshu's condition, and then urged his aunt to take the medicinal decoction back in a while, single-mindedly raking up a few mouthfuls of food, still not having much inclination to get close to Li Shiyi. Only on seeing everyone had more or less fin...

The officials keeping guard at the relay station had received the news early on. Before Jiang Changbai had even stepped inside, she saw them reverentially waiting outside. The Great Li's bureaucracy hadn't originally had women. Even in this small relay station, from the postmaster at the head, to the tea-pouring waiters at the bottom, not a single spot had been given to a woman. But in the turmoil of a month ago, it had been affected by the flames of war; the ones who'd worked here had died or fled, and once the situation was stabilised, only a single, empty building remained. Then, keeping up with the loosening of restrictions once Jiang Changbai had ascended the throne, now, in all parts of this relay station, the workers were, to the one, actually women. The postmaster, seeing Jiang Changbai and the group walking in, hurried to welcome them in, saying with a smile, "Daren, you must be tired from your travels; go on up and rest." Actually, the postmaster had no ...

Jiang Changbai had witnessed death many times. The weakening cries after servants who'd taken advantage of that provided by the Prince's residence while ingratiating themselves to outsiders had been whipped; the guilty ministers who'd been beheaded underneath the scorching midday sun, their heads tumbling and rolling a distance; even her father, Prince Ling, eyes suddenly widening after hearing Song Juguang's forces had encircled the capital, body crashing against the ground with a " bang ". They'd all died, unresigned. But she'd never seen this sort of death. The old woman laid calmly on the, the light of the candles which had yet to burn out lighting up her wan face, the traces of blood around her lips not yet dried, slowly and sluggishly trickling. But her expression was incredibly tranquil, and the corners of her lips were pulled in a slight curve, a calm in the eyes which she hadn't managed to close. It seemed as if death had freed her of worl...

The village of Hejia was halfway up the mountain, not easy to find; it was only with great difficulty, asking the tea merchants along the way, that they found the path. And it wasn't clear if it was a misconception, but the complexions of a few tea sellers, carrying shoulder poles, changed greatly when they heard the three characters of "Hejia village", wanting to speak but hesitating and hurriedly pointing out the route, then lowered their heads and added water to the pots, not breathing a word of the matter. On the journey upwards, the skies began to gradually become painted with black, twilight settling heavily, like a crude clay bowl having been overturned. Atop the mountain, in the end, was cooler than the foot, and the snow along the path had yet to melt clean; the further up they walked, the more the snow became piled on, and the path was also covered in a layer of slippery ice, only with a feew fragmentary footprints and wheel ruts, as if almost no one had walked ...