Bi Luo and Linglan were busy arranging Fu Ying’s hair and makeup.
On her wedding day, she was dressed in pearls and kingfisher feathers, magnificent robes flowing about her, yet her expression carried a calm entirely at odds with such a joyous occasion.
“Miss, you are the most beautiful bride this servant has ever seen in her life.”
Linglan said with heartfelt admiration, inserting the final kingfisher-feather phoenix hairpin, strung with pearls, into Fu Ying’s hair.
The crimson gems set into the golden phoenix crown gleamed brilliantly, the embroidery on her rosy shawl was delicate and fine, and the red satin robe was rich and elegant, setting off her already stunning face with an even more radiant glow.
Hearing Linglan’s praise, Fu Ying only smiled, looking at the elaborately dressed woman in the mirror, a trace of sorrow and melancholy tinting her eyes.
——Father, you once told me you would find the best husband in this world for me.
——Today your daughter is getting married, and yet you are no longer in this world……
——If your spirit still lingers somewhere, could you bless your daughter with smooth fortune from here on?
Fu Ying sank into deep thought, tears glistening in her eyes.
“Young lady, let’s go.”
Knowing she was thinking again of the late Khan, Bi Luo gently touched her arm and reminded her softly.
Seeing the auspicious hour had arrived, the head matron, beaming with smiles, took up the red bridal veil hung with golden-threaded tassels and carefully draped it over Fu Ying, concealing her beauty entirely beneath the red silk.
“This servant’s fortune has been thin, only able to attend the young lady until now. I hope you will take good care of yourself.”
Fu Ying nodded slightly, bowing to bid the head matron farewell, thanking her for her devoted care over the past half month.
Supported on either side, she was helped up into the ornately carved, vermilion-lacquered palanquin.
At once, gongs and drums thundered, suona horns played, and the whole grand procession set off, leaving Daming Palace behind.
The streets in the afternoon were thick with bustling crowds, everyone curious at this bridal procession that had no groom in attendance.
Only after an elder explained it did people come to understand, when a prince took in a secondary consort, he need not come in person, the bridal procession simply needed to escort her back to the residence.
The emperor cherished Wen Zhuo so deeply that, upon his coming of age, he had designated Xingqing Palace, located within Chunming Gate on the eastern side of Chang’an, as the Prince of Wei’s residence, extravagant in the extreme, magnificent beyond compare.
Sitting upright inside the palanquin, Fu Ying’s thoughts drifted far away, so much so that even the sound of the music seemed unable to reach her ears.
The journey to the residence felt both fleeting and unbearably long.
Since she had no family of her own, the wedding proceedings were kept entirely simple, and she was carried directly by the bridal palanquin to her residence within the estate.
Furong Pavilion was the place Wen Zhuo had arranged for her to live.
The courtyard was expansive, the pavilion’s eaves curving gracefully upward, layer upon layer of glazed tiles rippling like green waves, the patterns on the doors and windows exquisite and refined.
Clear water encircled the grounds, flowers bloomed in lush clusters, trees grew thick and vigorous with dense foliage, and a cool breeze carried a faint, hidden fragrance.
Once Fu Ying stepped down from the palanquin, servants came forward respectfully to instruct her: “Please wait here at ease, madam, until His Highness arrives.”
Bi Luo supported Fu Ying by the arm, and once they had entered Furong Pavilion together, she shut the door behind them.
“Whew—”
With no one else around, the two of them let out a long breath at the exact same moment.
Having served as mistress and maid for so long, they naturally understood one another perfectly.
At that moment, Wen Zhuo was hosting a banquet for guests in the residence’s main hall. Since he had done away with most of the formalities, Fu Ying, as a secondary consort, needed only wait for Wen Zhuo to come to her that evening.
She was grateful he could be so “considerate,” sparing her from having to meet all those unfamiliar members of the Great Yong imperial family.
The joy of the occasion belonged to them, while she… had nothing at all.
Fu Ying pulled off her veil at once, sitting down on a round stool, paying no attention to the lavish, festive red decor filling the room, no longer bothering to maintain her poised, gentle composure, nor caring to observe the elaborate customs of a Central Plains wedding.
“Bi Luo, I’ll rest for a while. Be sure to wake me early when His Highness arrives.”
Bi Luo nodded. Fu Ying had been up since before dawn, washing and dressing, sitting upright without a moment’s rest until now, she must be utterly exhausted.
She reminded Fu Ying to be careful of her makeup while sleeping, then went to wait outside the door.
……
As dusk fell.
Fu Ying rested her arms on the eight-immortals table, her head full of pearls and gold and kingfisher feathers, her eyes closed in deep sleep.
Her breathing was calm and even, every trace of restraint and worry set aside, and she slept there peacefully.
A flurry of hurried footsteps came from downstairs, followed by Bi Luo’s anxious call.
“Young lady, wake up quickly, His Highness is here!”
“Mm—”
Woken after only a short rest, Fu Ying frowned in discomfort, yawned, and sat up straight.
She shook out her numbed arm, about to rub her sleepy eyes with the back of her hand.
Seeing this, Bi Luo hurriedly grabbed her hand: “Don’t rub your eyes, you’ll ruin your makeup. Here, let me put your veil back on for you.”
With quick, practiced movements, she straightened Fu Ying’s clothing and headdress, draped the veil back over her, and helped her sit properly on the edge of the bed.
Looking at it now, this flurry of activity made it seem as though she had been sitting quietly, waiting, ever since first entering Furong Pavilion.
“Creak—”
The door hinge turned, letting out the sound of wood and metal grinding against each other.
A series of steady footsteps drew closer and closer, approaching slowly.
“This servant greets Your Highness.”
Bi Luo looked up at the man approaching, and with just that one glance, her heart pounded like a drum as she lowered her head and bowed.
Wen Zhuo was tall and imposing, dressed in a red robe with sleeve cuffs embroidered in golden thread with dragon patterns, his face handsome and sharp, his sword-like brows rising into his temples, a frost seeming to have settled in the depths of his eyes.
He had just been exchanging toasts with the guests at the wedding banquet, and must have drunk a fair amount, yet his expression remained perfectly composed, showing no sign of drunkenness at all, only carrying a faint scent of wine about him.
Bi Luo had only ever seen Wen Zhuo unconscious, back in that thatched cottage outside Yunzhou, and vaguely remembered his appearance.
Although she had already heard the full story of what had passed between them from Fu Ying, she still could not help but feel that fate had played a cruel joke on them.
“Leave us.”
Wen Zhuo said only these two flat words, leaning on his cane, and walked forward.
“As you command.”
Bi Luo glanced worriedly at Fu Ying, then, reluctantly withdrawing her gaze, left Furong Pavilion and shut the door behind her.
Wen Zhuo glanced at the sandalwood tray on the cabinet, where a lustrous jade ruyi scepter rested.
Fu Ying sat on the bed, hands crossed in front of her, poised and elegant, waiting for him.
He raised his thick brows and asked coldly: “Must this prince lift your veil for you as well?”
The slender figure in red visibly stiffened.
After a moment’s hesitation, a pair of hands, delicate as young willow branches, gently lifted the veil, revealing a face of stunning beauty.
Fu Ying usually wore only the lightest touch of makeup, her face like a lotus, elegant and understated as a painting, but today, in her full bridal finery, she was even more incomparably graceful, a beauty beyond description.
Biting her crimson lip softly, she called to him quietly: “Your Highness.”
Having not seen him in a long while, Wen Zhuo’s face remained just as sinister and indifferent as before.
He was naturally self-indulgent and unrestrained by nature, and seeing no one else around, had simply grown too lazy to bother with any of the customary etiquette.
Even if the two of them were husband and wife in name only, she was, after all, the bride, for her to have to lift the veil herself was something entirely unheard of.
In the next moment, however, Wen Zhuo picked up a cup of nuptial wine from the table and handed it to her.
“By our ancestors’ custom, no matter what, the nuptial wine must still be drunk.”
A flicker crossed Fu Ying’s brow, and for a moment she could not find words.
In her childhood, studying medicine in the Central Plains, she had heard that among the Han people, on their wedding night, the newly married couple would drink nuptial wine together, symbolizing that from that moment on, husband and wife became one, never to be parted.
Wen Zhuo was Han himself, and should surely understand the meaning behind this custom.
If they were only to be husband and wife in appearance, having her lift her own veil, then why bother drinking this wine of such special significance at all?
“Once you drink this wine, Your Highness, you will be bound to share weal and woe with this concubine, as close as lips and teeth.”
Wen Zhuo’s face remained frosty, and he said only one word: “Drink.”
Taking this as his tacit consent, Fu Ying took the cup and raised it to her lips, her left sleeve shielding her face, her right hand lifting the cup as she tilted her head back and drained it, her movements gentle and graceful, as lovely as a scene from poetry and painting.
The wine was not strong, carrying a faint sweetness.
Wen Zhuo, sitting at the table, raised his hand and drained another cup.
His tolerance for alcohol was excellent, having drunk so much at the banquet already, he showed no sign of intoxication at all, his expression unchanged.
Fu Ying, who never touched wine at all, could still clearly feel a burning sensation spreading through her throat and stomach.
She coughed softly a few times, and once her throat had settled somewhat, looked up at Wen Zhuo.
“Your Highness, can we now speak plainly and openly with one another, with nothing held back?”
Wen Zhuo narrowed his eyes slightly, his gaze toward her like two cold arrows, carrying a merciless, bone-deep chill.
“Speak plainly. This prince has no patience for riddles.”
Fu Ying paused, then finally voiced her doubt: “Your Highness, this concubine has laid out everything, holding nothing back, yet Your Highness still seems wary, keeping something hidden from me.”
Wen Zhuo’s sword-like brows shot up, his long, narrow phoenix eyes glaring at her, their color dark and fathomless.
The air around him seemed tainted by the chill radiating from his body.
Seeing him remain silent, Fu Ying took a deep breath, gathered her courage, and met his gaze directly, looking straight back at him.
“Your Highness’s knee shows no sign of trouble at all, where is this leg ailment coming from? This concubine does not understand why Your Highness would use this to deceive others.”
Wen Zhuo’s face darkened completely, his eyes looking as though they meant to cut her to a thousand pieces.
“What makes you say such a thing?”
In Fu Ying’s mind, the scene of herself in that low, humble cottage, treating his unconscious knee wound with all her heart and skill, rose up vividly.
After piecing back together Wen Zhuo’s shattered kneecap, she had been fully confident his leg would heal completely.
Her confidence in her own medical skill was, of course, thanks to the careful training of her master, Xu Ji.
Xu Ji was a physician of great renown throughout Chang’an, who in his middle age had left the city, his medical travels reaching every corner of the northwest and the south of the Yangtze.
His medical skill was extraordinarily profound, particularly excelling in treating poison and in surgery. Skilled beyond compare, his touch could bring the dying back to life, earning him unanimous praise from countless people.
Fu Ying had become Xu Ji’s student at the age of six, and had now practiced medicine for a full ten years.
For this reason, there was no way Wen Zhuo’s leg, having received her fullest effort in treatment, could still remain permanently impaired.
Fu Ying said firmly: “If the knee were truly afflicted, it would necessarily be stiff, unable to bend as flexibly as an ordinary person’s. But Your Highness’s difficulty in walking lies in the ankle, the knee moves perfectly normally.”
What answered her was a low, icy laugh, like the prelude to a violent storm.
“Crack—”
The nuptial wine cup was slammed down hard onto the table, its base shattering into fragments of jade of varying sizes.
Wen Zhuo swept his hand out sharply, casting aside the cane he had been leaning on, letting it crash against the wooden cabinet nearby with a thunderous sound.
He rose to his feet and stepped forward, his left leg moving no differently at all from an ordinary person’s, entirely unhindered.
Watching his steady, even stride, Fu Ying felt a surge of turmoil in her heart, now that she had exposed the truth, he had completely dropped his disguise.
Wen Zhuo stood before her, his tall figure blocking out most of the candlelight, casting a shadow over her, enveloping her entirely as though inside a massive cage, with nowhere left to flee.
“You are far too sharp and clever. Keeping you at my side is truly like keeping a thunderclap waiting to strike. This prince already somewhat regrets not having simply eliminated you back in Xianqing Hall.”
Wen Zhuo drew Longya, the saber at his waist, and thrust it straight toward Fu Ying, pressing it against her throat, an unusually vicious light flashing in his cold eyes.
“Those who know too much rarely live long. Still, it’s not too late to kill you now.”