The dim twilight mingled with the glow of lanterns beneath the eaves, casting shifting shadows across the ground.
Pei Yue, clad in his dragon robe, stepped out of the imperial study. Two figures stood in the doorway, looking suspiciously furtive.
Adjusting his sleeves, Pei Yue clasped his hands behind his back and glanced over. The two, who had been bickering noisily, instantly fell silent and turned toward him.
Liu Kui already knew the emperor intended to visit the Ministry of Rites. The spring suburban sacrifice was imminent—on the third day of the third month, officials were dispatched to the southern suburbs to conduct the grand ritual, praying for favorable weather and peace throughout the realm. The aged Minister of Rites, who had recently taken a fall after an incident involving Pei Yue’s injured lip, stubbornly refused to recuperate at home. Instead, he had his son carry him to the office so he could continue his duties with diligence.
As a ruler who cared for his ministers, Pei Yue planned to go personally to the Ministry of Rites to discuss the procedures for the suburban sacrifice.
Though important, the matter was not urgent. To Liu Kui, the young lady was far more pressing than ritual protocols. He shot a meaningful glance at Lin Xun.
Unaware of Pei Yue’s official business, Lin Xun spoke bluntly: “Your Majesty, this minister encountered Miss Su at the Xuanwu Gate today. I wonder if she is waiting for you?”
Pei Yue’s expression shifted slightly, clearly surprised. He looked up at the sky—dark and heavy, with fine threads of rain drifting down—and then cast his gaze toward the government quarter.
Sensing his hesitation, Liu Kui nudged Lin Xun with his elbow and deliberately raised his voice: “Was the young lady anxious in manner? The wind at Xuanwu Gate is fierce—she mustn’t be left to freeze.”
Lin Xun quickly understood, lowering his eyes as he replied, “She seemed lightly dressed, without an umbrella. From her appearance, it looked as though she had something urgent to say…”
Pei Yue’s gaze lingered on the vermilion steps before Fengtian Hall. His lips pressed together, silent. His feet remained unmoving—yet it was clear his heart had already stirred.
Liu Kui immediately offered him a way out: “Your Majesty, if you go at this hour, who knows how long the discussion will drag on? The weather is cold tonight, and Minister Liu is advanced in years. Why not let him retire early and resume the matter tomorrow—it will not be too late.”
More importantly, compared with the rigid rites of the suburban sacrifice, the old minister’s true concern was the emperor’s marriage. If Pei Yue could smoothly bring that young lady into the palace, that would be the greatest comfort to his loyal servant.
Pei Yue steadied himself and calmly instructed, “Send word to the old minister. Tell him I have pressing affairs, and he should return home early to rest.”
Liu Kui beamed, bowing low: “This servant obeys.”
Just as Pei Yue was about to step forward, his gaze fell upon the dragon robe he wore. He paused, then turned inside to change his attire.
Watching his figure retreat, Liu Kui covered his smile. Glancing back to see Lin Xun still standing there, he gave him a shove: “Go on, don’t block my way. I need to change clothes too…”
Inwardly, he thought: Pei Yue clearly wished to see that young lady—otherwise, not even ten oxen could drag him out.
Moments later, master and attendants left Fengtian Hall. They should have gone straight north along the western palace road, through the imperial garden to reach the Xuanwu Gate. But since Pei Yue had concealed his identity last time, claiming to be a horse trainer, now he had no choice but to ride out through the Xihua Gate, circle along the moat to Shanglin Park, and re-enter the palace from the Xuanwu Gate.
By then the sky had grown ever darker, only a faint line of light remaining. Dense sheets of rain drifted down, filling the air.
The Xuanwu Gate had both inner and outer gates, with a broad palace road between them leading in all directions. The main gate to the south opened into the inner court, but it was kept shut year-round, leaving only the corner gates to the east and west in use. If she had come from the Yinghua Hall, she would be near the western corner gate. Pei Yue, holding an oil-paper umbrella, entered through that western gate.
Casting his gaze inward, Pei Yue swept the scene: to the left lay the walls of a side courtyard, empty and desolate; to the right stretched a neglected garden, half‑man‑high clusters of flowers scattered among towering trees that loomed against the mottled walls.
The garden was small—one glance could take it all in. No one was there.
Pei Yue first breathed a sigh of relief. In such weather, at least she was not caught in the downpour. Yet soon a faint disappointment welled up. Standing silently beneath the gate tower as wind and rain lashed the city, he was about to turn away when a faint cough drifted from the trees. The sound was nearly drowned by the rain, but Pei Yue’s ears, sharpened by years of campaigning, caught it at once. His brows tightened, and he strode quickly inside.
At the stone path where they had met before, a slender figure slowly emerged from behind the trees. She wore a plain robe, clutching a brown bundle, shrinking back against the trunk. Her dark eyes hid beneath long lashes, framed by rain‑soaked blossoms and tall trees, with the patter of raindrops weaving a melody around her—everything became her backdrop.
At the sound of his steps, she lifted her gaze. Those playful eyes, bright as spring flowers and autumn waters, suddenly came alive. There was no trace of loneliness or weary complaint; instead, her glance sparkled, her lashes tilting upward, light spilling out as she waved to him with delight.
Pei Yue led her into the guardroom beside the Xuanwu Gate.
Liu Kui had already cleared the attendants away. In the modest brick chamber, only the two remained.
The candlelight flickered, dimmed and brightened by the wind.
Pei Yue produced a clean handkerchief from somewhere and handed it to Shu Yun. She took it, wiping the rain from her face and robe. The spot she had hidden in had shielded most of her figure, so only her hem and brow bore droplets.
Soon Liu Kui brought in a glass shade to cover the lamp, then offered a hand‑warmer. Pei Yue passed it to Shu Yun, who accepted it with thanks, cradling it against her chest. Her frozen fingers slowly regained feeling.
A small table stood between them. Shu Yun sat comfortably enough, but for Pei Yue—tall and imposing—the humble tea table seemed ill‑matched. His upright figure loomed like a mountain, pressing invisibly upon the space. “On a rainy day, why wait here?” he asked.
Pei Yue’s gaze was like still water—neither unfathomable nor turbulent, calm enough to absorb any ripple with ease. Such composure inspired an involuntary sense of trust.
Shu Yun hugged the hand‑warmer, feeling a little embarrassed.
Moments before Pei Yue appeared, she had already resolved to give up, intending to leave once the rain stopped. She had weighed it carefully: if he truly minded, he would have brought it up yesterday. Since he had not, the embroidered handkerchief must already have been dealt with. To bring it up again would be needless, only dragging them both into awkwardness.
But now—Pei Yue had come.
Shu Yun quickly thought of an excuse: “Yesterday you left in such haste that I had no chance to thank you. Today I was free, so I waited here a while, hoping I might meet you and express my gratitude. I hadn’t expected the rain.”
She rose and offered him a formal bow. Though her lips spoke of thanks, in her heart she silently apologized, making amends for her offense the other day. For her, that matter was already closed.
Pei Yue lowered his lids slightly. “There’s no need for courtesy,” he said, lifting the teacup from the table and drinking.
The room fell quiet.
Outside, the rain grew heavier, making departure impossible for now. Shu Yun pressed a hand to her hungry stomach. “Have you taken supper?”
“Not yet.” Pei Yue raised his eyes to her. The damp ends of her hair clung to her cheeks, a little disordered—yet even in disarray, she was beautiful.
“You are hungry?” he asked.
If she were, he would have food sent at once.
Shu Yun quickly pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve. Inside were two plain wheat cakes, sprinkled with scallions and sesame, carrying a faint fragrance. Pei Yue looked at her in puzzlement, only to see her offer one to him.
“Have a cake to fill your stomach,” she said. Her eyes shone brightly, full of sincerity. Those liquid eyes, flowing and alive, could so easily capture a man’s heart.
Pei Yue, born to privilege and now the Son of Heaven, had never eaten worse fare than this even in the harshest days of the army. Yet he could see how much Shu Yun treasured these cakes— and she was offering what she valued most to him.
He picked up one. “You should eat too.”
Without hesitation, Shu Yun clutched the other cake and began nibbling in small bites, her movements quick but not careless, as though truly famished.
Drawn by her example, Pei Yue bit into his own. To his surprise, he caught a faint fragrance unique to young women. The cake was still warm—clearly she had kept it close to her body. His jaw tightened, a flicker of unease crossing his face. His gaze drifted to the girl opposite. Her cherry‑red lips opened and closed as she chewed, sesame clinging to their smooth surface. He recalled how, that night, those very lips had pressed unerringly against his. She had been drunk then, muddled—surely she had forgotten.
Pei Yue had not eaten such coarse fare in years, yet found it unexpectedly pleasing. “Where did you get these cakes?” he asked.
“I… stole them…” The words slipped out before she realized. With her mouth full of crumbs, Shu Yun looked up at him, eyes wide with embarrassment. “I—I didn’t mean to…”
Yesterday, Prince Linchuan’s heir, Pei Yansheng, had shown her favor, stirring the jealousy of several young ladies. At lunch today, those same girls deliberately knocked her food box to the ground, leaving her hungry. Princess Shuyue, watching from the sidelines, did nothing. Having slept poorly the night before, Shu Yun was weary and famished by midday; unable to keep herself awake, she nodded off, only to be dragged out and punished. The tutor ordered her to stand outside to “wake up,” and she remained there for a full hour.
When the crowd dispersed, she felt too dispirited to return to Xian’an Palace. Instead, she slipped into the tea room, stole two cakes, and went to seek Pei Yue.
Pei Yue noticed the bluish shadows beneath her eyes and the reddened rims—like a small, pitiful rabbit.
“How could you steal? Has someone been bullying you?”
Alone and abandoned the night before, now hungry enough to steal a cake for sustenance—yet as a companion reader, she ought to have had protection. And still, no one shielded her.
Pei Yue’s gaze darkened. Having grown up steeped in the intrigues of the inner palace, he knew too well its depths. A girl like this—beautiful as a flower, guileless as a child—was the easiest target for malice and abuse.
But Shu Yun did not wish to dwell on such bitter matters, nor to invite pity. To divert his attention, she pulled the schoolbooks from her bundle. “No, you’ve misunderstood.”
“By the way, today the tutor assigned some lessons. He said if I fail to finish by tomorrow, I’ll be beaten. But this calculation problem—I don’t understand it at all. Could you teach me?”
She handed over the lesson slip the tutor had given. Pei Yue took it, glanced at it in the dim light, and immediately frowned.
The slip had two sides: on the front, a policy essay requiring students to analyze the successes and failures of flood control throughout history; on the back, a counting‑rod problem. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss—mathematics was practical, and policy essays were essential for the examinations. Yet tutors were meant to teach according to aptitude. These questions suited young men, not girls confined to the inner chambers. Not that women were incapable, but if they were to be taught, it should be step by step, not by hurling such hard bones at them all at once, leaving them daunted. This tutor was shirking his duty.
Unwittingly, Shu Yun had lodged a complaint.
Pei Yue considered for a moment, then asked, “Do you wish to learn?”
Shu Yun answered honestly, “I don’t wish to learn. I only don’t want to be beaten.”
Pei Yue had not expected such candor. Patiently, he said, “If I teach you today, what about tomorrow, or the day after? Here is what I propose: I hold a little favor with His Majesty, enough to be permitted entry to the Imperial Library. If you are willing to study, you may go there to read starting tomorrow. I can choose good books for you, and you may learn gradually. If there is anything you don’t understand, I can teach you.”
The Imperial Library had seven tiers, gathering rare texts from ages past. Anyone wishing to enter required imperial permission. For most, such a privilege would bring tears of joy. Yet Shu Yun shook her head firmly. “I don’t want to go.”
Her father was a tutor, and the academy was full of tutors—she had no desire for another one.
Pei Yue’s tone faltered. He was the emperor; his words were law. Never before had anyone rejected him so bluntly to his face. He himself had studied with diligence all his life, and he could not abide sloth.
“Then tomorrow you will take the board punishment,” he said, returning the lesson slip to her.
Shu Yun’s rosy face fell, and she muttered, “If you won’t teach, then you won’t teach…”
At worst, she would endure a few strikes from the tutor’s board. Instinctively, she rubbed her palm.
Pei Yue caught the small gesture and guessed her thoughts.
The first day she had lost her way, the second she had gone hungry, and now on the third she would be beaten.
His gaze fell upon her tender hands, and he seemed to see already the bloody welts that would mar them. Pressing his fingers to his brow, he picked up the lesson slip from the table once more. His voice, low and steady, carried a trace of helplessness: “Come here.”