An autumn night’s wind swept through, and the ginkgo tree in Liuying Pavilion quietly shed its leaves. The small courtyard was carpeted in gold, steeped in autumn’s beauty.
The yard was unusually silent. Wan Cui, carrying hot water, hurried through the archway. She quickened her pace after a glance—last night’s sudden wind might have chilled her mistress, perhaps even reopened her wound.
At the main door, Wan Cui gently pushed it open. Morning light spilled in, outlining the faint silhouette on the canopy bed. “Madam, are you awake?”
But the figure did not stir. Wan Cui called again, softly: “Madam?”
Only then did Song Xian turn her head, her lotus‑like face showing an expression Wan Cui had never seen before—empty, sorrowful, with the bandage on her brow starkly visible.
Alarmed, Wan Cui rushed forward, closing the window as she spoke: “The wind rose suddenly last night—did you catch a chill? It’s my fault, I shouldn’t have listened when you asked to leave the window open.”
The shutters closed, dimming the room.
Song Xian watched her movements but said nothing. The dream still felt too real; she hadn’t recovered.
It had been a bright spring day. Her long‑lost elder sister, Song Xuan, approached slowly, holding a delicate kite, smiling gently: “Xianxian, you love flying kites most. The weather is fine—let’s see whose kite flies farther?”
In the dream, she was carefree, thirteen or fourteen, her laughter brighter than spring itself. “If I win, will you make me ruyi cakes?”
Song Xuan poked her chubby cheek: “You greedy little thing.”
The dream was filled with their joyous laughter. Then suddenly, the scene shifted. They sat facing each other in a pavilion over the lake, surrounded by emptiness.
Song Xuan held her hand, eyes full of pity: “Xianxian, I’ve wronged you.”
Song Xian’s eyes reddened instantly.
Her sister stroked her face: “My Xianxian used to be so sweet. How did you become like this? Has Young Master Wei treated you poorly? Tell me, and I’ll stand up for you.”
Before Song Xian could reply, Song Xuan continued: “The General’s household is illustrious, Wei Ling is handsome and promising. I thought he would protect your happiness all your life.” Her voice faltered. “It’s my fault.”
Song Xian shook her head quickly: “It’s not your fault.”
“One life is but a season, like grass and trees. I don’t want you to suffer for others. You’re still young—there’s so much waiting for you.” Song Xuan’s voice softened. “You don’t know how much I envy you.”
The dream was vivid. Song Xuan’s tears fell onto her hand, cold enough to make her shiver. She longed to comfort her sister, but no words came.
The dream ended abruptly, yet Song Xian could not calm herself. Memories of the past years swirled in her mind.
In the Eastern Xia dynasty, Wei Ling, the young master of General Zhen’s household, had been betrothed since childhood to her elder sister Song Xuan. All of Shengjing said they were a perfect match.
But as the wedding approached, Song Xuan caught a chill. At first, the family thought little of it until her illness worsened beyond cure.
Before her death, Song Xuan called Song Xian to her side, speaking earnestly: “Xianxian, I’ve met Young Master Wei a few times—he is reliable. I’ve discussed it with Father. After I’m gone, you will marry him. Will you?”
“Elder Sister…” Song Xian had been so shocked at the time that she couldn’t speak.
“You needn’t worry. The General’s household owes our family a favor—they won’t refuse.”
Song Xian had not wanted this. Her sister often spoke of Young Master Wei with eyes full of affection, and even at the end, her gaze was heavy with regret. How could Song Xian take her place in marriage?
But once her mother learned of it, she pressed the matter daily. Even her father had prepared for the wedding on the original date. And so, inexplicably, the marriage fell upon Song Xian’s shoulders.
Outsiders said she, a concubine’s daughter, had stumbled into great fortune, marrying into the General’s household. Some malicious tongues even claimed she and her mother schemed to force the Marquis’s legitimate daughter into an early grave, so she could replace her.
At that time, her sister had just passed away—Song Xian had no strength to care about rumors. Obeying her parents, she married in her sister’s stead, hoping only for a stable life. She trusted her sister.
But after one year, two years, three years, Song Xian finally understood: marrying Wei Ling had been reaching too high.
After breakfast, Wan Cui led Doctor Zhou inside. He first changed the dressing on her forehead, then took her pulse as usual—but his expression grew increasingly grave.
“Doctor Zhou, speak plainly.”
He shook his head, puzzled: “Madam’s pulse is thin and weak, her blood depleted. She is prone to dizziness, palpitations, and sleeplessness. I warned long ago against fatigue and worry. Why has it worsened?”
Doctor Zhou had treated her since childhood—every fever or headache. He knew her constitution best. Though frail from youth, careful medicine had kept her well enough.
But in the past two years, her condition had worsened. Where dizziness once passed after a short rest, now she fainted outright. Just days ago, she collapsed in the street, struck her head, and lay unconscious for a day.
“This shouldn’t be. After years of treatment, it shouldn’t be like this.” He asked directly: “Madam, are you hiding something? Have you taken medicine that conflicts? Medicine can be poison—without knowledge, you mustn’t take it lightly.”
Wan Cui startled. Every dose passed through her hands—only Doctor Zhou’s tonics. Unless the occasional *avoid‑pregnancy soup* from the kitchen? She had heard it harmed the body.
Growing angry, she blurted: “Could it be—”
Song Xian cut her off: “Doctor Zhou, what could I hide from you? I know my body. Perhaps it’s just the changeable weather. It’s nothing. Please prescribe some nourishing medicine, I’ll follow your regimen.”
Doctor Zhou remained doubtful, but after writing the prescription, he warned: “If Madam continues like this, it will be difficult to conceive. You mustn’t take your health lightly.”
Song Xian’s lashes trembled. After a moment, she smiled faintly: “Thank you, Doctor Zhou. I’ll be more careful. And please, do check in on my mother as well.”
Doctor Zhou departed, leaving Liuying Pavilion in sudden quiet.
“Madam, why didn’t you tell him? It’s clearly the *avoid‑pregnancy soup*! If your mother knew, she would be heartbroken.” Wan Cui’s eyes reddened.
Of course, Song Xian knew the soup was harmful. But Doctor Zhou visited her mother every fortnight—how could she mention it to him? If her stepmother learned, the sky itself might collapse. Besides, what proper household gives its legitimate wife such a concoction? She could not disgrace the Marquis’s name.
She and Wei Ling shared a bed rarely—once or twice in months. Apart from their wedding night, every time they lay together afterward, the kitchen sent a bowl of that soup. At first, she wondered why, but gradually she grew used to it. If he wanted her to drink, she drank.
She hadn’t realized that with her frail body, the soup was like poison, draining her day by day. No amount of tonic could restore her.
Two days ago, when she collapsed, Wan Cui had been terrified. And so had she. When she fainted, it felt like falling into the sea—adrift, without anchor. For an instant, she felt release: to sleep, never wake, never face these people or this life again. But she couldn’t. What of her mother? What of Wan Cui? How could she leave them?
As daylight slowly brightened, the room no longer seemed so dim. Song Xian’s gaze shifted outside. The ginkgo tree in the courtyard was bare; the golden leaves that had carpeted the ground that morning were already swept away, leaving no trace.
She watched quietly, remembering the first time she stood in that courtyard.
It was the second day after her marriage into the General’s household. Song Xian, newly a wife. Her husband walked ahead, his tall figure blending with the elegant scenery, making her blush and pause.
Wei Ling turned back, his fine brows furrowed, urging: “Father and Mother are waiting.” Even his voice had been so pleasant.
Song Xian quickly stepped forward, standing at his side, tilting her head up with a sweet smile: “Mm, let’s go.”
But Wei Ling immediately strode off without even glancing at her.
Back then, she thought perhaps her husband was simply shy. Only now did she realize—what kind of shyness was that? Wei Ling was cold by nature. He simply disliked her, even to the point of not wanting her to bear his child.
Counting the days, she realized it had been more than a month since she last saw him. Even the servants sweeping the front courtyard knew the second young master of the General’s household had gone out on assignment—yet she herself knew nothing.
Two days ago, Wei Yujun came by, her words all but saying that she, as a sister‑in‑law, was useless, not even knowing where her own husband had gone.
Song Xian had been unable to reply—because it was true, she didn’t know. She sighed lightly, sipping tea that had long gone cold. Turning her head, her gaze fell on the embroidery frame beside her. Upon it lay a half‑finished brocade robe, winter clothing prepared for the absent Wei Ling. He disliked ornate patterns and bright colors. Beyond that, she could never grasp his preferences. So she chose pale moon‑white, with the simplest cloud motif. Would he like it? Or would it be as before—he’d say thank you, then have it put away, left to gather dust unseen?
She longed to tear open his chest and see what his heart was made of—stone? White jade? Or winter ice? Why was it so cold, so hard?
She could not warm it, nor did she wish to try anymore.
Song Xian rose and walked to the embroidery frame, her fingertips brushing the delicate stitches as though it were a precious treasure.
“Wan Cui, is it pretty?” she asked softly.
“Madam’s embroidery is taught by Mistress Luo of Yangzhou. In Shengjing, no one can compare. The stitches are fine, the clouds vivid, like drifting mist. It’s clear Madam has poured much effort into it.”
“Yes… what a pity.”
She had poured so much effort into clothing that would only be tossed into a wardrobe to gather dust. Why torment herself further?
Wan Cui didn’t understand her mistress’s cryptic words. Seeing her sit before the frame, she grew anxious and tried to stop her: “Madam, please, just rest for now. It’s far too early to be making winter clothes.”
But Song Xian simply took scissors from the basket. With a sharp *snip*, the fabric split in two.
Wan Cui gasped: “Madam! You’ve worked ten days on this robe—it was nearly finished, why—”
Song Xian gave no answer. She stood before the frame for a long time, until a chill autumn wind swept through the hall, piercing her bones.
The daze broke. She pulled her robe tighter and turned away.
Three years—she had worn herself down to this state. Truly, it was not worth it.