As Fourth Young Master Cheng had said, the real Sheng Xiangqiao was never a refined, scholarly lady. When she studied the zither, she would cry that her fingers hurt, and her late mother, Madam Qiao, would reduce her lessons. So when the palace banquet approached, the impostor had little to learn.
Once she mastered basic etiquette, she was allowed to stroll in the garden after meals. Nanny Zhao noticed that each time she went, she happened to meet Cheng Tianfu. The young master even took the trouble to discuss opera with her, guiding her in stage movements and gestures. At last, he produced a hand drum, beating time while she stepped to the rhythm.
Nanny Zhao shook her head, but remembered that the real Miss Sheng had been unusually “obsessed” with opera troupes. If the impostor learned some of it, she would seem more convincing. So she did not interfere.
At last, the day of entering the palace arrived. The girl was roused before dawn to be dressed. Her makeup was done by a woman in her fifties, said to be a master of cosmetics invited by Cheng Tianfu’s friends from the jianghu. Using a recent portrait of Sheng Xiangqiao, she painted the girl’s lips larger and her eyes longer. With rouge and powder, her childishness was softened, and she looked like a fourteen‑year‑old maiden. Thick‑soled embroidered shoes raised her height, and with the jewelry borrowed from her grandmother, she finally carried the air of a noble daughter.
Before entering the palace, she was meant to greet her grandmother. But the old madam, claiming fatigue, refused to see her.
Her granddaughter had been missing for days. Even if Sheng Xuanhe tried to conceal it, how could the old lady not know? She had never liked the girl, spoiled by her mother, and now, hearing of her scandalous deeds that endangered the family, she was furious. Clothes could be given, jewelry lent—but the person, she would not see.
Sheng Xuanhe’s wife, Madam Qiao, had long been ill, so he kept a concubine, Madam Bai, with a son and daughter: ten‑year‑old Sheng Shuyun and twelve‑year‑old Sheng Xianglan. As children of a concubine, they had often suffered at Sheng Xiangqiao’s hands.
When Sheng Xianglan led her brother to greet their grandmother, they saw Sheng Xiangqiao barred at the door. Sheng Xianglan smirked and said: “Well, so we finally see you. What strange illness kept you hidden all these days, sister?”
Sheng Shuyun, innocent, blurted: “Why won’t she go in? Is it like Mother said—she’s too dirty, and Grandmother won’t see her?”
Sheng Xianglan tugged his sleeve. “Children shouldn’t speak nonsense. Come, let’s not keep Grandmother waiting.” And the pair walked in triumphantly.
Sheng Xiangqiao turned to Ning Yan and whispered: “If the concubine’s children mock me, what should I do?”
Ning Yan, knowing she meant how the real young lady would react, answered softly: “She would throw a tantrum—curse, smash things…”
But Ning Yan’s voice was hoarse. Two days earlier, she had been forced to drink medicine to feign illness, so she could not shout.
Sheng Xiangqiao thought for a moment, then carefully stepped in her raised shoes toward a large flowerpot at the door. She tried to lift it—but it was too heavy. She could not move it. So she turned back, seized the warm‑water teapot carried by a maid, and smashed it hard against the ground. With a sharp crack, she exhaled in relief and said, “Let’s go!”
Having vented her temper outside the courtyard, Sheng Xiangqiao, supported by Ning Yan, left the estate. She waited until Sheng Xuanhe emerged from the old madam’s chambers, then boarded the carriage bound for the palace banquet.
Fearing that the impostor might not recognize people, Sheng Xuanhe had deliberately kept Ning Yan by her side. Ning Yan had long served the real young lady and knew every detail of her life; with her prompting, Sheng Xuanhe could feel somewhat reassured.
Moreover, with the excuse of recent illness, Sheng Xiangqiao’s throat was hoarse, limiting her speech—a blessing that would spare many potential mishaps.
Even with all these precautions, Sheng Xuanhe’s heart was restless throughout the journey.
The carriage sped on, and soon they reached the palace gates.
The grand palaces of the Great Xi dynasty, built upon the foundations of the previous dynasty, had been expanded into lavish splendor—glazed tiles glittered under the noon sun.
As Sheng Xuanhe led his “daughter” up the steps, his heart tightened, fearing the impostor would betray herself like a village girl gawking at the city. But when he glanced back, he saw her walking with measured lotus steps, back straight, slender neck bowed modestly—every inch the image of a well‑bred maiden. Only then did he breathe easier.
Inside the great hall, Sheng Xuanhe sat among the officials in the east wing. Sheng Xiangqiao, as a noble daughter, was seated in the west wing with the wives, daughters, and heirs of the nobility.
At such an imperial banquet, there was little casual chatter. Ning Yan had no rest, whispering the names of every lady who approached, so her mistress could respond correctly.
The real Miss Sheng had few close friends, but as the heir’s betrothed, she had been a frequent guest at tea gatherings, with many acquaintances. It was remarkable that the village girl had memorized so many names in just a few days. With Ning Yan’s quiet reminders, she answered smoothly, thanking the ladies for their gifts of cakes or embroidery.
Just as she sat down, a richly dressed woman approached, smiling:
“Xiangqiao, at last you’ve recovered! I’ve been blaming myself, thinking it was the cold soup you drank at my house that upset your stomach and made you ill.”
As she poured tea, Ning Yan whispered: “This is Tian Peirong, the Empress’s widowed niece.”
Sheng Xiangqiao matched the name. This Lady Huishu had been granted her title by the Empress herself. Her late husband had been the second son of the prominent Shen family. Married for 10 years, she had never found her footing there. After his death, she quickly returned to her natal Tian family.
Widowhood was not revered in this dynasty, and Lady Huishu was still in her prime, with no shortage of suitors. Yet rumor said her heart was set on none other than the famed beauty of the capital in his youth—Cheng Peinian, the second son of the Cheng family.
Over the past few days, Ning Yan had repeatedly warned Sheng Xiangqiao about Lady Huishu, Tian Peirong’s cunning, hinting that the widow harbored ill intentions and must not be allowed to spot any flaws.
Ning Yan knew well that it was Tian Peirong who had introduced the reckless actor to Miss Sheng, leading to her scandalous entanglement. The woman had been clever, and since the Sheng family wished to keep matters quiet, they could not openly confront her.
Tian Peirong, desperate to supplant Cheng Peinian’s wife, had stooped to every trick. Her schemes had even driven Sheng Xuanhe’s sister to return home with her son Cheng Tianfu in anger.
While Ning Yan ground her teeth, Tian Peirong warmly clasped Sheng Xiangqiao’s hand. Ning Yan’s heart leapt—this impostor was only a village girl, her hands rough with calluses from farm work. No amount of milk baths or ointments could soften them in a few days. Nanny Zhao had given her silk mitts, claiming her hands were still cold from illness, but now Tian Peirong seemed intent on removing them. Wouldn’t the disguise be ruined?
At that moment, Sheng Xiangqiao casually adjusted her hair, slipping her hand free, and said with a faint smile: “Forgive me, madam. My aunt has told me I should no longer visit your household.”
The words were blunt, leaving no room for courtesy. Even Ning Yan and Nanny Zhao were stunned that this village girl could so directly voice the Sheng family’s disdain for Tian Peirong.
Tian Peirong’s eyes widened in shock, her face flushing with anger. “Miss Sheng, what… what is the meaning of this? Why speak so?”
Sheng Xiangqiao turned away, sat down, and replied coolly: “My father says I am still young and should not meddle. If you wish to know more, ask my aunt.”
Then she told Ning Yan: “Ning Yan, fetch me some cakes. His Majesty will soon offer sacrifices, and my legs are weak from illness. I must eat something sweet to keep my strength until the banquet begins.”
Tian Peirong had come under the Empress’s orders to scrutinize Sheng Xiangqiao closely, hoping to catch a flaw. But the girl, once pliant before her, now turned hostile, refusing even to let her approach.
If she truly were Sheng Xiangqiao, returned from overseas and punished by her family, venting her anger on Tian Peirong would be understandable. And her unruly manner, her greed for sweets—these were exactly the traits of the real Miss Sheng. Looking at her thin but otherwise identical face, Tian Peirong could not be sure whether she was genuine or false.
Humiliated, Tian Peirong saw the other noble ladies whispering and watching. She lifted her chin, her face dark, and withdrew.
Nanny Zhao was nearly beside herself with rage. All her lessons in etiquette seemed wasted on a pig! Such insolent words—where was the grace of a noble daughter?
As she handed over cakes, she hissed: “Wretched girl, do you want to be whipped again?”
Sheng Xiangqiao blinked innocently and whispered: “Madam, do you want me to act like her, or do you want me to follow the rules?”
Nanny Zhao froze, her face turning purple, unable to answer.
Ning Yan was also shaken—not by the impostor’s rudeness, but by how perfectly she had captured the real Miss Sheng’s manner.