If it hadn’t been for seeing the impostor that morning—rouged cheeks, raised shoes—Ning Yan would have sworn the real Sheng Xiangqiao had returned, haughty and sharp‑tongued as ever. How could this village girl imitate her so perfectly, as if she had truly known her?
The quarrel with Tian Peirong was quickly reported to Empress Tian. Hearing that the girl looked exactly like Sheng Xiangqiao, the Empress sneered: the Shengs had some skill to recover her from a South Seas ship. Yet Sheng Xiangqiao’s defiance of the imperial marriage decree was undeniable. Rumors filled the capital, and the Emperor himself had heard whispers. If he grew disgusted with his future granddaughter‑in‑law, Prince Cining’s grand ambitions would collapse. With that thought, the Empress smiled coldly, no longer troubled by the mystery of Sheng Xiangqiao’s sudden return.
After eating cakes, Sheng Xiangqiao heard the herald’s cry announcing the Emperor’s procession. The eunuchs of the west hall guided the noblewomen out to join the imperial retinue toward the altar. As she rose, she noticed that the ladies who had just greeted her now avoided her gaze. Offending the Empress’s niece had turned them away; better to steer clear of scandal. For the real Sheng Xiangqiao, this would have been disastrous—her invitations to tea parties and poetry clubs would dwindle. But for the impostor, it was a relief: no more tedious socializing. She calmly wiped the crumbs from her lips, sipped tea to soothe her throat, and joined the line of noblewomen heading to the altar.
Ahead walked the young noblemen of the capital, drawing the eyes of the maidens behind. Most gazes fell on one tall youth in pale ceremonial robes, striking and handsome.
Girls in springtime could not help admiring beauty. Such a figure as Cheng Tianfu was rare; elders said he surpassed even his father in youth. Yet the Cheng family, of merchant origin, had little achievement in officialdom. Cheng Peinian had won a Sheng daughter with his looks and talent, but her fate was well known, and she still lived in the Sheng household rather than returning to the Chengs.
This Fourth Young Master, though handsome, had no brighter prospects than other noble sons—what a pity. To the matrons, a merchant’s son was no ideal match, but that did not stop them from admiring his elegance.
Beside Sheng Xiangqiao, a plump young lady gazed at him, entranced, and whispered: “To have such a handsome cousin, one you can see often—that is truly a blessing earned in a past life.”
Even Sheng Xiangqiao herself felt the plump girl’s words were inappropriate—if Nanny Zhao had heard, she might have strung her up a tree for punishment.
Ning Yan whispered in her ear: “That is Cao Yushan, the second granddaughter of Duke Qing. You are not close with her, so it’s fine to ignore.”
Sheng Xiangqiao silently repeated the name. Indeed, Ning Yan’s list of the real Miss Sheng’s intimates had not included Cao Yushan. Clearly, this young lady was simply an admirer of her cousin Cheng Tianfu. Yet, thinking of his aloof demeanor, Sheng Xiangqiao could hardly imagine what kind of girl he might favor in the future. She glanced at Miss Cao’s dreamy expression and couldn’t help but smile.
Miss Cao, embarrassed at being caught, smiled back.
When the ritual of offering sacrifices to Heaven was complete, the procession returned to the main hall for the birthday banquet. The Emperor and Empress led the way, followed by officials, consorts, and noble families in turn.
At this point, servants like Ning Yan could not enter, leaving Sheng Xiangqiao to join thirty or so girls her age in presenting thanks to the Emperor.
Sheng Xiangqiao thought she could simply blend into the crowd, even if her manners were imperfect. But as everyone rose, someone deliberately tripped her. With her thick‑soled shoes, she was already unsteady. The sudden shove sent her sprawling to the floor, standing out among the noble girls. To stumble during obeisance was a grave embarrassment. Officials on both sides of the hall held their breath, praying it was not their daughter.
Sheng Xuanhe, seeing his “beloved daughter” on the ground, nearly wanted to dash his head against a pillar.
On the dragon throne, the white‑haired Emperor narrowed his eyes and asked slowly: “Whose child is this?”
The Empress seized the moment: “She looks like the Sheng family’s daughter—the one Your Majesty betrothed to Prince Cining’s heir, Sheng Xiangqiao.”
The Emperor recalled the gossip his chief eunuch had mentioned. He had once whimsically granted Sheng Xiangqiao to the heir Jin Lianyuan, but later regretted it after hearing of her scandalous conduct.
Though she resembled a face from memory, her temperament was far inferior. Rumors of her entanglement with an actor had spread, and now, seeing her again, he felt only distaste. Yet as a ruler, he would not reveal his feelings before the court. History warned of kings whose unchecked preferences harmed the realm. He remembered clearly: just yesterday, he had given Prince Cining a chance to withdraw from the marriage. But instead of seizing it, the Prince had praised Sheng Xiangqiao’s virtue and thanked his father for the match.
The Emperor had smiled then, but inwardly was disappointed. A future sovereign should not tolerate a daughter‑in‑law of tainted virtue. Prince Cining might accept a cuckold’s crown for his son—but as Emperor, he would not allow his grandson to marry a wanton woman.
Now, Sheng Xiangqiao had stumbled in front of the throne, giving the Emperor a perfect excuse to act.
At the Empress’s words, his face darkened slightly. “Let her rise and come closer,” he ordered.
The eunuchs relayed the decree at once. Both Sheng Xuanhe and Prince Cining stiffened, uncertain what the Emperor intended.
Sheng Xiangqiao obeyed, stepping forward in small, careful steps before kneeling again.
The Emperor’s voice was stern: “Today is my birthday banquet. It is not a day for punishment. Yet your conduct is so careless—lying sprawled upon the floor of the hall! This is disgraceful. Has your governess taught you no manners?”
Any true noble daughter would have paled and trembled under such rebuke. But this Sheng girl lifted her head slightly, her gaze calm, even indifferent, and glanced at the old man on the throne.
That single look jolted the Emperor’s heart. Until now, though she resembled someone from his past, it was only in features. The more he saw her, the less she seemed alike. But today, in that unguarded glance, she was uncannily like the woman he once remembered. If she had yielded to him back then, their granddaughter would be about this age now. Age brings sleepless nights and old regrets. In broad daylight, a young girl’s eyes stirred a pang of sorrow in him. His anger faltered.
The Empress, seizing the moment, offered him tea and said gently: “Your Majesty, this child was spoiled at home. I heard she fell gravely ill not long ago. Her body is weakened, perhaps her foundation lost, so she cannot stand steady.”
Her words seemed ordinary, but she lingered on “foundation lost,” hinting at a girl’s chastity. Those who knew the rumors could not miss the implication.
The Emperor’s expression grew heavy again. This touched the dignity of the royal house—no trivial matter. He asked: “Oh? Ill? What illness?”
Sheng Xiangqiao spoke then, not mentioning she had been tripped, but with tears of gratitude: “Your Majesty, it is only that my body is frail. A little exertion tires me, troubling both Your Majesty and the Empress with concern.”
The Emperor laughed coldly. “Oh? You are a noble daughter. What duties at home could weary you so that you fall ill?”
All present could see his displeasure. Yet the Sheng girl, whether foolish or thick‑skinned, twisted his rebuke into concern. Even the Emperor found himself amused by her brazenness.
Many in the hall turned to watch Sheng Xuanhe’s reaction. He was already pale as wax, scarcely able to breathe.