Chengming Hall.
The moment Xie Zhaozhi returned to the palace, she dismissed everyone except Shuangyue, who remained to attend to her.
“Did you see that person?”
Shuangyue winced as the woman’s sharp nails dug into her arm. She shook her head in confusion. “Your Highness, who are you referring to? This servant didn’t notice anyone today…”
“How is that possible!” Xie Zhaozhi slammed her palm hard on the table, causing the tea set on its surface to jump. “I saw her clearly. I saw Shen Lan Shu…”
Shuangyue frowned. “Your Highness, you mean…”
The name sounded vaguely familiar to Shuangyue. She searched her memory, and like clouds parting to reveal the moon, long-buried memories suddenly surfaced.
She had never actually met Shen Lan Shu, but there was a period five years ago when Her Highness would murmur this name in her sleep late at night. She had frequently seen Her Highness ordering the mansion’s shadow guards on missions. She knew her mistress had always been wary of this person, but before His Majesty ascended the throne, he had kept her hidden in a separate courtyard in the outskirts of the capital. Even the Empress Dowager didn’t know about it, and she had no idea how Her Highness had found out.
Xie Zhaozhi seemed to avoid discussing matters related to Shen Lan Shu with everyone, including Shuangyue, who had served her since childhood.
“Your Highness, you must have mistaken her for someone else,” Shuangyue said, her face pale. “She’s been dead for five years.”
Xie Zhaozhi seemed trapped in her own nightmare, continuously muttering deliriously: “How could I mistake her? I would recognize her even if she turned to ashes…”
“Perhaps it’s just someone who bears a slight resemblance? After all, there are many lookalikes in this world.”
The name Shen Lan Shu was like a thorn in Xie Zhaozhi’s heart that she couldn’t pull out. Her fingers gripped the edge of the table tightly as she gritted her teeth. “If it’s just a lookalike, why would His Majesty want to see her? Could it be that His Majesty…”
Could it be that he was so overwhelmed with longing that he sought a substitute?
“Shuangyue, send someone to investigate immediately! Find out exactly who Consort Rong’s cousin is!”
Xie Zhaozhi regained some clarity. In her five years in the palace, she had never encountered anyone who resembled that woman in His Majesty’s presence. Besides, Yan Pingxiao was a cold and detached man—how could he possibly stand up for an unrelated woman and punish the Grand Princess’s daughter?
She should have realized it sooner.
Xie Zhaozhi dug her nails into her palm, forcing herself to calm down.
No one knew she was acquainted with Shen Lan Shu. Not even Yan Pingxiao knew.
That woman was already dead. No one would ever find out what she had done.
Xie Zhaozhi’s throat felt parched. She reached for the teapot on the table, but her hand trembled uncontrollably, making it impossible to hold steady. She took a deep breath, repeatedly comforting herself inwardly.
Don’t scare yourself.
Xuanzheng Hall.
Having been notified in advance, Tang Shunfu allowed her entry without announcement.
As the hall doors slowly closed, Nan Shu suddenly realized that during her recent visits to His Majesty, Tang Shunfu would always wait outside and close the doors behind her.
Yet, when she arrived earlier, the doors had been wide open.
A soft sound interrupted Nan Shu’s thoughts. She looked up to see Yan Pingxiao setting down his writing brush, gazing at her with leisurely composure.
Their eyes met, and Nan Shu quickly lowered her gaze, stepping forward quietly.
“Your subject pays respects to Your Majesty. Your Majesty, these are lotus root powder and osmanthus sugar cakes prepared by Xiuyi Niangniang herself. Please sample them.”
Yan Pingxiao lifted the lid of the food box, his gaze falling upon the pastries. “Made by Consort Rong?”
Nan Shu was momentarily speechless. How could they possibly be made by Consort Rong? She had prepared them herself, and Consort Rong had merely packed them into the box personally. Still, that could be considered preparing them with her own hands, right?
She forced herself to hum in agreement, but then recalled the previous incident of deceiving the emperor and quickly added in a low voice, “Xiuyi Niangniang personally instructed me to make them.”
Yan Pingxiao let out a soft scoff, reached out to pick up a piece, and tasted it. It was somewhat different from the usual flavor of the imperial kitchen, carrying a faint fragrance of lily.
His hand holding the pastry unconsciously tightened. “Why add lily?”
Nan Shu was puzzled inwardly. Didn’t everyone add lily when making lotus root powder osmanthus sugar cakes?
Could it be that the palace version didn’t include it?
Her heart beat nervously, but she calmly replied, “I heard from Xiuyi Niangniang that Your Majesty has been coughing these past two days. Lily soothes the throat and relieves coughs, so I added a little.”
She kept her head lowered, yet she could feel the man’s gaze fixed upon her.
Emotions churned in Yan Pingxiao’s eyes. The northwest was different from Jingcheng—the climate there was dry and dusty year-round, so the chefs preferred adding lung-moistening lily to pastries.
But the lotus root powder osmanthus sugar cakes in Jingcheng never included lily.
Coincidences kept appearing around her, one after another. Could they still be considered mere coincidences?
Yet why did her gaze toward him seem so unfamiliar? If Tang Tang were alive, even if she didn’t want to acknowledge him, why wouldn’t she acknowledge Sui An either?
At this moment, Yan Pingxiao wished he could dig three feet underground to unearth Wu Quanshi and drag him to the palace.
Nan Shu grew uneasy under his stare. She could sense suspicion in Yan Pingxiao’s eyes.
But what was he suspecting? It was just making pastries—where had she slipped up?
The dead could not return to life. Could the esteemed emperor actually believe in such superstitions?
She recalled what Qing Zhu had once told her: three years ago, Yan Pingxiao had believed a Taoist’s words and set up an altar to perform rituals to resurrect the late empress. Nan Shu suddenly felt a chill run down her spine—he wouldn’t use her for some ritual, would he!
How had he become so mad in the five years since she last saw him?
Night.
Yan Pingxiao sat by the bedside, staring at the scar on his palm.
He hadn’t dreamed for two days.
Ever since he dreamed of Shen Lan Shu that night, he hadn’t been able to dream again.
Why?
What was different about him these past two days compared to that night?
He gazed thoughtfully at the mark left on his hand—the only difference was that this wound had scabbed over and was nearly healed.
Was it because he had been injured?
Thinking this, Yan Pingxiao unhesitatingly took a knife and made another cut on his palm. Drops of blood fell to the ground.
He went to sleep with anticipation.
Unfortunately, he slept soundly through the night and still failed to dream of her.