The royal family of Liang bore the surname Li, and like the dynasties recorded in the annals of history, the throne had originally passed only to imperial princes.
It was not until the third generation that the old emperor, devoted to a single love throughout his life, kept only one empress in his vast harem. Unfortunately, the empress was frail and bore few children. When she passed away in middle age, the old emperor, consumed by longing for his wife and sensing his own end drawing near, found himself with only one princess when it came time to choose an heir.
The princess had assisted in governance for many years, her literary and martial prowess in no way inferior to any man's. The old emperor thus broke with tradition, amending the ancestral laws and establishing a new decree: henceforth, the heir to the Liang throne would be chosen regardless of gender or birth order—only virtue and ability would determine succession, so as to secure the dynasty's eternal prosperity.
The reigning Empress was the sixth sovereign of Liang and the second female emperor.
Through four generations of monarchs, the practice of women participating in governance had spread from the top down. Now, women of Liang could sit for both civil and military examinations and serve at court alongside men.
Cuihua had long lived in the remote borderlands of Yuan, and most of what she knew of Liang's institutions came from what Liu Qingzi, Baodian, and the others had told her during the journey to the capital.
As for matters of a deeper nature concerning the imperial household, being subjects and ministers, they naturally refrained from speaking too freely.
Cuihua, however, took it in stride—she listened to whatever they chose to share and made no attempt to pry into what they left unsaid.
This transparency, carrying a certain wisdom that masqueraded as simplicity, genuinely surprised Liu Qingzi and the others on some level.
Especially remarkable was that even with the capital walls in sight, she still ate well and slept soundly, her composure rivaling the finest. Those who knew nothing of Huai Che's daily conversations with Cuihua—which touched on far more than matters of romance—could only marvel that the princess, true to her imperial bloodline, possessed natural gifts beyond the ordinary.
On the night before the audience with the Empress, moonlight spilled across the window lattice. Liu Qingzi avoided the others and sought out Cuihua privately, lowering her voice to advise: "Tomorrow, when you meet Her Majesty the Empress, if she does not ask, Your Highness must be careful not to bring up matters of marriage or your husband."
Liu Qingzi naturally dared not conceal anything regarding the princess's marriage from the Empress, but having spent these days together, she had indeed developed a measure of protective concern, wishing to point the princess toward a path that would keep Huai Che securely in her household.
Cuihua's lashes trembled slightly at the words, then she understood: "I see. If I were to speak of my husband's humble origins and his leg ailment, the Empress Mother would surely think I have suffered a great injustice. Rest assured, Lord Liu, I know what matters and what does not."
Even setting aside the Empress who sat upon the dragon throne—had her father, who had sold tofu his entire life, still been alive when she found Huai Che, and heard that after saving his life she had even entertained the thought of taking him as a son-in-law, he would surely have told her to go to the river and empty the water from her head.
Her father had never wished for her wealth or prominence, but had often lamented his own blindness and frailty, which had burdened her with helping to support the family from a young age. How could he bear to see his daughter, who had suffered since childhood, finish caring for her old father only to take on a husband who would also need her tending?
Liu Qingzi nodded: "This official will inform Her Majesty that the princess has indeed married among the common folk, but that both you and the one you entrusted yourself to are well aware of the vast disparity in status now. Keeping him by your side is merely an act of cherishing old ties, unwilling to cast him aside."
Cuihua nodded: "I will follow whatever arrangements Lord Liu makes."
Her mind was clear—since Liu Qingzi had brought Huai Che into the capital, if this were to anger the Empress, Liu Qingzi's position would become even more precarious than their own.
According to Liang's ancestral laws, imperial princesses came of age at thirteen and princes at fifteen, after which they could receive titles and establish their own households.
Cuihua was now eighteen. The Empress, pitying her daughter who had spent so many years lost among the people, wished to compensate in one stroke for all the splendor she had missed, and had long since prepared a princess residence of magnificent proportions.
Liu Qingzi had also conveyed the weight of this favor to Cuihua: "Her Majesty personally selected the site and oversaw the construction. When the Third Prince received his title last year, his residence was not even half the size of yours."
Because the Empress yearned for her daughter and longed for reunion, Cuihua only caught a brief glimpse of the vast estate before hurrying into the palace.
Huai Che remained behind with Baodian and several guards. Baodian and the guards had been assigned by the Empress's decree, worried that Cuihua might find herself lost and unfamiliar in her new residence, struggling with countless inconveniences—so she left trusted attendants for Cuihua to command.
This gesture further set Cuihua's heart at ease. Though the manner and attitude differed from her father's, the Empress Mother clearly cherished her deeply—not merely putting on a show for royal dignity, but genuinely standing in her shoes and considering matters carefully on her behalf.
The Empress, considerate of her daughter, did not wish the awe of imperial majesty to intimidate this newly found child. Thus, she did not summon her to the solemn main hall, but instead chose the imperial garden as the place for mother and daughter to reunite.
It was summer, and the morning light was growing warm, filtering through the interlaced branches of ancient cypresses to scatter golden specks like crushed gold upon the bluestone path.
Morning dew still clung to the delicate petals of peonies, trembling at their edges like a beauty's tears, pitiable and lovely.
Beneath the white marble arch bridge, newly bloomed pink lotuses stood gracefully. Occasionally a koi leaped from the water, sending ripples spreading outward until they met the carved stone railings and subsided once more into stillness.
Cuihua was marveling at the breathtaking beauty of this ethereal paradise, breathing in the sweet fragrance of gardenias drifting on the breeze, when she suddenly noticed a procession of palace attendants carrying ice chests as they walked with heads bowed. Their skirts brushed over the Wanfu pattern inlaid with pebbles, and they led a figure of dignified grace and majesty to approach.
Cuihua had been lost to the common folk while still in swaddling clothes, so she had no memories of her mother.
But when she raised her eyes and beheld a face that was indeed remarkably similar to her own, a sense of closeness born from the depths of their shared blood surged forth suddenly, making her nose tingle with emotion and her vermilion lips tremble. Before she knew it, the word "Mother" had slipped from her lips.
Before entering the palace, Liu Qingzi had taught her some basic etiquette—that she should address the Empress as "Imperial Mother" and perform the Wanfu kneeling salute—but at this moment, all of it was completely forgotten.
She simply stood there, staring in a daze at the mother she had never met, and as she gazed, her eyes grew warm with tears.
And the Empress, who had searched for her for eighteen long years, seeing her daughter's genuine sincerity, how could she possibly fault a girl raised among the common folk for not knowing court protocol?
"She is my daughter, she is my Shuer." Shuer was the pet name the Empress had given Cuihua. She had no intention of making Cuihua kneel; a pair of hands that had once held dominion over the realm trembled slightly as they clasped Cuihua's, unwilling to let go for a long while. "You were only three months old when you left your mother. Look how big you've grown. My child has suffered."
The Empress felt Cuihua's fingers, which at first glance appeared fair and delicate, but whose pads had been calloused by stone mills and farming tools. She then glanced to the side and saw Liu Qingzi kneeling at the opportune moment, presenting the comb that Cuihua had carved with her own hands. The Empress was moved even more deeply.
Almost without hesitation, the reward originally intended for Cuihua was doubled, with three thousand taels of silver directly allocated to her household—an amount Cuihua could never have earned selling tofu for several lifetimes, and even for an enfeoffed princess or prince, it was equivalent to a year's stipend without merit or fault.
The Empress was undoubtedly overjoyed to have recovered her long-lost daughter.
She had originally planned to keep Cuihua in the palace for only three days, with tutors for court etiquette already prepared, but in the end, she kept her for a full eight days. Not only did she cast aside all the lessons that would have taxed her daughter's mind, but she was often coaxed into smiles by Cuihua's antics.
Cuihua's naturally kind and endearing disposition was certainly an important reason, but she also benefited from Huai Che's subtle guidance along the way, which allowed her to maintain just the right balance when interacting with the Empress—showing respect without losing the natural, innocent charm of a common girl.
During those eight days, rewards flowed like water, continuously delivered to the palace quarters where Cuihua was staying.
Silks and satins, jewels and antiques… truly, there was nothing Cuihua could think of that her Imperial Mother couldn't provide.
In the first few days, Cuihua was overjoyed and deeply moved by her mother's affection, marveling at the riches she had never seen before.
Later, though she remained grateful, the problem was that she could barely read a few characters and couldn't calculate very complex numbers. Faced with all these treasures that each required registration and cataloging, she felt utterly overwhelmed. She simply handed everything over to the palace attendants and had them send it all back to the Princess's residence storeroom.
Cuihua thought of how, ever since Huai Che had been brought in as her husband, all household income and expenses had been managed entirely by him. A sweet worry for him arose in her heart: "Before, money was tight, and my husband had to budget carefully just to scrape together a little savings. Now there's so much money I don't even know how to spend it. I wonder if he's like me, getting dizzy and confused trying to count it all."
As Liu Qingzi had said, if the Empress had only known that Cuihua had taken a live-in husband among the common folk, hearing Liu Qingzi's assurance that Huai Che was a man who knew his place, she truly did not inquire further into the matter.
The pearl she had painstakingly recovered, keeping a lover or companion in the household out of regard for old ties—in the Empress's view, this was hardly worth making a fuss over.
The Empress's own harem was fully staffed with one Empress Consort and four Imperial Consorts, and below them, male consorts and imperial husbands numbered more than a dozen.
Her daughter was kind-hearted and couldn't bear to abandon her humble beginnings—just like picking up a stray kitten or puppy by the roadside and being unable to bear throwing it away now.
She doted on her daughter too much to drive away the little beloved companion who had been with her for two years, knowing full well it would make her daughter miserable.
But with Cuihua's limited life experience, if Liu Qingzi hadn't spelled it out plainly, she would never have understood that the reason the Empress let the matter of her taking Huai Che as a husband slide so easily was for such a reason.
She only knew that on the fifteenth and sixteenth days of the month, the moon was so round it stirred one's longing for loved ones. Though she now had her mother's affection and every day felt like being immersed in a honey jar, she still missed her father and her husband.
On the seventh day of staying in the palace, Cuihua accompanied her Imperial Mother in drinking several cups of newly tributed green plum wine from Guangdong during the evening meal.
She was normally the carefree sort of girl—even when life was hard, as long as there was sweetness amidst the bitterness, she seemed not to know the taste of sorrow. But unless she drank alcohol, a few cups down would change her temperament entirely, making her especially prone to melancholy and thoughts of those far away.
Back in the courtyard, after the maidservants helped her bathe and change, her cheeks still burned from the wine. She tossed and turned on the ivory bed for half an hour without a hint of drowsiness, so she simply slipped on her embroidered slippers, draped a soft gauze robe over her shoulders, and wandered to a pavilion near her temporary residence to sit and gaze at the moon.
The good news was that the seventeenth day's moon wasn't as full as the fifteenth or sixteenth. The bad news was that whether the moon was full or waning, it didn't stop her from missing her father and her husband all the same.
Missing her father was bearable—he had toiled his whole life yet always treated others with kindness, known by all in the village as a good-hearted man. Since he'd been able to bless her with finding her husband first, then reuniting with her mother, surely he was blessed with deep fortune in the underworld too, appointed by the King of Hell to some grand and glorious post.
It was her husband who truly wrung her heart. Ever since she'd picked him up and brought him home, the two had never been apart this long.
And yet, though he appeared mild-tempered on the surface, he was stubborn to the core—possessive, and utterly dependent on her.
There was that incident about three months after she'd first brought him home, when he'd barely clung to life and his wounds were just beginning to heal.
One morning at dawn, as was her custom, she went to town with Brother Wang and his wife, who sold steamed buns in the west of the village, to attend the market fair.
Business was good that day, and her tofu stall closed early. Hearing that the teahouse had a new storyteller, she entrusted her empty tofu cart to Brother Wang and his wife, and squeezed into the teahouse with their eight-year-old son, Gouwa, to listen to the tales.
The two of them—one grown, one small—were utterly captivated. Brother Wang and Sister Wang, used to this, helped push her tofu cart back to the village first, leaving the boy in her care.
Cuihua and Gouwa stayed at the teahouse until noon, savoring story after story before slowly ambling back to the village. But when she returned Gouwa to his family and pushed open her own door, she was met with a sight like a vengeful ghost demanding a life.
Her husband, who should have been bedridden, had somehow dragged himself off the bed, hauling his numb legs with his arms, crawling from the bed all the way to the doorway.
A distance of barely a dozen steps—he'd scraped his palms raw, his knees and shins torn open, and the unhealed wound on his abdomen had split open again. He was drenched in blood, leaving a trail of dark and light smears in his wake.
He looked up at her, eyes bloodshot, voice hoarse: "If you're tired of me, if you regret saving me, just say so plainly. No need to avoid me, no need to hide outside… I won't be an eyesore to you. Even if I die, I won't die before your eyes."
His words were resolute, yet their first time together happened that very day.
She was frantic to clean and dress his wounds, but he refused stubbornly. When she tried to feed him and give him water, he kept his lips tightly shut. She coaxed him softly for a long while, but his expression never softened. At her wit's end, she rose to check the medicine brewing on the stove—but he mistook her movement for another departure and seized her wrist with sudden force…
He claimed to have been a scholar, and after three months of illness-ridden bedrest, having brushed past death's door, he was gaunt as a skeleton.
But that day his strength was astonishing. His fingers clamped around her like iron pincers, and no matter how she struggled, she couldn't break free. In the tussle, Cuihua's hand accidentally brushed against his thigh, and her face flushed crimson with embarrassment.
Before their bodies met, he spoke to her of himself for the first time: "From Guisui, twenty-eight years old. Lost my father at two, my mother at twelve. Now alone in the world, never married…"
He too was a wretched soul. Seeing that she truly didn't mind, and even insisted on taking him in as a live-in husband, the two—too poor to afford a proper ceremony—simply let their passion carry them and consummated their union early.
No matter how strong-willed he was, no matter how hard he tried to manage everything himself, he was ultimately crippled in both legs and could barely walk.
Cuihua mused absently: In the days she'd been away, had his leg ailment flared up? He was frail to begin with, and the lands of Liang and Yuan had such different climates—had he fallen ill? If he was in pain and sick, with his temperament, he'd never tell anyone. Others wouldn't know, and certainly wouldn't think to fetch medicine and brew it for him.
She'd come out because she couldn't sleep anyway. Now, with her hair unbound and wearing only a sheer gauze sleeping robe, the night breeze stirred her garments, light as mist.
It wasn't that she was crude or reckless, acting without decorum as a princess and wandering about half-dressed.
The truth was, her mother the Empress had thought of everything for her, fearing anyone might offend her, and had specially assigned her a secluded courtyard with its own gate.
Female guards stood watch outside the gate at all times, like the protective circle Sun Wukong drew around Tang Sanzang—as long as she didn't step beyond it, no one could enter unless the Empress herself came.
So when footsteps sounded behind her, she assumed it was a maidservant or female attendant who'd grown worried at her long absence.
But when she hastily wiped the corner of her eye and turned around, she saw a graceful, refined figure standing quietly at the other end of the pavilion.
Under the soft moonlight, the person wore a robe of pale moon-white brocade, leaning against the railing, posture like a slender bamboo in the wind, brows like distant mountain ridges, eyes holding spring water at the corners—his bearing warm, clear, and utterly elegant.
And when he saw Cuihua's face clearly, he too started in surprise, and a slightly trembling "Your Highness, the Crown Princess" slipped from his lips, startling Cuihua so much she instinctively stepped back half a pace.