Huai Che had always been mild-tempered before Cuihua, but at this moment, that handsome, strikingly beautiful face was veiled in an unprecedented shadow of gloom.
He pressed his thin lips into a cold, hard line. The faint light that had flickered in his eyes upon her return had now sunk entirely into darkness, as if a piercing pain was surging through him.
But Cuihua couldn't recognize the characters on the gold-flecked paper at all, nor could she possibly know why his expression had suddenly changed. She simply looked at his taut, handsome face and asked, utterly bewildered: "We were fine just a moment ago—why are you suddenly angry? Which of my words displeased you?"
She had never seen Huai Che this furious, and doubt began to stir in her heart. Yet after racking her brains, she couldn't think of anything she'd done to provoke him. So rather than meeting his anger with her own, what she felt most was confusion and bewilderment.
Huai Che's slender fingers picked up the paper, his knuckles turning pale from the force of his grip. His voice was low and hoarse, as if wrapped in ice: "Where did this 'fine brother-in-law' of yours come from? Knowing full well you're his wife's sister, not only does he fail to keep his distance, he gifts you such an ambiguous object?"
Only then did Cuihua realize the problem lay in the jade hairpin still held in her hand, but she grew even more puzzled: "The Crown Princess isn't in the capital—she's gone to Qiongzhou to recover from illness. Mother Empress summoned me back from thousands of li away, and my brother-in-law merely gave me a greeting gift on my sister's behalf. Is that not allowed?"
Since returning to the palace, besides the Empress's rewards, she had received no small number of gifts from others.
Jewelry for a young woman was nothing more than hairpins, clasps, and earrings. Of the four male consorts in her mother's palace, two had also gifted her hairpins. It wasn't like a sachet or embroidered pouch—those intimate, suggestive things. So why couldn't her brother-in-law give her one?
Her words were frank and her demeanor open, but Huai Che only seized upon one particularly crucial piece of information: her Crown Princess sister was currently not in the capital.
A man whose wife was absent, giving a hairpin to a woman whose husband was absent, accompanied by such lingering, sentimental verses—what good intentions could that possibly harbor?
He tossed the paper before her, his voice cold and deep: "Do you know what he wrote?"
Cuihua glanced down, utterly unrepentant: "Well, it doesn't contain any characters from my name anyway."
The characters she recognized could be counted on two hands.
Even her own name had been taught to her stroke by stroke, with Huai Che holding her hand, after he was married into her family.
The reason she'd only learned this much in two years wasn't due to dull wits—it was because every time Huai Che taught her, the lessons inevitably ended up in bed.
Whether she ultimately learned anything or not, the "tuition" owed could never be reduced by even a fraction.
After it happened again and again, Cuihua simply stopped learning. She figured that eight or nine out of ten villagers couldn't even write their own names, so what she already knew was more than enough to let her "look down upon the masses."
Huai Che's Adam's apple bobbed as he forced the words out one by one, as if grinding them through his teeth: "Flower pin askew, reflecting spring mountain hues—surpassing peach and plum beneath the moon's glow."
Cuihua was momentarily struck silent—not because she didn't want to keep arguing, but because she'd heard every single word of the verse clearly, yet strung together they sounded like heavenly scripture to her.
And after speaking it aloud, Huai Che suddenly snapped back to himself, realizing he'd been so furious he'd lost his head. Given his little wife's level of literacy, hearing him read the original poem versus reading it herself probably made no difference at all.
The biting chill around him faltered slightly. He tugged at his thin lips and, with helpless difficulty, added the explanation: "It means… the flower pin in your hair complements the spring mountain scenery, and such elegance is more beautiful, more radiant than peach and plum blossoms under the moonlight…"
This time Cuihua understood seven or eight parts of it, but she still couldn't discern the subtle sentiment within. She remained unconvinced anything was wrong: "I did meet my brother-in-law at the rockery pavilion! And the moon that night really was quite bright. My hair was loose, so I casually picked up a peach branch to pin it up. Everything he said was what he actually saw—and saying I looked pretty, isn't that just the plain truth?"
Huai Che: "…"
He was momentarily at a loss for words, his sharp Adam's apple bobbing as a breath lodged in his chest—unable to be released, unable to be swallowed.
He couldn't release it because he could see that Cuihua, at least at this moment, had a clear conscience.
Even as a noble princess now, she remained as simple and clear as ever—just like the her he'd seen when he opened his eyes, having believed he was surely doomed to die.
But his young nephew, whom he had raised since childhood—when his elder brother the late emperor had perished, facing a realm beset by internal strife and external threats—hadn't he also tugged at his sleeve, looking at him as the only person he could rely on, weeping, "Imperial Uncle, I'm afraid"?
The wealth and power of the imperial family were the most corrosive things of all, capable of changing far too much.
And he couldn't swallow it because he'd detected in her words a troubling sign that pained him—the affection she currently showed him would likely prove just as fleeting.
She had let her hair down, spending a long time with another man beneath the flowers and moon—long enough for her to calmly pin up her hair, long enough that the other man must have glimpsed a particularly stunning, beautiful side of her, prompting him to gift a hairpin and compose verses, exhausting every word of praise…
Moreover… hadn't she just blurted out praise for that man, calling him "of noble birth" and "distinguished in appearance"?
At the thought, a trace of deeply somber self-mockery flickered across Huai Che's brow.
He turned aside, avoiding her hand that reached out to interlace fingers with his, his voice distant and cool: "I am not feeling well today, truly unable to serve the Princess. Please return, Princess. It is my inadequacy that has spoiled your pleasure."
Cuihua had seen his expression soften just moments ago and thought this inexplicable bout of jealousy would flare up and fade just as quickly—but instead, he was stewing in it twice over, finding new ways to sour her.
Hearing him call her "Princess" twice in that sarcastic tone, and seeing him truly fall silent and ignore her, Cuihua felt a surge of grievance and irritation rise in her chest.
For a moment, she felt that all her worry and longing over these past eight days had been fed to the dogs, only to be repaid with his baseless suspicion and utter unreasonableness.
She stamped her embroidered shoe, shoved the jade hairpin and the letter back into the brocade box in one motion, and swept out with the box in her arms. At the door, she slammed it shut with a heavy thud.
In the end, the lavish evening meal she had specially ordered the kitchen to prepare was enjoyed by her alone.
She knew where to draw the line, however—she didn't broadcast their quarrel to the servants or complain about Huai Che before them. She simply used the excuse he had given her, saying he was unwell.
Of course, the servants couldn't help but find it odd. Though Huai Che appeared slender and frail, he had managed everything that needed doing in the past few days without issue—so why had he suddenly fallen ill the moment the Princess returned to the manor?
But then again, perhaps the Princess simply fell for that sort of thing. No one dared to speculate further, and all simply followed orders.
By the time Cuihua had eaten her fill and burned through her anger, she heard Baodian report that Huai Che had indeed refused the meal she had sent over. Her heart softened first.
She surveyed her own excessively spacious bedchamber and sighed thoughtfully: "This room is too big, really. It's not good."
Baodian didn't grasp her meaning, merely echoing: "Does the Princess find it too empty? Among the gifts bestowed by Her Majesty the Empress, there is no shortage of ornaments and furnishings. When the Princess has leisure, she could visit the storeroom and select some pieces to arrange."
Cuihua shook her head, thinking to herself that a married woman and an unmarried maiden truly considered things differently.
The reason she found the room too big was that she was reminded of that thatched cottage from before—less than five zhang in both length and width. Back then, even when she and Huai Che had a falling out, they would always quarrel at the head of the bed and make up at its foot.
After all, Huai Che couldn't leave the confines of their little courtyard, and no matter how much she sulked, she couldn't very well refuse to come home and sleep out in the wilderness.
So since they would quarrel, yet inevitably share the same bed at night, for a young couple like them with each other in their hearts, there was no problem that a bout of intimacy couldn't resolve.
And if there was, then they simply needed a few more bouts.
When it came to handling her own husband, Cuihua had no shortage of tricks and methods.
She paused in thought, then raised a pair of glossy black apricot eyes shimmering with light, looking at Baodian: "Among the nightclothes prepared for me in the manor, is there anything more sheer than what I'm wearing now?"
Though the hottest days of summer had passed, Liang was located in the south, and the air still clung with lingering mugginess.
The Empress was thoughtful, mindful that Cuihua had long resided in the northern land of Yuan and might struggle with the scorching heat, so she had dispatched a large supply of ice and charcoal to the manor early on.
The bedchamber was naturally cool and pleasant at the moment. Though Baodian didn't understand why she still found it hot, she replied respectfully: "There is indeed one, but the Princess's chest… In the few days since this servant entered the manor, I have instructed the seamstresses to hasten the alterations, but since the End of Heat just passed, they have been prioritizing the late-summer and early-autumn garments."
Though Cuihua and her elder half-sister, the Crown Princess, both bore faces strikingly similar to the Empress, their figures could not have been more different.
The Crown Princess took after her father—tall and slender, with a thin, straight back, and having studied letters and practiced martial arts since childhood, her bearing on horseback rivaled any man's.
The Empress had assumed her second daughter Cuihua would be the same, and thus had prepared garments mostly in the elder daughter's measurements. But it turned out Cuihua resembled her mother even in figure—full and curved in all the right places, with a particularly generous bust that even surpassed the Empress herself.
But whether the garments fit perfectly, Cuihua didn't particularly mind.
Or rather, for what she was about to do, that particular area of ill-fitting looseness would actually serve her purposes better.
She curved a faint smile and instructed Baodian: "No matter. Pick the thinnest one and bring it to me. Oh, and also bring a bowl of that taro and pork rib congee I was having. After that, you may retire for the night—no need to attend to me further."
Baodian acknowledged and withdrew, and the bedchamber fell quiet once more.
Cuihua walked slowly to the vanity, reached up and drew the wooden hairpin from her hair, and in an instant, her dark tresses cascaded down like a waterfall.
She blinked at her reflection in the mirror—a face of natural allure—and a glint of sly, spirited light flickered in her eyes.
"Damn man," she cursed inwardly. "Daring to throw a tantrum, daring to go on a hunger strike. Just you wait—I'll show you."
In stark contrast to Cuihua's confident composure, in another corner of the Princess's manor, Huai Che remained seated stiff as a statue in his chair. Outside the window, dusk deepened, devouring the last of the daylight, yet he hadn't even lit a single lamp.
The past was a poison that gnawed through flesh and bone, spreading silently in the darkness, inch by inch corroding every limb of his body.
At the age of two, his father the Emperor had passed away. His second imperial brother, twenty-nine years his senior, had slaughtered all six of his other brothers, sparing only him—born of a tribute dancer from a foreign state, posing no threat in either age or bloodline.
At sixteen, his imperial brother, who had schemed for power his entire life, failed to live even two-thirds as long as their father had. Perhaps burdened by the weight of his countless sins, every heir born after his ascension died in infancy. When he finally departed this world, he left behind only a six-year-old son, entrusted to his care.
He assumed the heavy responsibility of guiding the young emperor in a time of crisis. Looking out, all he saw was his weeping nephew on the dragon throne, a populace trembling in fear beneath the tyranny of cruel officials, a treasury drained dry by three grand mountain pilgrimages, and a wounded nation with neglected borders and powerful warlords everywhere.
For the next ten years, as Regent Prince, he devoted every ounce of his energy and wisdom, and finally managed to stabilize the tottering Dayuan Dynasty.
Yet when the birds are gone, the bow is put away. Once internal strife and external threats were quelled, he became the last—and most obstructive—obstacle on the new emperor's path to personal rule.
These were the past events from when he was still Pei Huaiche, Regent Prince of Dayuan.
Later, as the young emperor had wished, Imperial Uncle Pei Huaiche "died" cleanly and completely. Meanwhile, in Baishi Village, a recently orphaned young woman named Liu Cuihua picked up a bargain husband named Huai Che from a mountain gully.
Pei Huaiche curled his lips into a thin, bitter smile. He thought, such is human nature—people can share hardship, but rarely prosperity.
He could only blame his own wretched fate for running into two "benefactors" in succession.
His little wife—the one who had given him a second life and promised him a lifetime of peace—was no simple village girl at all, but the long-lost precious daughter of the Liang Kingdom's Empress.
In the past, he had blocked his nephew's path, and his nephew had not hesitated to collude with treacherous ministers and cultivate maternal relatives just to eliminate him.
Now he was about to block her path as well. What methods would she use against him?
Pei Huaiche had never been a frail prince sitting idly in the halls of power. During his regency, he had personally led four military campaigns, striking such terror into the western tribes that they dared not invade again.
Now, as old memories surged like a tide, his fingers suddenly clenched, and the teacup in his palm shattered with a sharp crack.
Sharp porcelain shards embedded deeply into his flesh, and crimson blood traced a winding path down his pale wrist, yet he felt no pain from the wounds.
It was only when he vaguely heard the soft creak of the door that he suddenly snapped back to reality, instinctively releasing his clenched grip.
He had suffered many wounds, large and small, during his campaigns. Later, he nearly died once, and his legs were completely ruined. Now, whenever it rained, the pain was excruciating. A cut palm was nothing to him.
But his blood-soaked hand was slick and sticky, and for a moment he could not grip his walking cane firmly.
This caused him to lose his balance as he took his first difficult step. The cane slipped from his hand, and his entire body crashed heavily to the ground.
A dull pain spread through him belatedly, yet it did not originate from his palm or his legs, but from his chest—a twisting agony that made him dizzy in waves.
He seemed weary, exhausted. He knew that showing himself in such a pitiful, crawling posture would only hasten her disgust, yet he remained on the ground for a long time, unable to rise, drowning in an overwhelming sense of helplessness.
A candle was lit, dispelling the darkness of the room.
And when he finally forced his broken body—ravaged inside and out—to rise, he saw a particularly graceful, slender figure.
She wore only a thin lotus-pink silk nightgown, the delicate fabric stretched taut over her full bosom, and beneath her flowing wide sleeves, her waist appeared so slender it seemed it might break at any moment.
And so, all of Pei Huaiche's desolation melted into a dazed, longing gaze in the lamplight.
Cuihua's thinking was not wrong—she only needed to use a small trick to firmly control her man.
But why use a cleaver to kill a chicken? When it came to tormenting himself, that man was far more ruthless and vicious than she could ever be.