On the day of the Beginning of Winter, a sudden heavy snow fell upon the capital.
Zhu Qingyu had just finished her consultation with Old Madame Gu of the Duke Ding mansion when she found herself blocked at the entrance by the snowstorm.
As she stood under the eaves waiting for Nanny Li to fetch an umbrella, a tall, handsome man with sharp features and short hair, draped in a dark sable fur cloak, strode into the courtyard, immediately capturing Zhu Qingyu’s attention.
This was Zhu Qingyu’s third year in ancient times, and in those three years, it was the first time she had seen a man with short hair.
On any ordinary day, Zhu Qingyu would have done her best to avoid such a young nobleman, but his hair, so utterly out of place with the surroundings, caught her off guard and stirred a strange illusion within her.
Could he possibly be one of her kind—also transmigrated?
Should she exchange some sort of secret code to confirm?
Or perhaps the past three years of ancient life were actually nothing but a Nanke Dream?
Had she accidentally wandered onto some film set?
Zhu Qingyu was so stunned, her mind racing with chaotic thoughts, that she stared directly at him from the moment Gu Zhao entered the courtyard, not once shifting her gaze even as he crossed through the wind and snow to draw near.
Just then, a nanny lifted the curtain and came out, smiling:
“Young Master.”
That address—Young Master—snapped Zhu Qingyu back to reality. She quickly averted her gaze and bowed her head in greeting.
Since he was the heir of the Duke mansion, her wild speculations were nothing more than foolish fancies.
While Zhu Qingyu was looking at Gu Zhao, Gu Zhao was also looking at her.
Where Zhu Qingyu’s stare was bold and unguarded from shock, Gu Zhao’s observation was subtle and restrained.
Ever since the new emperor ascended the throne a few months ago, Gu Zhao had been ordered by imperial decree to return to secular life and enter the court. To sever any lingering thoughts he might have of returning to the monastery, his grandmother had been persistently trying to arrange a suitable companion for his chambers.
With the new emperor’s reign bringing a host of affairs, Gu Zhao—being the emperor’s maternal cousin, the newly appointed Vice Minister of Revenue, and the youngest Grand Secretary of the Inner Cabinet—spent nearly every day and night in his official quarters at the palace. He could only return to the Duke mansion on his one or two days off every ten days or half month, and even then, he came and went in haste.
Old Madame Gu knew he was busy, so she would simply have the young women wait under the eaves, hoping that when her grandson came to pay his respects in the midst of his hectic schedule, he might catch a glimpse—and if he fancied one, all the better.
She had failed time and again, yet she persisted with renewed determination.
So this was not the first time Gu Zhao had encountered a young, beautiful woman waiting under the eaves at his grandmother’s residence.
But a woman as bold as today’s was certainly a first.
Gu Zhao closed his umbrella, averted his gaze, and asked Nanny Li:
“I’ve come to pay my respects to Grandmother. Has she risen yet?”
Nanny Li smiled:
“She rose early. The old lady speaks of you every day, Young Master, and has been waiting for your return.”
Sure enough, once Gu Zhao entered the room, it took only a few exchanges before Old Madame Gu steered the conversation toward the matter of chamber companions, saying:
“I didn’t expect you to return so early today. It’s perfect—I have something to discuss with you. You work so hard day after day, and yet you have no one in your chambers to tend to your comfort. I simply cannot rest easy.”
Having been rejected too many times, Old Madame Gu had learned from experience and struck first, leaving Gu Zhao no chance to refuse. She continued:
“Don’t rush to decline. Before, your grandmother didn’t arrange things well. This time is different—she’s not a maidservant. She’s a refined young lady from a scholarly family, well-versed in propriety. Her family fell on hard times, and had our household not ransomed her, she would have sunk into some foul place. We’re doing a good deed, aren’t we? Her looks and figure are both exceptional…”
When Old Madame Gu mentioned exceptional looks and figure, Gu Zhao recalled the brief glimpse of the woman under the eaves just now.
Her clothing was plain and unadorned, with not a single piece of jewelry on her person—not even pierced ears. Her hair was held in place by nothing more than a simple wooden hairpin, and there was no trace of cosmetics on her face. Yet with that bare-faced, unadorned beauty alone, she evoked the phrase “a peerless beauty” in one’s mind. She truly deserved his grandmother’s praise.
In his previous refusals, Gu Zhao had made it clear to his elders that he was not bound by any Buddhist monastic precepts, nor did he harbor any intention of returning to the monastery.
After all, three years ago, when he had taken monastic vows by order of the late emperor, it had been to resolve a crisis for the current emperor—merely a form of cultivation.
Now, with the weight of court affairs on his shoulders, matters of romance were simply not on his mind. He had neither the time nor the energy to start from scratch with a stranger. He thought he might revisit the matter once things settled down.
But clearly, his elders did not believe him. They seemed desperate to anchor their ascetic heir to the secular world with high office, fine robes, sumptuous food, and beautiful wives and concubines.
With the hundred-day mourning period for the late emperor prohibiting feasts and entertainments, and noble houses barred from weddings for a year, a wife was out of the question—but a chamber attendant could certainly be arranged.
Even the Empress Dowager had summoned him yesterday, offering to send two women from the palace.
And today, his father, Duke Ding, had personally reminded him:
“It’s just a small matter, yet you insist on tormenting yourself like this—what are you trying to achieve? How did it escalate to the point where the Empress Dowager herself had to intervene? You must understand, the Empress Dowager is your aunt, but she is also the Empress Dowager! Do you want the imperial family to think you’re using past favors to demand repayment, making the emperor owe you a debt of gratitude, turning this good thing into a bad one? Zhao’er, is this your way of conducting yourself as an official?”
Gu Zhao reflected on himself. His father’s admonishment was quite right—when it came to the way of officialdom, he was indeed not as perceptive as his father.
The key point was not whether he was tormenting himself, but whether the emperor thought he was tormenting himself. And suffering and resentment, resentment and hatred—they were always inseparable.
It was indeed a small matter. He had overthought it.
So this time, when his grandmother brought up the arrangement of a concubine again, Gu Zhao did not refuse as he had the previous few times, but instead asked:
“She’s a young lady from a scholarly family—since she won’t be the principal wife, is she willing?”
Hearing this, there was a sign of softening. Old Madame Gu was overjoyed and quickly said:
“Of course she’s willing, why wouldn’t she be? I’ll have her brought in, and you can take a look first, alright? Even if this one isn’t suitable, Grandmother will find you another, and I’ll make sure to find one you fancy.”
Recalling the bold and expectant look in the young woman’s eyes just now, Gu Zhao felt she was indeed willing. It was a small matter, and the sooner it was settled, the better. So he said:
“No need to look further. Let it be her. Your grandson still has matters to attend to back at the palace, so I won’t disturb Grandmother’s rest.”
Having finally gotten her grandson to relent, Old Madame Gu seized the opportunity and quickly asked:
“Then come back on your next day off—the tenth day of the tenth month. I’ll arrange for her to serve you tea and make the matter official?”
Gu Zhao nodded, bowed, and took his leave. When he stepped outside, the young woman who had been under the eaves was nowhere to be seen.
In the snow, a trail of footprints wound out from beneath the eaves, all the way to the courtyard gate, then continued on beyond.
The heavy snow fell without cease. Judging by the footprints, she must have left not long ago.
In such cold, snowy weather, now that the matter was settled and she had a place to go, she wouldn’t have to keep standing under the eaves braving the wind and cold. That was a good thing for her, wasn’t it?
Gu Zhao took an umbrella and followed the winding footprints, walking from the wind and snow into the wind and snow.
When he emerged from Old Madame Gu’s Fu’an Hall, amid the creaking sounds of the snow, Gu Zhao suddenly realized he had left in such a hurry that he had forgotten to even ask her name.
He thought about going back to ask, took two steps back, then stopped.
Never mind. He would see her again in a few days. He could ask then—it would be the same.