With the gentle wind and sweet rain falling, the pear blossoms in Chengqian Palace covered the branches, like heavy snow blanketing the limbs.
In the East Warm Pavilion, Tong Jiying lay listlessly on a low couch by the window, inlaid with black lacquer and mother-of-pearl floral and bird motifs. Her oval face, fair as jade, bore a pale, sickly pallor.
Shuangyu held a black lacquer tray, on which rested a plum-green lotus-petal bowl filled to the brim with dark brown medicinal broth.
With just a sidelong glance, Tong Jiying felt her chest tighten, making it hard to breathe. She covered her heart and turned away, unable to look. She had always hated bitterness—in modern times, she would rather get an injection than take medicine for a cold. Now, in the Qing Dynasty, she had to force this unbearably bitter traditional medicine down her throat and into her stomach.
“Master, it’s time for your medicine.”
Shuangyu’s voice was clear and pleasant, but to Tong Jiying, it inexplicably sounded like a death sentence, eerily similar to the phrase, “Husband, it’s time for your medicine.”
“Can I not take it?” Tong Jiying frowned, rejecting this assault on her taste buds. Colds usually healed on their own in seven days; if she held out for three more days, she would recover.
Seeing her master procrastinate every time it was time for medicine, Shuangyu grew worried about her illness and gently urged, “Master, just endure a few more days. Once you’re better, you won’t have to take any more medicine.”
“Leave it there. I’ll drink it when it cools a bit.” Tong Jiying, having been a working professional herself, didn’t want to make things difficult for Shuangyu—after all, this was her job. But… she truly didn’t want to take a single sip of this medicine.
Shuangyu placed her hand on the side of the bowl to check the temperature. Finding it not too hot, she looked at Tong Jiying and brought the bowl closer to her. “Master…”
Tong Jiying’s face twisted in distress, her eyes opening and closing repeatedly. Finally, under Shuangyu’s expectant gaze, she pinched her nose, closed her eyes, and gulped the medicine down in one go.
“Quick, bring water and candied fruit!” Tong Jiying urged. It was so bitter—even after four days of taking the medicine, she still found it unbearable.
How could something so bitter exist in this world!
Tong Jiying had arrived in this world four days ago. She had been working 997 shifts for three consecutive weeks and collapsed from exhaustion in her office. When she woke up, she had become Empress Xiaoyiren of the Tong Jia Clan, the three-day empress of Emperor Kangxi in the Qing Dynasty.
The original host had fainted while paying respects to the late empress. To demonstrate her sincerity, she had knelt for too long and stood up too abruptly, causing her to collapse to the ground and lose consciousness.
It was unclear whether they had swapped places or if the original soul had already departed this world.
The original host’s memories were vast and complex. On her first day here, Tong Jiying was overwhelmed by these memories and came down with a cold. Headaches and fever plagued her all day, and it wasn’t until the next day that she awoke from a dazed, disoriented state.
Empress Xiaoyiren of the Tong Jia Clan came from the Tong family, a prominent clan that had produced two dukes and was the maternal family of Emperor Kangxi. She was the biological niece of Empress Xiaokangzhang, Kangxi’s birth mother, and also his first cousin.
Cousins marrying cousins—Tong Jiying’s head spun at the thought.
The original host was currently Emperor Kangxi’s Noble Consort. After Empress Niohuru passed away, she held the highest rank in the palace. Ambitious by nature and with frequent reminders from her family, she felt that the empress position she had previously missed was now within her grasp. Thus, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the funeral arrangements for the late empress, determined to showcase her capabilities to the palace’s key leaders.
Tong Jiaying had already strived once before, only to end up with nothing in the end. After thinking for three days, she finally decided to abandon the path to promotion that the original host had planned.
After all, she had also lived through the era when Qing Dynasty time travel novels were all the rage, having read over a dozen or twenty of them. While reading, she became fascinated with such “explorations,” looking up some brief information and scrolling through several thousand-reply “discussion threads” on related topics.
Otherwise, how would she know that the original host was the “three-day Empress”?
Moreover, she also knew that the original host was the future Yongzheng Emperor’s adoptive mother, giving the Fourth Prince a “half-legitimate son” status. The original host was currently in contact with the future Consort De, seemingly planning to have Consort Wu, who resided in Chongcui Palace, move into her Chengqian Palace.
Tong Jiaying glanced at the snow-like pear blossoms outside the lozenge-patterned window and felt that Chengqian Palace was still more suitable for her to live in alone.
Shuangyu noticed that after eating a few pieces of candied fruit, Tong Jiaying began to drift off again. She frowned slightly, wondering what was going on. Ever since her mistress woke up, she had changed somewhat.
When she and Feiyu tried to probe indirectly, their mistress could still answer accurately.
Could it really be as their mistress said—that after walking through the gates of hell, she had come to understand everything and let go? Was it “having is fine, not having is also fine,” releasing her obsessions and becoming someone who believed “everything has its place, life follows fate”?
In reality, Tong Jiaying simply planned to slack off in her current position as Noble Consort. She was Kangxi’s cousin and the Empress Dowager’s niece. As long as she didn’t commit any major crimes like rebellion or participate in the Imperial Harem’s “abortion squad” activities, she could basically live peacefully and healthily into old age.
She had died young in her previous life, only in her twenties. In this life, she would live a little longer, striving to make up for the years she missed in her past life.
“Mistress, the small kitchen has prepared thick green japonica rice porridge. Would you like some?” Shuangyu was always attentive to Tong Jiaying. During her mistress’s illness these past few days, she had little appetite, eating less than half a bowl of porridge a day. If this continued, she feared her mistress’s health would suffer.
Tong Jiaying lay sprawled on a lilac-colored silk pillow embroidered with interlocking lotus patterns, looking utterly listless. Who could still have an appetite after drinking such a large bowl of terribly bitter traditional medicine?
She wondered if the imperial physician had a grudge against her—not only insisting she take the medicine while hot but also delivering it right before mealtime every time.
“No, I want to sleep for a while,” Tong Jiaying mumbled. The medicine made her drowsy.
Within minutes, Tong Jiaying had drifted off to sleep. Seeing this, Shuangyu felt somewhat helpless. She went into the inner chamber, fetched a blanket made of white fox fur, carefully draped it over Tong Jiaying, and then quietly retreated.
By the time Tong Jiaying woke again, it was already evening. The orange-red twilight fell on her face, making her complexion appear less pale and pitiful.
Her crow-feather-like long eyelashes fluttered once, and Tong Jiaying opened her eyes in confusion. Seeing that the surroundings remained unchanged, she felt a wave of disappointment wash over her. She was still here.
Although she had made a decision and planned her future path, she couldn’t help but feel uneasy. The difference between modern society and feudal society was just two words, yet they were worlds apart. If possible, she would turn back without hesitation.
Who would want to be a concubine in this wretched feudal society? Only someone utterly foolish would desire that.
As she thought this, Tong Jiaying sat up, still wrapped in the white fox fur blanket. She tilted her head slightly and looked out through the lozenge-patterned window. The clouds on the horizon were burning bright red from the sun, a clear sign that tomorrow would be a fine day.
Shuangyu, hearing movement inside the room, lifted the door curtain and slipped in. “Mistress, you’re awake? Would you like something to eat?”
Tong Jiaying’s wandering thoughts were abruptly pulled back. She steadied herself slightly, turned her head to look at Shuangyu, and after a moment’s thought, said, “I’d like a steamed fish, lightly seasoned, a bowl of chicken soup with two drumsticks in it, and some fresh vegetables—no pickled ones.” The funeral rites for the late empress had already passed, and in the palace, days were substituted for years in mourning, so meat had long been permissible again.
Moreover, she suspected that the original host’s body had weakened precisely because she hadn’t eaten meat for nearly a month, leading to a decline in health due to lack of protein, which had caused her illness.
Thank heavens, the bodhisattva be praised—her mistress finally had an appetite. Shuangyu immediately dashed joyfully toward the kitchen.