On Shen Zhiyi’s first night in Fangcao Hall, she slept more soundly than she had expected.
Not because she was carefree—because she was exhausted.
Three days since transmigrating, one day of being forced into a substitute marriage, and after dealing with that tyrant whose gaze seemed capable of devouring people whole—she fell asleep the moment her head touched the pillow, without even dreaming.
When she woke, daylight was already bright.
Sunlight filtered through the broken window lattice, cutting bands of light across the floor.
She stared at those strips of light for a while before her mind slowly started working again.
“Miss?”
Qingtang’s voice came from outside, timid, tinged with hesitation.
“Come in.”
Qingtang entered carrying a copper basin. Her eyes were red, as if she had been crying.
Shen Zhiyi sat up. “What’s wrong?”
“Th-this servant just went to collect the monthly allowance…” Qingtang bit her lip, fingers twisting the hem of her clothes.
“The steward said Fangcao Hall’s allocation is counted the same as the Cold Palace—two taels of silver and five hundred coins a month. But I clearly saw in his ledger that it was recorded as five taels…”
As she spoke, her eyes reddened again.
Shen Zhiyi simply said, “Oh,” and got out of bed to wash her face.
Qingtang froze.
That’s it?
Miss isn’t angry? Not scolding anyone? Not going to argue with the steward?
“Miss, you…” she ventured carefully. “Aren’t you angry?”
“Would being angry help?”
Qingtang was speechless.
Shen Zhiyi dried her face and tidied her hair in front of the blurred bronze mirror.
The woman reflected there had gentle features, the kind that looked easy to bully—exactly what she wanted.
“Those stewards are all shrewd.” She set down the cloth, her tone calm.
“A newly arrived consort, living next to the Cold Palace, with the emperor not even coming on the wedding night—if you were the steward, would you skim off the top or not?”
Qingtang opened her mouth, then closed it again.
She understood the reasoning.
But understanding only made it more unfair—why should her miss have to endure this?
Shen Zhiyi took out a silver hairpin from her jewelry box and handed it to her.
“Take this and pawn it.”
Qingtang’s hands trembled as she accepted it. “Miss, this is the only valuable piece of jewelry you have…”
“A hairpin is dead. People are alive.” Shen Zhiyi patted her hand.
“Exchange it for some loose silver. Spend what needs to be spent, bribe who needs to be bribed—there’ll be plenty of places we’ll need money.”
Qingtang clutched the hairpin, her eyes reddening again.
She had grown up with her mistress. She knew this hairpin was the only thing Madam—no, the principal wife—had ever given her.
Even though it was an outdated style the old matriarch didn’t want, her miss had kept it all this time as a memento.
And now she was willing to pawn it just like that.
“Go on,” Shen Zhiyi said, already walking to the window. She pushed it open and pointed to the patch of abandoned land outside.
“While you’re at it, bring something back for me.”
“What is it?”
“Radish seeds.”
Qingtang blinked. “…Huh?”
“See that?” Shen Zhiyi pointed at the empty ground.
“Such a large plot—what a waste to leave it unused. We can plant radishes and cabbages. We’ll even have something to eat in winter.”
Qingtang looked bewildered. “B-but you’re a consort…”
“Consorts don’t need to eat?”
Qingtang was stumped.
Shen Zhiyi turned back and smiled at her.
The smile was gentle and soft, but for some reason, it made a chill run down Qingtang’s spine.
“Go on. Remember to buy the cheapest seeds—radishes are easy to grow.”
Qingtang left holding the hairpin. Even after walking far away, she kept looking back.
Miss had changed.
The old miss was quiet, timid, always avoiding people.
When the principal wife scolded her, she lowered her head and didn’t dare speak.
When the eldest miss bullied her, she hid in her room and cried in secret.
But now…
Her voice was still soft, but her gaze, her tone—made Qingtang not dare to question her.
Forget it.
Miss is right.
Staying alive is what matters.