1
The spring sunshine in March was just right, and a gentle breeze set the branches laden with pear blossoms swaying slowly.
Du Qianqian sat reclining on the soft couch, a warm pot cradled in her hands. Her fair face bore a trace of weariness, and her lackluster almond-shaped eyes gazed out the window. She said, “Baizhu, what day is it today?”
Baizhu wiped her face, her eyes rimmed with red. “Madam, today is the eighth.”
Du Qianqian counted on her fingers—there were still seven days until the fifteenth. She wondered if this frail body of hers could even last until then.
Chen Queyu only set foot in her courtyard on the first and fifteenth of each month. He hadn’t come on the first of this month. A concubine in the western courtyard had given birth, and he had sent someone to dismiss her with a brief excuse of being busy—after that, his figure was nowhere to be seen.
Du Qianqian raised her hand. “Go fetch me a blanket. I’ll sleep for a while.”
“Yes.”
The sunlight was beautiful, but she had little spirit for it. The magpies in the branches chirped merrily, and fragmented rays of sunlight poured eagerly through the window lattice, falling upon her shoulders.
Du Qianqian squinted her eyes, wearing only a thin inner garment, with a pink cloak draped over her shoulders. Her brows were as if painted with ink, and the faint smile at the corners of her lips seemed half mocking, half sardonic.
She remembered—the weather had been just as lovely on the day she married Chen Queyu.
Du Qianqian was somewhat different from the typical sheltered young lady. Growing up, she had often learned horseback riding and falconry from her uncle in the military camp, and she had a rather lively temperament. But after marrying Chen Queyu, she adhered to the comportment of a proper lady and never rode a horse again.
On the day she married Chen Queyu, her heart had been filled with immense joy.
Young and naive, before they were even betrothed, she had always brazenly followed behind him, a smile in her eyes as she asked, “Lord Chen, do I look pretty?”
Chen Queyu always regarded her coldly and never deigned to answer.
Later, eager to profess her feelings, she stepped forward and stopped his horse, saying, “Lord Chen, I’ve recently learned a new poem and would like to recite it for you.”
The young man sat tall on his horse, holding the reins, his handsome and peerless face utterly expressionless.
Du Qianqian blushed, her clear and melodious voice reaching his ears: “O you with the blue collar, forever in my heart.” Her face flushed like rosy clouds, her limpid eyes fixed on him. “Lord Chen, did I recite it well?”
The young man’s ears reddened almost imperceptibly. He cracked his whip against the horse’s back and rode off without a backward glance.
Before he left, he left behind word:
“Shameless.”
Du Qianqian also mounted her horse and chased after him. The north wind howled past her ears, but her heart felt utterly free and exhilarated.
In the third month of spring, when the willows were green and flowers blooming, Chen Queyu obeyed his father’s orders and came to her home to propose marriage.
At the time, she hid behind a folding screen and sneaked several glances at him. Thinking that such a handsome man would one day become her husband, her heart swelled with sweetness.
Among all the sons of noble families, he was the most accomplished.
Gifted in both letters and martial arts, he had passed the imperial provincial examinations before he was even seventeen, and in the subsequent palace examination, the emperor himself had personally named him Tanhua—the third-highest scholar.
On their wedding night, after the bridal veil was lifted, what met her eyes was his suddenly chilled expression.
Du Qianqian guessed that he had married her against his will—otherwise, why would he wear such a cold face on their wedding night? She simply couldn’t understand: if he was unwilling, why did he marry her in the first place?
Despite his displeasure, Chen Queyu still fulfilled his marital duties.
He was as strong as an ox, not at all like a scholar, and he poured all that brute strength into her, each thrust heavier than the last, with no care for her comfort.
Chen Queyu did not favor her, and her life in the household suffered for it. The concubine in the western courtyard was more beloved than she was, and he usually spent more time there.
On the rare occasions he did come to the eastern courtyard, Du Qianqian could never resist picking a fight with him though it wasn’t really a fight, more like talking back.
The most infuriating part was that Du Qianqian could never win an argument against him, and would end up sitting by the bed with her back to him, stewing in silence.
Two years into their marriage, she became pregnant. Chen Queyu’s face, as a first-time father, showed little joy. She thought to herself that he probably didn’t want this child either.
When she gave birth, Du Qianqian’s life hung by a thread—she nearly died in labor. Although mother and son were ultimately safe, her body had been irreparably damaged.
Using her poor health as an excuse, Chen Queyu took the child to be raised in the front courtyard. His favored concubine often held her son in her arms. A few years later, Du Qianqian finally swallowed her pride and asked to have the child brought back to her care.
Chen Queyu agreed and sent the boy back to her courtyard. The little one, barely four or five years old, was endearing—his eyes resembled hers, while his features were all his father’s.
Her son was well-behaved and obedient, yet he was not close to her and had little to say in her presence.
Du Qianqian thought that with more time together, things would improve. But within days, Baizhu told her that the young master kept having nightmares at night, refused to eat much, and often threw tantrums in front of the servants, insisting on returning to the front courtyard.
A mother’s heart aches for her child. Unable to bear watching him grow thinner, Du Qianqian relented and let him go back.
Early the following spring, her father was arrested and thrown into prison. Dozens of members of the Du family were implicated.
No one in the imperial court was willing to help. Dragging her ailing body, Du Qianqian went to beg Chen Queyu, only to receive the four-word reply: “I am powerless.”
After a joint trial by the Three Departments, her father was convicted of corruption, and the entire family was banished into exile.
From then on, Du Qianqian’s health deteriorated day by day.
Drowsiness washed over her. She gently closed her eyes and, bathed in the sunlight, slowly drifted off to sleep.
Looking back, she didn’t know whether she should regret having once been so set on marrying Chen Queyu.
On the right corner of the desk by the window sat a teacup and a vase of flowers—a crabapple branch blooming vibrantly.
Outside the window, the sky gradually darkened.
She slept for several hours before waking. Baizhu handed her a bowl of dark, murky medicine. “Madam, it’s time to take your medicine.”
Du Qianqian furrowed her brows instinctively. The medicine was bitterly foul, and even after drinking it, she never felt any better. “I don’t want to drink it.”
Baizhu pleaded with her earnestly. “Madam, you can only get better if you take your medicine.”
The young maid’s eyes glistened with tears. Du Qianqian sighed, and with no other choice, took the bowl, tilted her head back, and downed it in one gulp. She handed the empty bowl back. “It’s really so bitter. Next time, bring me some preserved fruits.”
“Yes.”
No sooner had the words left her mouth than a searing, stabbing pain shot through Du Qianqian’s chest. Her internal organs felt as though they were being twisted with pliers. A salty, metallic taste rose in her throat. She opened her mouth, and a large gush of black blood spilled out.
After that, Du Qianqian lost consciousness.
She was dead.
She had thought she was thoroughly gone, but to her surprise, her soul detached from her body and drifted aimlessly through the air.
She saw Baizhu holding her corpse and wailing bitterly. She wanted to step forward and wipe away her tears, but she couldn’t touch Baizhu’s body.
Her nominal husband arrived in haste. Even upon seeing her lifeless body, his expression remained unchanged. It was only after a long while that Du Qianqian saw him move—he crouched down, roughly pushed Baizhu aside, and reached out to check for breath at her nose.
The steward paced anxiously on the spot. “Why hasn’t the physician arrived yet?”
Chen Queyu rose to his feet. His tall frame swayed slightly, but only for an instant before he regained his composure. He said coldly, “There’s no need to call for a physician. She’s already dead.”
The steward was taken aback. Although this master had never favored the madam, his reaction to her death was far too detached.
Du Qianqian gnashed her teeth with hatred. She wished she could pounce on Chen Queyu and bite him to death, dragging him down to become a ghost alongside her. This heartless, contemptible man—speaking of which, she had been poisoned to death. A single bowl of medicine had sent her to the afterlife. Given how bitterly Chen Queyu resented her, Du Qianqian didn’t expect him to bother finding the culprit who had poisoned her.
If she were to think maliciously—perhaps the poisoner was him!
The one advantage of her soul not yet dispersing was that she could witness her own funeral in person. But Du Qianqian had underestimated Chen Queyu’s hatred for her.
She never imagined he wouldn’t even hold a funeral for her—after all, she was still his lawful wife.
What a miserable end!
Chen Queyu hadn’t smiled for days. His face was pale, like someone gravely ill. He coughed twice and instructed the steward, “Gather all her belongings and put them away. I don’t want to see them.”
The steward hesitated. “Not a single thing left behind?”
Chen Queyu’s face was taut. “Not a single thing.”
The steward couldn’t help but sigh once more—this master was truly too cruel-hearted toward the madam.
Perhaps the King of Hell had forgotten about her, for no one ever came to collect Du Qianqian’s soul.
She couldn’t go out during the day and could only drift around the courtyard at night.
She saw Chen Queyu steal the crabapple branch from her room. Du Qianqian sat on the edge of the roof, unable to fathom why he would take it.
She had always loved crabapple blossoms—when they bloomed in great swaths in spring, they were stunningly beautiful. That was why she had planted a large patch of them in her courtyard back then.
But later, Chen Queyu had uprooted them all.
She had been furious beyond measure at the time. In a rage, she grabbed her whip and was about to go fight him, but Baizhu wrapped her arms around her waist and held her back, pleading tearfully, “Madam, please don’t go provoking the master again!”
Du Qianqian had sat fuming in her chair, unable to calm down for a long while. She put away her whip and sent someone to ask why he had pulled up all her flowers. The reply that came back was flippant: “The master doesn’t like them.”
If Baizhu hadn’t stopped her, Du Qianqian would have grabbed a knife and gone to fight Chen Queyu to the death.
What did his dislike have to do with her? The flowers were planted in her own courtyard—they kept to themselves, and he should have kept to his.
Chen Queyu was simply bullying her.
Du Qianqian’s soul followed Chen Queyu into his inner chamber.
His room was simple and grand, with bookshelves filled to the brim. By the window stood a desk, on which sat a celadon vase holding a single crabapple branch—the very one he had stolen from her room.
Chen Queyu stood before the table, hands clasped behind his back, staring at the crabapple blossom for a long time. Du Qianqian thought it must have been the poor lighting, for she actually saw his eyes grow red-rimmed.
Du Qianqian’s spirit lingered in the human world for eight more years. She longed to be reborn, but perhaps because Chen Queyu had never given her a proper funeral, nor erected a tombstone or set up a memorial tablet, the King of Hell had never come to claim her.
She watched as Chen Queyu, still young, rose to the position of Assistant Commander of the Five Military Commissions. She watched him soar to prominence, unrivaled in his glory.
She watched one promising young talent after another rise under his patronage.
One night, she sat on the rooftop as usual, gazing at the moon.
A searing, agonizing pain tore through her. Just before she lost consciousness, she thought: How wonderful—finally, I can be reborn.
**