The matters of the shops had only just been sorted out for a couple of days when another issue arose on Yintang’s side.
It started with a letter.
Zhao Quanyi, a long-serving attendant from the Eighth Prince’s residence, arrived at the side gate of the Ninth Prince’s mansion at dusk. The eunuch on gate duty recognized him—he was a familiar face who came by every now and then to deliver letters. No one in the residence found it unusual.
The letter was delivered to Yintang’s study.
He Yuzhu stood guard outside. Through the window, he saw his master open the letter, read it once, then read it again. Then he slapped it onto the table and began pacing the room seven or eight times.
“Master, what’s wrong?” He Yuzhu asked cautiously.
“Nothing. Go out.”
He Yuzhu withdrew his head.
Nothing? Yintang hadn’t sat down since entering the study. He paced between the desk and the window, his boots striking the tiled floor faster and faster.
The contents of the letter weren’t complicated.
The Eighth Brother needed money.
Yintang picked up the letter and read it for the third time. The handwriting was unmistakably his Eighth Brother’s, and the wording was extremely polite—“I know your funds are tight; if it is inconvenient, do not force yourself”—but the more polite it sounded, the less it could be taken at face value.
Translated plainly, the letter meant: I need fifty thousand taels of silver, as soon as possible.
Fifty thousand taels.
What a coincidence. Just a few days ago, Ning Nuannuan had told him to keep fifty thousand taels in liquid reserve. He hadn’t even had time to gather it before his Eighth Brother reached out.
Yintang folded the letter and tucked it into his sleeve. Leaning back in his chair, he stared blankly at the candlelight on the desk.
It wasn’t the first time his Eighth Brother had asked for money. Over the years, whenever there were major moves at court—winning over officials, greasing the Internal Affairs Department, placing people in key positions—the silver had always come from Yintang. He had given willingly, never hesitating.
But today felt different.
Before, he spent freely because he didn’t feel the loss—he earned plenty, money flowing in like water. But now, the figures from Ning Nuannuan’s seven sheets of paper had taken root in his mind—eight thousand one hundred sixty-three taels and four qian. The money Zhang Dequan had siphoned, what Lady Wanyan had taken, what the shopkeepers had stolen, plus the three thousand taels from Concubine Su—he had never even known this money was gone.
For the first time, he began to consider a question:
How much money do I actually have?
Not the money passing through his hands—but the real assets he could firmly grasp.
The more he calculated, the more uneasy he felt.
Returns from maritime trade took time. At least eighty to ninety thousand taels were invested, but the silver was still out at sea. The shops in the capital and his lending business could gather three to four thousand taels in cash. That was about all the liquid silver he had on hand.
If he handed over fifty thousand taels, he would be nearly drained.
Yintang tugged at his braid.
He had never hesitated when it came to money for his Eighth Brother. But now—
“Master.” He Yuzhu’s voice came again from outside. “Zhao Quanyi is still waiting at the side gate for a reply.”
Yintang waved his hand irritably. “Let him wait.”
He Yuzhu didn’t dare ask further and retreated.
One wait turned into over an hour. Zhao Quanyi sat in the gatehouse until his legs went numb. He had drunk three cups of tea, while the night wind seeped through the cracks in the door, chilling him enough to rub his hands constantly.
Inside the study, Yintang reread the letter more than ten times. He pulled out an abacus and calculated for a while, then pushed it aside. Picking up a brush, he tried to write a reply, dipped it in ink, and hovered over the paper for a long time—without writing a single word.
He was irritated.
Not just about the money, but about Ning Nuannuan’s words echoing in his ears—“What your Imperial Father wants isn’t a son with the highest reputation, but an obedient one.”
He didn’t believe it.
But the words were like a thorn stuck in his throat—impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.
Late at night, in the main courtyard, Ning Nuannuan had just finished writing the purchase list she would hand to Li Maocai the next day. She set down her brush and rubbed her neck—this body’s cervical spine wasn’t great; sitting too long made it ache badly.
She planned to head to the kitchen to find something to eat. Dinner had been early, and she was starting to feel hungry.
Passing by the study courtyard, she saw candlelight through the window, a figure pacing inside.
At this hour, Yintang still wasn’t asleep?
She hadn’t intended to get involved. She had already walked past, then turned back. Standing under the corridor for a moment, she heard the clattering of abacus beads from inside, mixed with Yintang muttering a curse under his breath.
She pushed the door open and entered.
Yintang was slumped over the desk, his head buried in his arms. Papers were spread out before him, the abacus lay askew, and an ink bottle had tipped over, leaving a small pool of black ink on the table.
Hearing the door, he raised his head.
His eyes were bloodshot, his face ashen, his braid slightly crooked, a few loose strands of hair hanging over his forehead.
“Why are you here?” he asked, instinctively shoving the papers in front of him toward the drawer.
Ning Nuannuan walked over.
His hands weren’t as fast as his thoughts. While he was still trying to hide the papers, Ning Nuannuan had already pulled the letter from another stack on the table.
“Don’t read that!” Yintang reached out to snatch it back.
“Give it back! That’s a private letter from Eighth Brother!”
Ning Nuannuan blocked Yin Jiu’s reaching hand with her left, while her right unfolded the letter and skimmed through it.
Eighth Prince’s handwriting was elegant—flowing cursive script on fine Xuan paper. The letter wasn’t long, just over three hundred words, but its core meaning could be summed up in one sentence: Brother, lend me fifty thousand taels—urgent.
After reading it, Ning Nuannuan placed the letter back on the table.
Yin Jiu snatched it up, crumpled it into a ball, and stuffed it into his sleeve.
“You saw it?” His tone carried a hint of unease.
“Fifty thousand taels,” Ning Nuannuan stated plainly.
Yin Jiu fell silent.
She glanced at the scattered papers on the table—all his calculations. The handwriting was messy, numbers scattered everywhere, with some circled and recalculated multiple times. It was clear he had been working through it for a long time, struggling with the decision.
“Can you come up with it?” she asked.
“I can,” Yin Jiu answered quickly. “If I pull the working capital from the capital’s shops and pledge another batch of private loans—”
“If you pull the shops’ working capital, what will the managers use to restock? And if you pledge out more loans, how much can you guarantee to recover?”
Yin Jiu opened his mouth.
“If you drain yourself dry, will Eighth Prince make it up to you?”
That question hit the mark. Yin Jiu’s hand tightened around the crumpled letter in his sleeve.
“You don’t understand. Eighth Brother needs this money—it’s for something important.”
“What important matter?”
“It’s court business. You—”
“I don’t care about court affairs.” Ning Nuannuan pulled over a chair and sat across from him. “I’ll just ask you one thing—if you give him these fifty thousand taels, will he give you an IOU?”
Yin Jiu’s expression answered for him.
An IOU? Asking his own brother for one? If word got out, the other brothers would laugh at him.
Ning Nuannuan leaned back, folding her hands over her abdomen.
“No IOU, no repayment deadline, no collateral. Fifty thousand taels of silver—just handed over like that.”
“It’s not a gift! It’s just temporary—”
“When was the last ‘temporary’ loan? Has it been repaid?”
Yin Jiu fell silent.
The last time was last autumn—thirty thousand taels, still unpaid. The time before that was early spring the year before—twenty thousand taels, also unpaid. And before that—
He didn’t dare keep counting.
“Little Ninth,” Ning Nuannuan called.
Yin Jiu looked up at her.
“I won’t ask how much you earn in a year, but do you even have a record in your mind of how much you’ve given Eighth Prince over the years?”
Yin Jiu didn’t answer.
He truly had never calculated it. The money he had given Eighth Brother had never been considered a “debt” in his mind—it was brotherly loyalty, something he gave willingly. But now that Ning Nuannuan laid it out piece by piece, he realized he couldn’t even name an exact figure.
“Don’t rush to agree,” Ning Nuannuan stood up. “This is a large amount. It’s worth taking a couple of days to think about.”
“Eighth Brother is urging me—”
“That’s his urgency. You’re a prince, not his accountant.”
Ning Nuannuan walked to the door.
“Is there any porridge left?”
Yin Jiu blinked. “What porridge?”
“The bird’s nest porridge you sent earlier. Is there still any in the kitchen? I’m hungry.”
Yin Jiu froze for a moment. She had just been discussing something so serious, and then suddenly switched to asking about porridge—his mind couldn’t keep up.
“There… should be. I’ll have He Yuzhu check.”
Ning Nuannuan pushed the door open, casually setting the overturned ink bottle upright as she passed.
“Get some rest. Tomorrow’s matters can wait until tomorrow.”
After the door closed, Yin Jiu sat alone in the study.
He took the letter out from his sleeve, unfolded it, and smoothed it flat on the table with a paperweight.
He stared at it for a long time.
For the first time, he felt that no matter how beautiful Eighth Brother’s handwriting was, it couldn’t conceal those three words—
“Borrow fifty thousand.”