From the very first day she entered the Eastern Palace, suspicion hung heavy all around.

How could Zhao Yen not know that Mother Empress had destroyed all records in the Imperial Medical Bureau, refusing to utter a single word about the details of the Crown Prince’s death, only so that she could sit at ease in the Eastern Palace, acting the part of his substitute?

She had never truly believed that her elder brother merely died of a relapse of an old illness.

Since she could not pry anything out of Liuying’s mouth, Zhao Yen could only think of her own ways to search for clues.

The night was deep, and the palace city was silent and solemn.

Liuying replenished the tea, unhooked the golden clasps of the bed-curtains, then led the palace maids to bow and withdraw.

Once the doors were closed, Zhao Yen put down the book in her hand, lifted the bed-curtain, donned a robe and stepped down, her bare feet treading upon the soft Persian carpet, making her way to the hidden bookcase inside.

The Eastern Palace stored countless books; she had already searched both the study and the Chongjiao Tower, yet had not discovered a single trace of any documents left by the Crown Prince.

Precisely because nothing had been left behind, it appeared all the more suspicious, as though someone had deliberately cleaned everything away.

This was the final place. The books and paintings here were stored within the extremely private inner chamber; they must have been items her elder brother cherished deeply.

By the dim glimmer of candlelight, Zhao Yen carefully and quietly searched through them.

A thin sheet of neatly folded paper slipped out from between the pages of a book. Hastily crouching down to pick it up, she found it was a design sketch.

What was drawn upon it was precisely the golden hairpin she had received on her fifteenth birthday.

The drawing was very detailed, with four or five different floral, avian, and auspicious-cloud patterns designed merely for the ornamentation.

Zhao Yen lightly traced the upright characters “Birthday Gift for Yan’er” written at the top of the paper with her fingertip. The dim yellow candlelight fell upon her face, her lashes casting long shadows, outlining a wordless sorrow.

She could almost imagine, on countless nights by the lamplight, her sickly elder brother draped in a robe, pen in hand at this very place, stifling his coughs as he repeatedly amended the design with vermilion ink.

Beneath the lamp, he must have looked gentle of countenance, filled with hopeful anticipation.

Zhao Yen rubbed her eyes, carefully folded the drawing, and gently tucked it close to her bosom.

She drew a breath to steady herself, searched meticulously several more times, yet found nothing else.

Inevitably disappointed, she could only restore everything to its original place.

As she pushed the books back onto the shelves one by one, she sensed something amiss.

The wooden panel at the lowest row was slightly loose. Knocking lightly with her knuckle, it gave a hollow sound.

Back at Huayang Palace, she had once inadvertently uncovered the blueprints used by the craftsmen at the time of construction, and by following the markings, had found several hidden chambers for storing antiques and curios, some even containing mechanisms and secret passageways.

At once she knew this panel must conceal some ingenuity.

Pressing down with force, she indeed discovered a hidden compartment, about a foot long and six inches wide.

Inside the hidden compartment lay a yellowed, ancient book.

All drowsiness instantly vanished from Zhao Yen. She carefully set the lamp down on the floor, then sat cross-legged upon the ground, impatiently opening the pages.

Yet in the blink of an eye, the light in her eyes dimmed.

What the hidden compartment contained was not some confidential document, but rather a handwritten copy of Notes on the Past and Present from the Jin dynasty. On its title page was stamped a dark red private seal, upon which were inscribed the three characters: “Shen Jingming.”

It was a person’s name.

Since this book was not a precious item, then the only thing of value could only be this Shen Jingming who gifted the book to Elder Brother.

Inside the book was also tucked a slip of paper, upon which were written, with strokes that pierced through the back of the page, the two characters: “Fu Deng” [Brushing the Lamp]. The handwriting was free and flowing, and not Zhao Yan’s own.

“Fu Deng…”

Zhao Yen murmured, what did this mean?

She pondered for a long time but could not see through the clue, and had no choice but to hastily restore everything, hurrying back onto the bed before Liuying came for the night inspection, wrapping her slender body tightly within the bedding.

The sound of the clepsydra dripping made the Eastern Palace seem all the more like a tomb.

…

The next day at lecture, Zhao Yen once again encountered trouble.

The Crown Prince’s demeanor and conduct she could still imitate, but literary learning and writing were difficult to fabricate.

The snow accumulated in the imperial city had melted; droplets of water slid down from the eaves, refracting dazzling brilliance beneath the sunlight.

Inside Chongwen Hall, the young Crown Prince stood with lowered lids.

“Forgive me, Teacher.”

The small youth revealed a guilty expression; his figure was thin and frail, even his voice soft and quiet.

Grand Preceptor Wen, recalling the illness that plagued his body, could not help but relent, saying: “It is this old minister’s thoughtlessness. His Highness is weak in health, and ought rightly be allowed a few days’ leniency. If the essay cannot be written…”

“It is not that I cannot, but that I do not understand.” Zhao Yen spoke softly.

At once, upon hearing that the student had a doubt, Grand Preceptor Wen straightened his robe and sat upright: “Where does Your Highness not understand?”

The essay assigned yesterday by Grand Preceptor Wen was a commentary on The Doctrine of the Mean. Zhao Yen had gone back to the Eastern Palace and pored over it alone for half the night, her brows knotting tightly together.

She had left the palace at nine years old, and the Empress Dowager was a detached temperament, a companion of lamplight and Buddha, not paying much attention to trifles. She had only invited a great scholar of the Zhou clan of Luoyang to teach her granddaughter periodically, and then cared no more.

How could Zhao Yen content herself with sitting obediently for meditation and reading? Whenever no one restrained her, she was like a wild colt freed of its bridle, spending most of her energy roaming mountains and waters, making her own amusements amidst hardship.

Thus she had read many miscellaneous books and story collections, but had rarely delved into the Four Books and Five Classics. At the mere sound of those lofty principles of restraining the self and extinguishing desire, her head would throb.

Let alone when she was required to compose thousand-word essays of self-reflection.

She extended a slender, fair forefinger, pointing at the lines in the book: “The text says, ‘The first step in the Way of the Mean is that the gentleman is cautious when alone. Even when one is alone, one must hide one’s emotions. When happy, one must not laugh aloud; when sorrowful, one must not weep bitterly. At all times cautious and circumspect, in all matters never overstepping bounds.’”

Grand Preceptor Wen held his tea cup, nodding in agreement.

Zhao Yen furrowed her brows, revealing a troubled look.

Grand Preceptor Wen encouraged her: “Your Highness may speak without worry.”

“Then, I shall speak frankly.”

The young Crown Prince was shy, yet his slightly feminine eyes shone like a bright mirror dusted clean. “Joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness are the innate nature of man. If one loses the seven emotions and six desires, one is no different from a wooden puppet. For the book to demand so harshly, is it not urging us to extinguish our humanity? Therefore, I believe this does not accord with the Way of Nature.”

Grand Preceptor Wen nearly choked on a mouthful of tea.

When the lesson ended and she returned to the palace, as expected, what awaited Zhao Yen was Liuying’s grave and stern face.

Knowing she was about to be scolded on behalf of Mother Empress, Zhao Yen unfastened the thick, stifling white fox fur and sighed: “You know I cannot write the kind of essay Grand Preceptor Wen wants. Forcing myself to put brush to paper will only expose flaws. Why not let me seek someone to ghostwrite?”

“Absolutely not!” Liuying rejected at once.

The matter of Princess Changfeng impersonating the Crown Prince of the Eastern Palace was a secret personally orchestrated by Her Majesty the Empress. The slightest carelessness would mean the calamity of death and the ruin of the state. The more people who knew, the greater the danger—how could she possibly find someone to ghostwrite?

Moreover, His Highness the Crown Prince had from childhood been assisted by eminent scholars and renowned men, thoroughly versed in letters. To imitate his literary style—how could that be easy?

Liuying bit down hard on her lip, but when she lifted her head, she happened to meet a pair of bright, smiling eyes. The tear mole, deliberately marked just as the Crown Prince’s, shone brilliantly, yet not in the least sickly.

She at once knew her mistress was only teasing her.

For a moment she was dazed.

As though long ago, there had also been someone who loved to toy with her in this same way.

Zhao Yen propped her chin out of habit. “I cannot write the essay, but if I remain wooden and mute, saying nothing at all, that too will reveal flaws. Better to toss out a few questions, and let Grand Preceptor Wen puzzle over them himself.”

Liuying’s expression eased somewhat—her mistress’s words did hold reason.

“And what of Mother Empress, how should we answer her?” Taking advantage of Liuying’s moment of reflection, Zhao Yen asked again.

Liuying lifted a corner of the carriage curtain, seeing that the Eastern Palace guards and eunuchs were following distantly behind, with no outsiders nearby, then lowered her voice: “As for the Three Mentors of the Eastern Palace, Her Majesty cannot easily interfere. But to select a trusted companion reader is not difficult. Then, when His Highness is at Chongwen Hall, there will also be someone to look after him.”

As a palace maid, Liuying was not qualified to enter Chongwen Hall to serve, and each time could only wait outside the doors—indeed, inconvenient.

One must still place one’s own person at hand to feel secure. Zhao Yen mused over this.

Fortunately, the first day of the next month would be the Winter Festival, when the palace routinely held sacrifices and banquets. She remembered that each year at this time, the sons of princes and noble scions of the various households would enter the palace to attend the feast.

Perhaps it would be a chance to select someone.

The image of that copy of Notes on the Past and Present hidden in the secret compartment flickered in her mind. Zhao Yen’s gaze shifted slightly, and she feigned casualness: “Today I heard Grand Preceptor Wen mention, there is one named Shen Jingming who is quite good. Who is he?”

At the mention of this name, Liuying’s movements paused ever so slightly.

Zhao Yen caught that faintest trace of emotion at once, and knew she had made the right gamble.

This person truly was entangled with the Eastern Palace.

Liuying seemed to hesitate over whether to speak, before at last saying: “Shen Jingming is the son of a former Vice Minister of Personnel. He was one of Left Chancellor Li’s prized disciples, and together with Zhou Ji, descendant of a great clan of Luoyang, they were called ‘The Twin Jades of the Li School.’”

At the name “Zhou Ji,” Zhao Yen’s temple twitched, and the unbearable memories of her studies at Huayang Palace surged into her mind.

Raising a hand to brush away the thoughts, Zhao Yen returned to the subject: “I remember the Ministry of Personnel has people loyal to Mother Empress. If this Shen Jingming were made companion reader of the Eastern Palace, then?”

Liuying hesitated to speak.

“What, he cannot be trusted?”

“It is not a matter of trust.”

Liuying’s voice lowered. “It is that this Young Master Shen has already passed away.”

“Dead?”

Zhao Yen was astonished. “When did this happen?”

Liuying said: “On the night of the Qixi lantern festival, he fell into the water and drowned.”

Dying a month before Elder Brother’s death—such coincidence?

The thread had broken before it had even begun. Inevitably, Zhao Yen felt regret.

Liuying caught sight of her mistress’s expression and knew at once that she was entertaining thoughts she ought not have. Pressing her lips together for a moment, she lowered her voice to advise: “The Crown Prince died of illness, Your Highness need only fulfill your own duty. Do not bring disaster upon yourself.”

Died of illness…

Zhao Yen gave a soft, derisive laugh.

“You and Mother Empress need not be so tense. The Eastern Palace holds neither power nor influence; at present it does not even have a single usable adviser. To strike a rock with an egg would not be the act of wisdom.”

Zhao Yen turned her fair and delicate face aside, her gaze clear as she said, “I have self-awareness.”

While she was still weighing her thoughts, she did not know that at Chongwen Hall it was already another scene of gloom and heaviness.

The Crown Prince’s Grand Preceptor, past seventy years of age, sat stooped behind his desk. Upon the table rested a crystal paperweight, pressing down a sheet of plain white silk paper.

The chief eunuch personally replenished the hot tea. Seeing the old man sitting still for a long while without moving, he smiled and asked: “What is Grand Preceptor Wen looking at?”

The elder seemed to come back to himself then, stroking his beard and lifting his chin: “His Highness’s essay.”

The Crown Prince’s essay?

The chief eunuch looked puzzled—for was not that sheet of silk paper empty? Not a single character written!

Grand Preceptor Wen offered no explanation. Precisely the fact that not a word was written made it exquisite!

All his life, he had assisted three successive heirs to the throne, had disciples beyond counting, and had discoursed upon the Classics and Histories in numbers enough to fill carts. Never had anyone raised such a question as His Highness had today.

Confronted with the Crown Prince’s unorthodox words, Grand Preceptor Wen could only, in the spirit of duty, earnestly exhort him: that a gentleman ought to sacrifice his own desires and joys, uphold ritual and law, and seek blessings for all under Heaven.

Grand Preceptor Wen spoke painstakingly, urging His Highness to emulate the sages of old, to restrain himself and return to propriety. He even invoked the two heirs he had assisted in earlier reigns, praising them to the utmost, his words laced with unhidden pride.

And yet, what had His Highness said then?

“I have disappointed Teacher.”

The youth looked every bit frail and weak, inviting pity rather than blame—but the words he spoke were thought-provoking.

“But I am a living person, with thought and with flesh and blood. I cannot become anyone’s replica.”

The Crown Prince showed a good-tempered smile, speaking sincerely: “Confucius himself also advocated ‘teaching according to aptitude,’ that one must teach according to each person’s nature. If Teacher has taught three generations, yet used only one single standard, producing students all cut from the same mold, how is that any different from lifeless clay figures?”

Softly spoken, yet every word was a gem.

On reflection, which of the Eastern Palace’s Three Mentors had not regarded the heir as nothing more than clay to be molded?

Even Grand Preceptor Wen himself, throughout his life, had been devoted to pouring his own ideas into the Crown Prince, striving to shape the clean white paper of a youth into a tool for carrying out his own policies—where had there been any thought of “teaching according to aptitude”?

During these months of convalescence, His Highness had indeed matured, and formed his own views—he could even perceive the crux of the matter.

In his alarm, Grand Preceptor Wen felt even more of a teacher’s gratification.

He himself was already of ancient years—why should he remain mired in the swamp of politics, forgetting his own true heart?

His chest opened wide with clarity. With a light sigh, he trembled to his feet, leaning on his staff.

Outside the hall, the warm sun shone just right. Beneath withered branches and lingering snow, the struggle of myriad things for spring was already stirring.

…

“Grand Preceptor Wen has retired from office?”

Within the Eastern Palace bedchamber, Zhao Yen pulled a robe around her raw silk breast-wrap, blinking as she said, “All of a sudden, why would the old gentleman resign from office?”

“This, Your Highness must ask yourself.”

Liuying swiftly dressed her in the intricate garments, fastening the white jade belt. “It is said that after Grand Preceptor Wen left Chongwen Hall yesterday, he went straight to the Taiji Hall. On the grounds of old age and frailty, wishing to spend his remaining years in peace, he petitioned to retire.”

“He made no mention of the Eastern Palace, which shows that the old gentleman still knew propriety.”

Zhao Yen did not realize that the “propriety” behind Grand Preceptor Wen’s voluntary resignation stemmed from her own mistakenly blank examination paper.

She thought to herself that Grand Preceptor Wen was indeed very old, dim of sight and hard of hearing. Each time he had to hunch down, pressing his eyes close to the crystal paperweight in order to make out the characters—it made her neck ache just watching him.

Seated before the mirror as her hair was being bound, Zhao Yen asked again: “Did Father Emperor agree?”

Liuying nodded. “Grand Preceptor Wen spoke with earnest sincerity. His Majesty could not but grant it.”

“Since Grand Preceptor Wen has resigned, yet I must still go to Chongwen Hall.”

Zhao Yen straightened the brocade robe upon her, her palm-sized face tinged with vexation. “Of the Three Mentors of the Eastern Palace, which one must I face today?”

“This servant does not know.” Liuying also found it strange.

By reason, Her Majesty the Empress ought to have received word—how was it that even now there was no news?

Zhao Yen knitted her brows, but quickly relaxed them. “We will know once we arrive.”

At Chongwen Hall, the latticed windows were half open.

Zhao Yen looked upon the tall figure seated in the Grand Preceptor’s chair, and in an instant it was as though thunder had struck her head-on.

The young and handsome man wore a dark plain robe, his left sleeve civil, his right sleeve martial. His countenance was as though carved from jade. From his seat, he lifted his eyes slightly.

Those eyes, with lashes long and thick, when opened at last, were soul-seizing and awe-inspiring. With calm and unruffled voice, he said:

“From this day forth, I shall concurrently serve as Grand Preceptor of the Crown Prince, in charge of his instruction.”