“The Pavilion Lord, the prince commands you to ride out to Yanqiu at once!” The soft notes of the xiao halted; Xiao Xueyi’s expression darkened.
Was he finally going to move?
They had spent so long preparing—there must be a plan now, a sure and complete strategy. Song Jinyu thought back over the long road that had led to her husband, Prince Yu—Zhongli Mingye—and their alliance. So many turns had involved that same woman. She wondered, not unkindly, how that woman fared now; with the prince’s favor, she could only be living comfortably. Even from distant Gusu, tales of Prince Yu’s devotion to his wife had reached her—proof, it seemed, of a love that was true.
“Make the arrangements. We leave today.” Zhongli Mingye’s gaze lingered on Song Jinyu. She sat at the loom, hands moving the needle through the brocade with a concentration that felt oddly foreign to him. He’d never seen her so intent; a smile tugged at his mouth. “My love… don’t overdo it.”
“Don’t you underestimate me,” she shot back. “If I can find acupuncture points well enough, I can stitch fine silk just as deftly.” She bristled with a challenge.
Zhongli watched amusement turn to surprise. In the blink of an eye she pricked her finger with the needle. A bead of blood welled up.
Before she could wipe it away, a hand caught hers and the wound was pressed into a warm mouth. Song Jinyu looked into those phoenix eyes, felt her pulse stutter, and then she realized—he was using his tongue to sweep the tiny wound. She panicked and tried to yank her hand free, but he pulled her toward him.
“The cherries in the country garden outside the northern road are ripe… shall we go pick them?” He murmured the invitation low by her reddening ear.
Her face lit up. “When?”
“When your brother is resting,” he replied.
The thought of her brother and his family joining them set her heart aflame with delight. Zhongli reclined again and watched as she picked up the embroidery. He sighed. “You could spend all this time serving me instead.”
“What’s wrong with you?” she asked, remembering that he’d complained of his leg the day before and had demanded she massage it. She had meant to needle him gently for relief; he insisted on doing it himself. Which is how they’d ended up on the bed, hands and knees and whispered complaints turning into something softer.
A strange light flickered in his eyes as he sat up and drew near. “I’m all out of sorts,” he murmured.
“Out of sorts?” Song Jinyu gave him a cool look. “Then I’ll fetch a silver needle and make you comfortable.” She plucked the embroidery needle from the fabric, but her gaze slid to a more private place on his body. He straightened at once, alarmed.
Seizing the moment, he lunged, half indignant, half playful. “After a few days apart, you dare to bargain with me?” His eyes roved her chest, baring his teeth in a grin that made her wriggle and shove away.
They scuffled, laughter and low protest mingling, when a guard outside the curtain announced: “My lord, the Emperor requests Your Highness to enter the palace at once.”
He pinched her cheek, soft as dough. “My love, I’ll be back soon.” As she tried to say more he chuckled and added in a deeper voice, “Save the door for me.”
Song Jinyu pushed him up and hurried him into his ceremonial robe with a frown and a half-annoyed, half-pleased reluctance. “Quick now, go!” She felt oddly bereft as he left.
She waited through the night, but Zhongli Mingye did not return. Fatigue finally overwhelmed her; she fell asleep on the bed.
Before the Emperor, Zhongli Mingye knelt and looked up, inscrutable as ever. The Emperor gave a short, contemplative breath.
“Approved.”
He was a son the court could not quite read. Already entitled and nearly the heir apparent, he had petitioned to lead troops to the frontier, to strike at Yanqiu—an action meant to stabilize the border for the Great Xia. The Emperor was perplexed. With the Crown Prince deposed and one prince dead, another unfit, Zhongli was the last of a rare brilliance whose mother held high rank. He and Song Chuyu had requested to go to the front lines after Yanqiu fell. The Emperor watched him with a weighing look.
Back at the residence, Zhongli Mingye stood in the doorway, unsure how to tell Song Jinyu they would be apart. Since their marriage they had been together every day; this would be the first long separation. The woman who once seemed so sharp and self-reliant had softened into someone who relied on him—more gentle, more playful. Being near her, he always felt time too brief.
The palace had its favorites—Concubine Shu and Concubine Jia—so he decided he would keep Song Jinyu close within the household. After the last incident with Ming Ruyi’s lack of discretion, he preferred to keep the two houses separated. He pushed the door and slipped into the chamber.
She slept under the embroidered coverlet, that small body half-hidden, brows fine and mouth demure. Her skin, like porcelain warmed by the sun, held a hint of youth alongside an emerging, dangerous beauty. The combination of coyness and maturity was intoxicating.
He sat on the bedside and traced the line of her eye, the curve of her lip, the small plane of her nose as if trying to carve them into his memory. No woman in the capital matched her; maybe not even the thousands of beauties in the inner court.
His hand brushed her eyelid and, in the motion, she stirred and—foolishly—clutched at his hand. She opened her eyes and was enveloped by a kiss before she could speak. Half awake, she found herself spun and teased into dizzy surrender. He nibbled and kissed and she surrendered more and more into oblivion until dawn, when she finally slipped back into deep sleep.
Rain tapped at the eaves. Zhongli had been awake for a long time and yet kept his eyes closed, holding her close, unwilling to revolve the room around a departing sun.
News that Prince Yu had led the campaign on Yanqiu spread through court and city alike, and the capital buzzed. Ming Ruyi knew what it meant; he had washed his hands and popped a fresh cherry into his mouth—only to spit it back out, unsettled.
Ming Qiyun approached the pavilion with graceful steps and pressed her cool hand to Ming Ruyi’s brow. “Your lordship, are you unwell?”
He looked at her with a coldness that betrayed the fire gnawing below his ribs. The fever beginning in his lower belly would not be doused easily; he had to yield to the pressure from his concubine. But when he muttered the name “Yu’er” aloud, Ming Qiyun’s world tipped.
Afterward, Ming Ruyi was given a potion to prevent conception. She drank it unwillingly but determined to learn who “Yu’er” was. She was sure it could not be the daughter of the Duke of Rong—if that had been the Emperor’s choice, why then did the Prince of Zhongzhou delay in setting a wedding date?
“Absolutely not,” Ming Qiyun vowed.
Earlier she had spoken of this to him; now the little woman refused to let him go and clung to his sleeve. “Mingye… I must go with you. I have to.”
“The battlefield shows no mercy,” he said. “It’s dangerous. Camps allow no families.”
Song Jinyu puckered her lips in defiance. “I can go in disguise as your page.”
“Don’t even think it,” he snapped.
“I’m not a weak woman, nor some pampered miss,” she insisted.
“For me you are my little pet,” he husked, pulling her close. “Stop this. Wait for me to return triumphant.” He wanted to make her believe him—for her to stay in the capital to look after Concubine Shu and, at the same time, to keep a watchful eye on the House of Xiang.
Zhongli had steeled himself. After a pause, Song Jinyu smothered her resolve and, with a small sigh, let it fall.