“You’re going to pry into His Majesty’s harem with hints and innuendo like this, and that’s supposed to be all right?”
Li Xinyue lifted an unapologetic brow, tone light as silk. “Your servant wouldn’t dare.”
The Emperor’s look said otherwise.
Later, Li Xinyue learned the rest from palace whispers. After the incident with the eldest princess, His Majesty stopped visiting Consort Yu. Perhaps he had always known something about her past and had let her in to see what tricks she’d play; perhaps he’d only meant to let her grieve Mother and, in doing so, discovered that falsehood could never pass for truth. Whatever the reason, he’d lost interest.
Either way, Li Xinyue was satisfied. The only thing that still irked her was that she hadn’t managed to see Consort Yu banished outright. That woman had survived the eldest princess’s scandal; she’d surely change course early to protect herself. Still—if Consort Yu had tricks left, Li Xinyue could wait. There would be other chances.
Stepping out of the Imperial Study, Li Xinyue’s gaze drifted and froze: Consort Yu stood under a sheltering tree, steadfast as ever, a tray of soup held by a trembling maid behind her. Their eyes met across the courtyard.
Li Xinyue’s face was composed, the calm of someone who had watched storms pass. Consort Yu, meanwhile, went pale as if struck. She had assumed His Majesty’s refusal to see anyone was mere excuse; the truth—that he simply would not see her—was a bolt she had not expected. She fought to keep her features steady, then forced a bright smile as Li Xinyue descended the study steps.
“Princess,” she managed.
“Consort Yu.” Li Xinyue regarded her from the top of the steps, looking down not unkindly but with the unmistakable superiority of a favored child. The jade rabbit pendant at Consort Yu’s breast bounced with her shallow breaths; the smile looked brittle on that quivering face.
Li Xinyue pressed her lips together, then turned to leave—only to be halted by Consort Yu’s quick, tremulous plea. “Your Highness, have I offended you?”
Li Xinyue stopped. “What do you mean by that, Consort?”
“If it is because I resemble Lady Fu that displeases Your Highness—” Consort Yu spoke in a rush, voice dropping to a whisper. “My looks are not by my choosing. I can apologize, humble myself. Please do not bear a grudge against me… and please—do not besmirch my name before His Majesty.” Her last words were barely audible, and her chest heaved as if about to give way.
She had warned herself not to say such things—knew the risk—but jealousy had unloosed her tongue. She could stand to see Li Xinyue approach the Emperor and not her; the humiliation burned.
“You mean to say His Majesty dislikes you because I slandered you?” Li Xinyue laughed, incredulous. The absurdity was delicious.
Deliberately, she raised her voice so those within the study might hear. Let His Majesty listen—let him see what sort of people he had tolerated.
She looked back at the closed doors, then fixed Consort Yu with a bright, challenging look. “Yes. That’s exactly what I think. And what of it, Consort Yu?”
“Consort Yu!” she went on, theatrical now. “You don’t lose blame for looking like someone else. But you’re wrong to use another’s face to seek personal gain, then pretend you were forced into it afterwards. That is your fault. How dare you stand there and ask me what I take offense at? Tell me.”
Consort Yu opened her mouth and closed it again, trapped between shame and indignation. Her color cycled oddly—white, then red, then white—and her fingers knotted the handkerchief until it creased. The palace women behind her wanted to protest, to fetch a eunuch, but the Imperial Study’s doors were shut; they dared not enter. Even Wang the eunuch turned his back, pretending the scene was not happening.
When it became clear support would not come, one panicked maid shrieked, “Consort Yu has fainted! Consort Yu’s fainted!” The woman could not bear to be seen losing face; she staggered into a staged collapse.
Li Xinyue did not spare her another glance and left. The maids near Consort Yu moved to stop her, but one look from Li Xinyue sent them scrambling back.
Rumors of the princess having scored a victory over Consort Yu flared briefly through the palace, then died away like embers. Li Xinyue’s routine did not change—she still went to the Emperor to rub his shoulders and rub out the knots, and then left, as if nothing had happened. Consort Yu was stripped of her rank to that of a lowly talent and confined to the inner palace.
Meanwhile, the prince consort—Chu Junyi—was raised to head the newly established Censorate, third rank and all the prestige that brought. The princess and her husband rode a tide of favor and power; Consort Yu’s fall was a mote of dust on Li Xinyue’s sleeve, easily brushed free.
“This new Censorate will oversee the civil and military officials,” Lin Wei announced a few days after the Emperor had borrowed Li Xinyue’s idea and adopted it. “As prime minister, I must set an example. I consent to appointing Prince Consort Chu Junyi as director—but we should install two deputy directors as checks. Three seats of power will keep the office honest. Chu Junyi’s family is clean and his character upright; I do not imagine he fears supervision.”
With the backing of the Lin and Yin clans, the Censorate moved forward. It kept the rank of third grade, but the addition of two deputies—both men lifted from obscurity—masked a scheme. Though these deputies wore no obvious ties to the great houses, they answered to them. It was an elegant way to erode Chu Junyi’s authority and turn the Censorate into a weapon against rivals. The road to breaking the power of the clans would be long and full of thorns.
A brisk autumn wind rippled the willows as the Censorate’s procession swept through the streets and veered toward Lord Zhu’s mansion. The gatekeepers, seeing the grand array, began to close the heavy doors—but a flying token from Commander Chu clattered against the gate, halting one man dead in his tracks. Chu simply picked up the token and, with a glance at the other gatekeeper, commanded the entrance. The second man cowered and let them pass.
Clerks and officers flooded inside. Locals peered from alleyways, curiosity and dread knitting their brows. The deputy director sent by the Yin clan was pale and at sea; no one had told him they were going to scour Lord Zhu’s house.
“Director Chu—” he stammered. “We weren’t informed of a search—”
Chu Junyi clipped the token back at his waist, dusted a non-existent speck from his robe and lifted his chin. He was all quiet control, an officer who had rehearsed every step. He looked at the flummoxed deputy as if he were an inconvenient fly.
“Lord Zhu conspired with the eldest princess to abuse power, oppressed the people, and hired assassins to strike at me,” Chu declared, voice steady. “Am I to ignore that?”
“Deputy Yao, the court appointed you to oversee my investigation, not to obstruct it,” he added, turning like a sharp wind.
“Ah…ah…” The deputy could only falter. He had been planted to restrain Chu—yet now, with such a charge laid bare, what could he say? He had been chosen to supervise procedures, not to protect traitors. He swallowed and fell silent.
Chu’s gaze snagged the other deputy; the man looked up at the sky, unwilling to meet his eyes. Without wasting another heartbeat, Chu ordered the mansion sealed and the rooms searched.