“Master, I don’t trust that Zizhu girl. She’s trouble. We should be careful—send that fox out at once.”
The other concubines jabbed and whispered like a swarm, all eager to see the newcomer driven away.
Lord Jiang’s face darkened as he listened to them. Then, with a quiet force that cut through the chatter, he said, “Enough. Be silent. My mind is made up; words won’t change it.” He looped an arm around Zizhu and led her toward the inner courtyard.
“You must be tired after today. Tomorrow I’ll take you to see my mother, and in the afternoon I’ll have the others come by so they can meet you,” he said, looking at her with an indulgent tenderness.
“Thank you for your concern, Master,” Zizhu replied, her voice soft as gauze.
He stayed by her a little longer before standing to go. Zizhu caught at him. “Won’t you stay tonight? Or have I done something to upset you? Is that why—”
Beauty on the verge of tears was the surest way to soften a man. Lord Jiang hesitated, helplessness flickering through his expression. “I’ve taken ill recently. I don’t want to risk passing anything to you. Until we find out who’s been poisoning the food, I’d better not stay.”
Poisoned? The thought niggled at him and soured his mood. Zizhu nodded in concern. “Then please rest quickly, Master. I’ll brew you a restorative soup tomorrow.”
He watched her for a long moment, comforted by her apparent solicitude, and finally left.
The instant his footsteps retreated down the hall, Zizhu relaxed, letting the pretense drain out of her. Finally. That performance had been exhausting. But since when was Lord Jiang ill? She couldn’t recall the princess ever mentioning it.
The next morning, when she went to pay respects to Madam Jiang, the chill in the room was immediate. Eyes glanced; thin smiles hid teeth. The house had gathered to watch the spectacle—an audience eager for scandal. Zizhu dismissed them as little clowns and knelt.
“I am Zizhu, here to pay my respects, Mother.”
Madam Jiang muttered something under her breath. The disdain in her eyes was plain: she did not recognize Zizhu as one of the family. Lord Jiang noticed, of course, but he rarely let his mother’s disapproval sway him.
“This is the new concubine my son has taken,” Lord Jiang announced, sitting by Madam Jiang’s side. He spent a few moments speaking with her, then led Zizhu and the others out.
“Does Mother not like me?” Zizhu asked quietly when they were alone.
“Don’t worry. She’s like this. Give it time and it will pass,” Lord Jiang said without concern.
Zizhu smiled and followed him into the main hall.
“I made this ginseng broth myself,” she said, setting a steaming bowl before him. “I only left it in the maid’s care while we went to pay our respects. Please don’t think ill of the brief neglect.”
Lord Jiang watched her with the fondness of a man who had just discovered some new small joy. He took the bowl and drank in a single swallow. The flavor surprised him—rich and clean, perfectly tempered.
“Not bad. Make me a bowl every day,” he said. Then, as if unsure that was enough, he added, “Make it yourself.”
Joy lit Zizhu’s face. “It would be my honor.”
“You used to prefer the fish broth my wife made,” protested the mother of the Fourth Miss, sulking loudly. “How can you change your taste so suddenly? I won’t stand for it!”
She had imagined, after the former madam was sent away, she would rise to take her place. Instead a new concubine had arrived, and her hopes dwindled. Her indignation turned to clinging despair. Lord Jiang looked at her with an expression as cold as iron. “If you cannot accept it, return to your courtyard. I do not want to be troubled by seeing you.”
Those words pricked something deep in the woman’s face—she’d been careful to remind him how she had tended his fish soup every day. At the thought, Lord Jiang’s eyes darkened. Was it her doing? He gave a subtle signal to one of the hidden guards. The man acknowledged it and melted into the shadows.
Zizhu watched the undercurrents crowding the hall and let herself smile inwardly. The Jiang household was indeed a nest of vipers; there were all kinds of people here. Odd that Lord Jiang could be so indifferent to old ties.
“If I grow old and lose my looks, will you cast me aside like the others?” she asked aloud, suddenly blunt.
Her question stung. Who was she to speak that way—new, without children, rakish in youth when the other women were long past theirs? Their faces went tight with an old, familiar shame. Yet her words had been simple; they revealed something they preferred not to remember.
“How could I ever do that?” Lord Jiang said, though his promises felt then no less fragile than breath. Love could inspire vows that later, when interest cooled, meant nothing.
That night he called in the guard from earlier.
“Any findings?” he asked.
“My lord, we discovered that when she cooks the fish broth she does add something,” the guard reported. “What exactly, I couldn’t say.”
Lord Jiang waved his hand once and the pieces fell into place. The one who’d been poisoning the food was right under his roof. Rage and hurt painted his face as he sank into a chair. He had treated that woman well—why would she do this? Motive didn’t matter; she would not escape his retribution. If she was used to slipping things into other people’s pots, he would make her sit across from a steaming bowl and taste the exact same bitterness.
Far away, Mu Fengjia listened to a report, every word of the day’s events laid out. She had not expected Lord Jiang to find the culprit so quickly.
“Protect Zizhu well,” she warned the men she’d sent. “Do not expose yourselves unless absolutely necessary.”
“Yes, we will follow your orders.”
After they left she walked to the window and let a hand rest on the small swell beneath her robes. Four months along. Jing Xunche’s side of things had not yet concluded; she did not know if he was in danger, nor whether he could return before the child was born. Worry clouded her eyes until she seemed older than her years.
Meanwhile, at the frontlines, Jing Xunche’s temper flared. The dispute with General Wang had nothing to do with five mountain passes; it was an argument over strategy—one that the general found too reckless.
“My lord, I must protest,” General Wang said, face drawn. “This plan is far too dangerous. One misstep and a hundred men could die.”
Jing Xunche gave a short, contemptuous laugh. “General Wang, are you saying there’s no risk in leading men into battle? Men die in war—that is the nature of it.”