Chapter 4
“Oh, look at me. I was so busy talking that I forgot to make introductions.”
The Grand Princess descended from her carriage with one hand resting on the man’s offered arm. Smiling, she said, “This is my son.”
The heir apparent, Pei Mingjue, was a gifted young man and a close attendant of the emperor. He had reached twenty without marrying, and there was no one in the capital who did not know his name.
I gave a perfectly proper bow. “Greetings, my lord.”
“No need for such ceremony.” Pei Mingjue finally spoke, his voice low. “You truly are skilled at polo.”
“It is only a trifling pastime,” I replied with casual modesty. “I cannot compare with you.”
Pei Mingjue was an exceptional horseman. The fine steed beneath him was a famed horse presented in tribute by a western vassal state.
When it first arrived in the capital, it had been fierce and untamable. Pei Mingjue alone had managed to tame it.
“If you have the time”—Pei Mingjue lifted a brow—“we should race one day.”
I was surprised. He was highborn, aloof, and self-possessed, and rumor held that he was exceedingly difficult to approach.
“In that case, why not use my horse farm on the outskirts?” The Grand Princess gave Pei Mingjue a meaningful look. “There will be plenty of room for you both to run.”
“By the way,” the Grand Princess asked, “why have you come to Jing’an Temple alone?”
I was silent for a moment. “…To recite scripture and ask for a charm for my mother.”
“That requires seven days of fasting. You must abstain from meat, kneel and copy scripture each day, and burn incense at dawn and dusk.”
“You are truly sincere in your devotion to your mother.” The Grand Princess sighed. “A daughter like you would console a mother for half a lifetime.”
My throat tightened. I forced out a few polite remarks, clung to my composure, and took my leave.
As I mounted, I suddenly recalled that the Grand Princess had lost a daughter at a young age. That was why she often came to Jing’an Temple to light a votive lamp and pray.
Something stirred in my heart. I turned to look back. The Grand Princess seemed to be teasing Pei Mingjue, laughing as she tapped his left shoulder.
I was so envious.
My grip on the reins tightened until it hurt, but I felt nothing.
Again, the words echoed through me. I was so envious.
The quiet side room where I lodged shared a wall with the Grand Princess’s quarters.
The rules governing the fast and scripture recitation were strict. I remained behind closed doors, kneeling to copy sacred texts, and rarely saw her.
Every morning, however, the Grand Princess sent an elderly attendant to bring me fresh tea picked in the mountains.
On the seventh day, a letter from the marquis’s estate arrived with the tea.
I instinctively drew my shawl closer. As I accepted the letter, I began to cough and hurriedly took a sip of tea.
“The mountain cold is harsh, and kneeling to copy scripture taxes both body and mind. You are so young. How could you bear it?”
The elderly woman had brought my tea every day and now could not resist adding, “Quickly, read it. The marquis’s household must be coming to take you home.”
A heavy, sinking feeling filled me. After I read the letter, I gave a self-mocking smile. “I’m afraid you guessed wrong, Auntie.”
“My mother wrote this herself. She wants me to recite scripture for another seven days and ask for a protective charm for my elder sister as well.”
“How can she bear to make you kneel another seven days?” the old woman cried. “What mother could be so heartless toward her own daughter?”
I remained silent. A violent itch spread through my throat again. By the time the coughing and breathlessness subsided, the fingers clutching the letter were trembling.
“She can bear it, but I cannot,” I said. “I will go down the mountain by myself tomorrow morning.”
“It will still be early when I leave, so I will not disturb Her Highness.”
I rose to see the old woman out. “Please convey my apologies to Her Highness, and thank her for taking care of me these past few days.”
The old woman studied me for a long while, then let out a deep sigh.
In the latter half of the night, fierce wind and rain swept through the mountains. My knees ached from days of kneeling. As if that were not enough, a high fever struck, splitting my head and clouding my mind.
Through the haze, I heard my maid’s anxious voice, followed by the abbot and the physician asking about my symptoms.
At last, a pair of soft hands covered my burning eyes.
“Mother.” I instinctively turned and rubbed my cheek against them, murmuring, “It hurts so much.”
“…Mother is here.” Gentle arms lifted me halfway upright, and bitter medicine was poured into my mouth.
It was too bitter. I struggled desperately. When I choked, I somehow burst into tears.
Even when fever made my entire body ache, I still knew with terrible clarity that Mother would not come.
Yet I called for her all night.