Chapter 1

Chapter 1

The moon had climbed above the treetops. It was the third watch of the night.

The Noble Heir rose from bed.

Fighting off my drowsiness, I served him as he dressed.

The west wind struck the window, and the candle flame in the room swayed, its wavering light falling across his face. Handsome brows, bright eyes, a gaze as deep as a dark pool.

As I straightened his collar, my fingertips inevitably brushed against his firm, hard chest.

Our eyes met. I looked up at him shyly.

The corner of his mouth lifted in an amused smile. As if teasing some small animal, he pinched the back of my neck.

“Be good. I’ll come back later.”

After the Noble Heir left, Ah Cai, the maid waiting outside the door, came in and asked whether I wanted to leave a lamp burning for the young master.

I shook my head, so she stepped forward to trim the wick, then withdrew again.

The room dimmed a shade. Outside the window, the shadows of the trees swayed. I knew that, barring any accidents, he would die tonight.

I stood by the window and gazed at the moon, my long hair loose around me. The thin fabric of the undergarment at my waist was hibiscus pink.

The Noble Heir often said the color was alluring and suited me well, making my skin look all the more white as snow.

He loved this body of mine, the slim curve of my waist, and the crimson begonia tattooed across my back.

The night wind brushed my face, clearing my mind. I remembered that when I first met him, it had been a night like this too. That was three years ago, outside Huizhou.

At the time, the realm was in turmoil. A plague was spreading through Lingcheng in the south, and Slave Uprising had erupted everywhere at once.

Refugees were fleeing in every direction, and I was one of them.

I was seventeen then, dressed in rags, running barefoot toward Huizhou with that crowd of refugees.

Xia Zhan, Heir of Duke Dingguo, had been ordered to lead troops to quell the slave uprising in Jiangnan, and happened to be entering the city as well.

But the Prefect of Huizhou had sealed the city gates, refusing to let so much as a fly inside.

He claimed that it was already late, that there were too many refugees to verify their identities, and that more men would be assigned to open the gates the next day.

It was understandable. Slave Uprising was simply too terrifying. A Qing Gang had even formed in Jiangnan, and it was common for those great aristocratic clans to be slaughtered down to the last member overnight.

Rumor had it that the leader of the Qing Gang might be hiding among the refugees, hoping to sneak into the city and gather information.

Even someone of Xia Zhan’s status was refused entry by the terrified Prefect of Huizhou.

It was not as if the Imperial Court had never sent anyone before. Before the Heir of Duke Dingguo, a General Sun from Xining Prefecture had been the first to suppress the rebellion, only for the Qing Gang to chop off his head and hang it over the gates of Yangzhou.

That year, the cold was bitter, and no one could enter the city.

My clothes were thin. I was freezing and starving.

The soldiers of Dingguo Duke Manor, however, set up tents where they were and began cooking hot porridge.

When I first saw Xia Zhan, dusk was falling. He led his troops outside the city, the last faint glow of sunset lingering on the horizon and casting its light over him.

He sat high on horseback in black armor, his expression cold and clear, like a deity descending to earth. Yet the way he looked at the refugees held compassion and pity.

Later, when the bonfires were lit, he ordered his men to distribute the cooked porridge to the refugees huddled outside the city, starving and freezing.

Even the bedding from the tents was given out.

I got neither porridge nor bedding.

All I could do was curl up beneath a willow tree outside the city gates, my hands and feet frozen stiff.

At some point, dazed and half-conscious, I fell asleep. I had a dream that I had entered a warm room, that I was wrapped in blankets, so warm I wanted to cry.

Then I woke. In the middle of the night, by the dim glow of the bonfires, I saw that I was curled in a man’s arms, wrapped in the great cloak he wore.

It was Xia Zhan.

He sat cross-legged beneath the willow tree, eyes closed in rest.

The flickering firelight shone on that moon-bright face, on the high bridge of his nose and the long lashes lowered like raven feathers. He looked as compassionate as the statue of the bodhisattva I had seen in childhood.

From beginning to end, he never opened his eyes. In his arms, I held tightly to his body with both hands, my face buried in his cloak, greedily sharing in that warmth.

The army’s bedding had all been handed out, and even the tents were occupied by refugees. Though Xia Zhan was Heir of Duke Dingguo, he had nothing left but that cloak.

Beneath the moonlight, shadows rippled along the city wall. The wind brushed through the willow, its trailing branches drooping low, thousands upon thousands of strands swaying as if in dance.

Xia Zhan sat perfectly upright, his body like a green pine, unmoving.

I heard the strong, steady beat of his heart, and smelled the pleasant scent of cedar on him, cold and bracing enough to make one’s heart tremble.

In ancient times, there was Liu Xiahui, who could hold a woman in his lap without losing composure. Now there was the Heir of Duke Dingguo, a gentleman even when no one was watching.

If not for the stink coming off me, my tangled, matted hair, and the filthy grime smeared all over my face, that scene might well have become a romantic tale.

That night, I slept very deeply and very sweetly in his arms.

When I woke the next day, the sun had already risen, and the city gates had opened.

I was lying beneath the willow tree under his great cloak. The sunlight was a little dazzling, and there was no one beside me anymore.

The next time I saw Xia Zhan was two years later.

Strictly speaking, it was only a year ago. At Chunri Lou in the capital, because I refused to receive clients, the madam and two brothel thugs chased and beat me out into the street.

There were so many pleasure houses and entertainment quarters in the capital. No one would care whether a prostitute slave lived or died.

But the carriage of Dingguo Duke Manor happened to pass by. As if I had found a lifeline, I charged toward it with all my strength.

After that, Xia Zhan appeared before me unhurriedly.

On the bluestone road, he wore a gold-trimmed brocade robe, his expensive black boots planted on the ground.

Of course I recognized him at once. That face, with sideburns sharp as if cut by a blade, brows dark as ink, and features handsome enough to belong to a god, was so proud and striking that no one could forget it after a single glance.

I clung to his foot. Naturally, he did not recognize me. He raised an eyebrow lightly, his eyes calm and undisturbed.

But I was certain that the man who had saved me outside Huizhou, that man like a bodhisattva, would save me a second time.

With great difficulty, I gestured to tell him that I had seen him before.

The madam beside me stepped forward and kicked me. Her voice was shrill as she raised the whip in her hand with a vicious grin.

“As if a lowborn wretch like you could possibly know the Noble Heir. Refusing to take clients was bad enough, but today you’ve even offended an honored guest. I’ll beat you to death for this!”

I shielded my head and took the lash head-on. My thin arms were covered in bruises and whip marks.

But the next stroke never came.

Someone from Dingguo Duke Manor kicked her away.

Xia Zhan looked down at me from on high, deigning to study me carefully. Then he bent and, with clean, slender fingers, pinched my chin. A flicker of surprise passed through his long, narrow eyes.

For fifty taels of silver, I was bought into Dingguo Duke Manor.

My original name was Liu’er. Xia Zhan disliked it and changed it to Yuzi.

From then on, I became a maidservant of Dingguo Duke Manor.

Three months later, the Noble Heir took me into his bedchamber.

I still remember that day. He had returned from the palace when the sky was already dark, and as usual, he went first to the washroom to bathe.

But the young attendant who normally served him handed the clothes to me instead.

Even though I had prepared myself, when he suddenly pulled me into the bath barrel, my face still went white with fright.

With a splash, water spilled all over the floor. My clothes were soaked through, leaving me in an utterly sorry state.

He watched me make a fool of myself, one arm resting casually on the rim of the barrel, a smile that was not quite a smile on his lips. Those pitch-black, bottomless eyes looked at me with teasing amusement, full of wicked mischief.

I was a courtesan slave he had bought from the pleasure quarters. Before that, I had been a Yangzhou Slender Horse raised inside the household of a prominent Yangzhou clan.

With a background like mine, I was destined never to have a pure body.

All of that was within Xia Zhan’s expectations. He did not care.

Of course he did not care. In the prosperous lands of Jiangnan, the Yangzhou Slender Horses raised by great households were selected from thousands, rare commodities beyond price.

What was more, my former masters had once been the most famous salt merchants in the region, a clan of officials and gentry whose wealth rivaled a kingdom’s.

When they selected Yangzhou Slender Horses, they examined the face, arms, complexion, brows and eyes, toes, voice, teeth… every part had to be flawless. Only after training in every possible aspect, in song, dance, calligraphy, and painting, could one be called a true rarity.

I had once been the household master’s most satisfactory creation.

But later, I became mute. The guests who came to my master’s estate always liked to hear me sing, and some wanted to hear lewd songs as well, so I poisoned myself and ruined my own voice.

When Xia Zhan learned of this, there was pity in his eyes as he looked at me, and his expression softened as he stroked my face.

I lowered my lashes and quietly, obediently pressed against his hand, a smile held at the corner of my lips, as devout as I had once been toward my former master.

Becoming his woman was something I did willingly. It was also something I had planned for a long time.

No man could resist a priceless Yangzhou Slender Horse.

Xia Zhan was no exception.

Even if he had been born into the illustrious Dingguo Duke Manor, the Old Duke’s only legitimate son.

Even if the current Empress Dowager was his paternal aunt, and the emperor his cousin.

Even if this Noble Heir was famed as an upright, self-restrained gentleman.

When I served him and helped him undress, I seemed demure and obedient, yet there was the subtle way I bit my lip, and the soft, lingering touch of my fingers when I brushed his body by accident. The air between us would turn ambiguous.

I had been trained since childhood to serve men. Seduction was something carved into my bones.

Under the ever-burning lamp, his gaze was dark and heavy. I could feel him watching me, studying me with interest, as though he saw through every little scheme.

Men had always said one thing and meant another. Gentlemen were no exception.

Three months later, he dragged me into the bath barrel. Under my timid, delicate gaze, he wrapped an arm around my waist. From that moment on, I became his woman. The Noble Heir, so proud and restrained in public, was wanton and unbridled at heart. Those tricks learned in the pleasure quarters-he liked them very much.

Xia Zhan treated me well. As his woman, I wore new clothes and enjoyed fine food.

In his leisure, he would also hold my hand and teach me, stroke by stroke, to write in modern cursive script. His characters were elegant, flowing like drifting clouds and running water.

The lines he wrote most often were-

When ice melts in distant caverns, I cherish its pure resonance; when snow fades from cold peaks, I think of Yuzi.

He was tall and straight, handsome and refined. When he wrote, he stood very close to me and was very focused. The crisp scent of snow-covered cedar lingered at the tip of my nose.

If I turned my eyes slightly, I could see the high bridge of his nose, and those two thin lips close enough to touch.

After he finished writing, his hands would misbehave, measuring my waist inch by inch. With our temples and ears brushing together, he would part his thin lips and murmur, “A Qingliu waist, ice for skin and bone-that is what makes Yuzi.”

When the study doors were shut tight, he would paint as well.

The pigments were mixed bright and vivid, and what he painted was the crimson begonia blossoms on my back.

Those blossoms had once been painted there over half a month by the most famous painter in Yangzhou, hired by my old master at great expense.

Then skillful embroideresses used burning-hot silver needles, one by one, to stitch precious pigments into my skin.

Once, that painter’s work had been worth a thousand pieces of gold.

Now, no amount of money could buy that painter’s work again.

Because during that slave uprising in Jiangnan, the first rebellion broke out in Yangzhou-at my master’s household.

The most famous salt merchants in Yangzhou, an old aristocratic family said to have been descended from imperial kin, were slaughtered to the last in a single night.

That renowned painter had been a frequent guest at the estate, and he too was directly purged.

And those of us who had been kept inside the estate, Yangzhou Slender Horses and slaves alike, watched them die with our own eyes before we fled.