Ten months—that was the time Wang Qianshan calculated Li Ce had left to live. Had it not been for the death of the Princess Royal's consort, Li Ce would have dismissed such talk as nonsense. But the consort had indeed died—no assassination, no illness—just as if his allotted time on earth had quietly come to an end. He choked on food and perished, as if fate had deemed his thread of life cut.
Ten months—neither short nor long. The twenty years before meeting Ye Jiao had been a colorless monotony, each day a weary repetition: walking among imperial tombs, reading endless volumes, lying in sunlight watching the same sun rise and fall, the stars rotating overhead.
But after Ye Jiao, everything changed. He had scaled walls and filed reports, observed archery and autopsies, tasted love, and discovered the sweetness of her lips. The splendor of Chang'an in the Tang Dynasty became meaningful only because she was in it.
Ten months—enough to do many things. She would never scorn him; she was the kind of woman willing to offer him thirty years of her own life. She would ache at the notion of only ten months, and drag him across a thousand miles in search of miracle healers. She would agree to the Emperor's marriage decree and marry him in a grand and glorious wedding. With crimson bridal garments ten miles long, they would become inseparable, sharing what time remained.
They would hunt together in autumn, play chess amid winter snows. Next spring, he'd take her to the Hibiscus Garden to see the blooming flowers. Then, in summer, Li Ce would die. It would be hot—too hot to keep the body for long. Seven days later, he'd be sealed in his coffin and buried.
From that moment on, Ye Jiao would become a royal widow, the bereaved consort of the Prince of Chu. By law, she would mourn him for three years: wearing coarse, unhemmed hemp, forbidden to leave her home, to stroll the streets, to wear jewels, to sing, dance, drink, or see friends. All she now loved would be forbidden.
She would remain in the Prince of Chu's residence, now devoid of its master, watched over by eunuchs and maids, observing mourning rites to preserve the royal family's dignity. Her sorrow would be mute and restrained—even a tearful embrace with her mother would be impossible.
Three years later, she still could not remarry freely. Should she leave, the Prince's manor would lie empty. The royal clan might appoint a child from among the kin for her to raise, and so she would endure the long years alone. All of this, for just ten months of companionship.
From Wang Qianshan's place to the Hall of Hantang, where his mother resided, Li Ce had already pondered every possibility. If there was one thing he was known for, it was the accuracy of his predictions.
He was unfilial—incapable of avenging his mother. He was also cruel—because he was about to speak the words that would force Ye Jiao to let him go.
I no longer love you. My heart has changed. From now on, we are strangers.
He would never let her know the truth. He would feign a journey across the Five Sacred Mountains to seek a doctor, only to die quietly in an unknown wilderness.
Li Ce saw Ye Jiao's clenched fists, her tear-brimmed eyes filled with fury. She raised her hand high, as though to strike him, but in the end, she let it fall heavily and leapt from the carriage with a flick of her skirt.
"Miss Ye," came a man's voice from outside—it was Yan Congzheng, Commander of the Left Guard of the Sixteen Guards.
Li Ce, seated within the carriage, heard Ye Jiao run toward Yan Congzheng and coldly demand, "Give me your sword."
A sharp sound rang out—the blade was drawn.
Li Ce sat motionless in the carriage.
"Miss Ye, what are you doing? Ye Jiao!" Yan Congzheng chased after her, but she was faster. Dressed in splendid robes, she moved like a comet streaking across the sky.
That comet-like woman brought the blade crashing down on the carriage.
A crack echoed—the deer-painted panel split open under her blow.
"To hell with your change of heart!" she cried, her voice ringing with fury unspent.
Ye Jiao struck again and again, "crack, crack, crack," until a gaping hole exposed Li Ce's seated form.
"To hell with your 'no one loves me'!"
She slashed at the carriage again. Alarmed, Yan Congzheng tried to restrain her, while the attendant Qingfeng moved to intercept—but Ye Jiao only aimed to sever his sleeve.
He was so detestable—he deserved at least this symbolic parting of garments to sever all ties.
When that failed, Ye Jiao raised her leg and kicked. Yan Congzheng caught her around the waist and dragged her back.
"Hurry and get the Prince of Chu out of here!" he barked at the startled Qingfeng.
Qingfeng came to his senses, leapt into the front of the carriage, and lashed the reins. The carriage shot off like a whirlwind.
As it raced down the imperial avenue, the wind howled through the torn panels, chilling Li Ce to the bone. He sat there like a lifeless husk.
To strike a prince on the imperial road—Ye Jiao would not escape easily. Once Li Ce was gone, the imperial guards encircled her.
"What are you doing?" Yan Congzheng shouted, wrenching the blade from her grasp. "Stand down!"
"Commander…" the guards hesitated. "But… this is improper…"
"I will take full responsibility," Yan Congzheng said, his voice low but full of authority.
The guards dared not defy him further. They bowed their heads and withdrew, pretending nothing had happened.
But the imperial road was not empty. A censor, en route to court, had witnessed everything and hurried to the Hall of Purple Radiance.
"I must impeach the Duke of Anguo's estate for attempting to assassinate the Prince of Chu, and accuse Commander Yan of harboring the assailant!"
Within the court, ministers exchanged uneasy glances. They felt Ye Jiao had gone too far, yet they understood why. Quietly, they gestured at the censor—he hadn't seen the whole story, best to leave it be.
But the censor was relentless. Seeing the Emperor frown in silence, he repeated the scene in vivid detail.
"Miss Ye wielded a blade half a zhang long—one strike splintered the carriage, two opened a gash, and the third was aimed straight for the Prince's throat. She wore crimson like a demoness. The Prince was so terrified, he couldn't even dodge. Your Majesty, this is dangerous—justice must be served!"
"She…" The Emperor looked at the censor. "Did she say anything?"
"She did!" the censor snapped. "She shouted, 'To hell with you!'"
"She's furious, then," the Emperor turned guiltily to the Empress. "I knew it. An ordinary girl in her place would cry, scream, threaten suicide. Thank heaven, the Ye girl didn't try to kill herself."
The censor blinked in disbelief, wondering if he had heard right.
"And what of the Prince of Chu?" he pressed.
"Him?" The Emperor slammed his memorial onto the desk. "Serves him right!"
Back on the avenue, Yan Congzheng insisted on escorting Ye Jiao home. The Duke's carriage had already departed with Madam Ye. Ye Jiao had no vehicle, and walking alone was unacceptable.
"No need," she said. "If I'd really wanted to kill him, he'd be in a coffin by now. I'm just—angry. So angry."
"You two…" Yan Congzheng's elegant face softened ever so slightly. "Weren't you fine this morning?"
As the eldest son of the Yan family, he had also paid respects at the Princess Royal's estate that day. Amid the crowd, he had seen Ye Jiao looking at Li Ce—smiling, even winking.
"Tell me," Ye Jiao said, straightening her disheveled hair and securing her hairpin, "Is there truly no one in Chang'an who likes me?"
In an instant, Yan Congzheng felt as if he were back in the academy, caught off guard by a question he knew the answer to but dared not speak aloud.
"I…" His hand gripped the hilt still warm from hers. "I don't know."
Ye Jiao rolled up her sleeves and glared at him. "Is there anything you don't know? Weren't you the one who memorized the Four Books and Five Classics? Back then, even Fu Mingzhu was ashamed to fall behind you."
Yan Congzheng gave no reply, simply walking beside her.
It had been so long since he had walked with her like this.
Ye Jiao muttered to herself, "We were fine this morning, but now he suddenly changed his mind. Won't marry me. Provoked me. Said such hateful things. Worse than Prince Su."
Yan Congzheng looked up sharply, as if a bamboo shoot buried deep in his heart had broken through the soil.
"All right," Ye Jiao said with a wave of her hand, "You go on back. Thank you for your help today. I'll treat you to wine some other time. Oh, and—"