Fu Gui narrowed his eyes, a dangerous glint flashing in their depths. But Xiang'er remained oblivious. After airing her grievances, she skipped away cheerfully.
Watching her retreating figure, Fu Gui turned to the young eunuch behind him and sighed, "Such reckless words, such nonsense. It seems this mistress has lost her mind. Since she's mad, ensure she never leaves her courtyard again."
The eunuch bowed his head. "Understood, Master. I’ll make the arrangements at once."
Fu Gui shook his head inwardly. The princess consort had brought these low-born girls into the manor as concubines, only to abandon them to their fates.
Once simple and kind-hearted, these women had been driven to madness by the oppressive atmosphere of the prince’s household. Truly pitiable.
But then again, who in this manor wasn’t pitiable?
...
...
In an elegant chamber at the rear of Qixiang Studio, a thick beaded curtain separated Shen Wei from the elderly scholar Yang Xuanji.
At seventy, Yang Xuanji had silver-streaked temples and a gaunt frame, yet his spirit burned bright. He sat outside the curtain, untouched by the tea on the table before him.
The old scholar had come to purchase the famed "Jade Beauty Powder," a gift for his wife’s birthday. But luck had eluded him—the coveted cosmetic was sold out everywhere.
Several noble families in the capital, learning of his desire, had procured the powder at great expense and presented it to him. Yet Yang Xuanji, a man of unyielding integrity, despised the flattery of the powerful and refused their bribes outright.
With his wife’s birthday approaching and no gift in hand, he had no choice but to seek out Shopkeeper Ye of Qixiang Studio, hoping to meet the establishment’s elusive owner.
"I am a scholar of some repute," Yang Xuanji began courteously, "and possess a collection of rare, out-of-print texts. I offer ten such volumes in exchange for a single box of Jade Beauty Powder."
Behind the curtain, Shen Wei replied calmly, "I am unlearned. Rare books hold no value for me."
Yang Xuanji was taken aback. The mastermind behind Qixiang Studio was a young woman?
Frowning, he asked, "Then what would you have me offer in exchange?"
Yang Xuanji had retired from court, and though the emperor had bestowed gold upon him, he dared not squander it. Aging and aware his time was limited, he wished to leave his wife—childless as they were—with security for her twilight years.
Shen Wei smiled. "I ask only that you grant me a favor. In the suburbs of the capital, at the Wen Temple, a scholar named Shen Xiuming prepares for next spring’s imperial exams. Without a mentor, he struggles. If you, a scholar of great repute, could guide him, I would gladly gift you the powder."
Thud!
Yang Xuanji shot to his feet, his face dark with anger. "You dare scheme against me?"
He was no fool. Shen Wei’s words revealed the trap—Qixiang Studio had withheld the powder to force him into tutoring some noble’s protégé.
Which of the capital’s scheming officials was behind this?
Shen Wei instructed Shopkeeper Ye to stop him.
"You misunderstand, Master Yang," she said gently. "I am of humble birth, with no ties to the capital’s elite."
The old scholar paused, grudgingly listening.
"The scholar Shen Xiuming," Shen Wei continued, "comes from a family of farmers. His mother once showed me great kindness. Seeing him struggle without guidance, I wished to help."
Skeptical but curious, Yang Xuanji returned to his seat.
"Today, I shall visit Wen Temple," he said coldly. "If your words prove false, this ends here."
Shen Wei knew he was wavering.
Yang Xuanji himself had risen from peasant roots. His mother had toiled by day and woven by night to fund his education. He had not disappointed her, passing the imperial exams and, as an official, often aiding those of similar background.
"I have prepared a concealer," Shen Wei said softly, "more effective than the Jade Beauty Powder. Let me demonstrate."
Ye Qiushuang ushered in a woman whose face bore a scar, twisted and ugly like a centipede. Opening a small white porcelain jar, she dipped a brush into the concealer and carefully applied it to the scar.
Half an hour later, the transformation was complete.
Yang Xuanji stared, stunned. The scar had vanished, seamlessly blending with the woman’s skin.
This concealer, a modified version of the Jade Beauty Powder with added mica and lanolin, was Shen Wei’s creation.
"If you agree to tutor Shen Xiuming for three months," Shen Wei said, "Qixiang Studio will provide your wife with a lifetime supply of this concealer. Master Yang, how long has Mrs. Luo stayed indoors?"
Yang Xuanji’s resolve faltered.
Before her disfigurement, his wife had loved traveling and sightseeing. Now, she rarely ventured out, and when she did, she hid behind veils.
Two summers ago, during a rare outing to view lotus blossoms, a gust of wind had torn away her veil. A child on a nearby boat had screamed, "A ghost!" at the sight of her scars. Mrs. Luo had wept for days.
Yang Xuanji longed to restore her confidence.
"Take this concealer as a gift," Shen Wei said. "Visit Wen Temple first. If you decline to tutor him, I will not press further."
Ye Qiushuang handed him the delicate box.
After a moment’s hesitation, Yang Xuanji accepted it.
As Ye Qiushuang escorted him out, Shen Wei sipped her osmanthus tea, the floral fragrance lingering on her tongue.
Nanny Rong fretted, "What if Master Yang still refuses?"
Shen Wei smiled. "He won’t."
The Shen family was truly poor, truly without connections. At Wen Temple, Yang Xuanji would see a hardworking mother and a diligent scholar—a reflection of his younger self.
She had done all she could for her brother. The rest lay in fate’s hands. If Shen Xiuming failed, she would have to seek another path.
Shen Wei rose carefully, Nanny Rong supporting her. Four months into her pregnancy, her belly had begun to show.
Gazing at the clear sky, she said, "Let’s visit Wangfeng Textiles. We’ll buy fine cloth and some lambskin."
Autumn had arrived. It was time to sew Prince Yan a new robe and boots—another testament to her unwavering devotion.
...
...
The carriage wheels rolled over the muddy road, jolting and swaying as it raced toward the Wen Temple in the outskirts of the capital. Inside the carriage, Old Master Yang clutched a box of concealing cream, his brow furrowed with worry.
The carriage came to a halt outside the temple.
Yang Xuanji lifted the curtain and instructed his round-faced servant, "Qinghe, go to the nearby farms and inquire about Shen Xiuming. I will enter the temple alone to meet this young man."
