"Your Highness, do Fourth Brother and his consort not like venison?" Jiuzhu asked before everyone began eating.
"Perhaps not," Prince Chen replied, rolling up his sleeves as he reached for the venison.
Prince An suddenly remembered what he had forgotten—he hadn’t invited his fourth brother!
Just as he was about to send someone to fetch Yun Yanze from his courtyard, he saw Yun Yanze and Sun Caiyao emerge from the inner residence.
Their gazes met, and the atmosphere grew awkward.
Seeing his brothers seated neatly around the table and Prince An’s slightly embarrassed smile, Yun Yanze immediately understood the situation.
"Fourth Brother, you’ve arrived just in time," Prince Jing spoke up. "Second Brother has prepared a venison feast, and we were about to send for you and your consort. How fortunate that you’ve come. Please, take a seat."
Sun Caiyao’s heart ached with worry. Her noble and reserved prince should never have to endure such neglect from his brothers…
"Thank you." Yun Yanze swept his robes aside and sat down at the table.
Watching this scene, Sun Caiyao felt even more distressed. In the past, her prince would never have humbled himself like this.
By royal protocol, Yun Yanze should have been seated above Prince Chen, but Prince Chen had taken the place beside Prince An instead.
Princess Huai and Princess Consort An chatted eagerly with Ming Jiuzhu, their words dripping with flattery.
Their admiration, of course, was not for Jiuzhu but for Yun Duqing beside her.
Yun Yanze glanced at Prince Huai, who seemed distracted, and inwardly scoffed. As the eldest prince, was his brother truly content being Yun Duqing’s pawn?
"Roasting the meat ourselves makes it more enjoyable," Prince An said, mimicking Yun Duqing by rolling up his sleeves. "Let’s have no servants assist us today. What do you all think?"
"Agreed." Prince Huai raised his wine cup and drained it in one gulp. "We’ll do everything ourselves."
With great enthusiasm, the princes and their consorts began roasting the venison—only to end up with charred, inedible results. Fortunately, the other dishes on the table salvaged their dignity.
Jiuzhu couldn’t bear to see such fine ingredients go to waste. She placed perfectly roasted meat into Prince Chen’s bowl, the rich aroma wafting to everyone’s noses.
Seeing Prince Chen enjoy his meal with relish, the others couldn’t help but feel a twinge of displeasure. If none of them could roast properly, why should these two stand out?
Prince Chen remained oblivious to his brothers’ glares—or perhaps he simply pretended not to notice. But then, after finishing his meal, he leaned closer to his consort and began learning how to roast from her.
"Your Highness is so skilled."
Hah, all he did was flip the meat. What’s so impressive about that?
"Your Highness is doing so well."
Tsk, he brushed honey on it and overcooked it.
"How does Your Highness master everything so quickly?"
Impossible. Unless he’s boasting.
"Here, try it." Prince Chen blew on the roasted meat before offering it to Jiuzhu.
The venison was dry, unevenly seasoned, overly salty, and slightly bitter—far from perfect.
"How does it taste?"
Jiuzhu met his expectant gaze and smiled.
This proud, celestial prince had descended from the heavens for her, embracing the mundane world. His hands, accustomed to seals and whips, were now stained with oil and smoke—all to roast a single piece of meat for her.
She swallowed the venison and nodded. "It’s delicious."
"Then I’ll roast more for you."
"Of course."
After several cups of wine, Prince Huai remained sober. Watching Yun Duqing and Ming Jiuzhu practically glued together, he clicked his tongue. Even in his newlywed days, he and his princess had never been this clingy.
"Your Highness, allow this servant to pour your wine." A palace maid approached, her voice soft as she refilled Prince Huai’s cup.
Prince Huai glanced at Princess Huai, ensuring she hadn’t noticed, before waving the maid away. "Leave us. We require no service here."
"As you wish." The maid bowed and retreated with the wine jug.
"Second Brother, this venison is excellent," Prince Jing remarked, finally getting the hang of roasting. "No wonder you invited us all."
Yun Yanze sipped his wine in silence. Sun Caiyao placed a piece of roasted meat in his bowl. "Your Highness, would you like to try?"
"A bit too salty," Yun Yanze said after a small bite. "But you’ve never done this before. It’s already quite good."
Sun Caiyao touched the burn on her hand and smiled.
Princess Consort An tossed her blackened, charred creation aside and roasted another piece—barely presentable—before placing it in Prince An’s bowl.
Prince An swallowed it whole, not daring to chew.
"Come, let us brothers drink together," Prince Huai raised his cup. "To… brotherly bonds and the joy of gathering today."
Prince Chen set down his chopsticks and lifted his cup. "To us."
Five wine cups clinked together.
The wine was the same, the cups identical—yet each drank with a different heart.
For the second toast, the princes and their consorts all raised their cups. When it was Jiuzhu’s turn, Prince Chen took hers. "She doesn’t handle alcohol well. I’ll drink for her."
"Well said, Fifth Brother!" Prince An praised.
After Prince Chen finished two cups, Jiuzhu fed him a piece of meat to soothe the wine’s bite.
But the way he had taken her cup for her—so effortlessly gallant.
As the night wore on, the princes grew tipsy, reminiscing about their youth, slinging arms over shoulders, and singing off-key—almost like true brothers.
"The dishes have gone cold. Bring fresh ones," Princess Huai instructed before turning to the other consorts. "Let’s leave them to their revelry. We’ll chat over here."
Princess Jing and Sun Caiyao remained seated, but Princess Consort An and Jiuzhu joined Princess Huai at a nearby stone table, where palace maids served them tea to cleanse the palate.
Listening to the princes’ discordant singing, Princess Huai sighed. "It’s been so long since I’ve seen all five brothers together like this."
Princess Consort An glanced at Jiuzhu but stayed silent.
Princess Huai chuckled. "Between sisters-in-law, we needn’t mind what the men think."
"Those of us married into the imperial family must always weigh our words and actions. But tonight, let’s speak freely, without restraint." She paused, then looked at Jiuzhu. "Jiuzhu."
Jiuzhu, who had been sipping tea, lifted her head and blinked at her.
"Thank you," Princess Huai said, her gaze warm with something akin to affection.
Jiuzhu tilted her head in confusion. For what?
Princess Huai laughed. "Since they’re singing, we shouldn’t sit idle. I’ll play a tune for you."
A servant brought a zither. Princess Huai plucked the strings. "Years ago, I played this at Empress Su’s flower-viewing banquet. It caught Her Highness’s eye, and I became a princess."
"I haven’t played in so long," she murmured, her smile fading slightly. "If it sounds poor, forgive me."
When the first notes rang out, Jiuzhu set down her cup and straightened.
Even Princess Jing and Sun Caiyao, seated with their husbands, turned to listen.
The usually composed and dignified Princess Huai played a melody brimming with the vitality of spring.
As Jiuzhu listened, she seemed to hear the spring breeze, witness the growth of plants, and see flowers in full bloom. When the piece ended, Jiuzhu clapped excitedly: "That was beautiful, truly beautiful—like the birth of all things and the flourishing of blossoms."
Princess Huai gazed at Jiuzhu’s sparkling eyes and lightly stroked the body of the qin. The wine had loosened her inhibitions—normally, she would never have done what she did today. "This piece was composed in my leisure time and never had a name. Since you like it so much, Jiuzhu, let’s call it 'The Joy of the Treasured Pearl.'"
Jiuzhu hesitated, a little embarrassed. "Wouldn’t that be inappropriate?"
"A fine melody is hard to find a true appreciator for. To bring you joy is this piece’s good fortune." Princess Huai shook her head with a smile. "Without you, it would remain nameless."
At first listen, the melody seemed cold, sorrowful, and lonely. Few could discern the hidden joy beneath its melancholy.
The growth of all things is silent, and the blooming of flowers is quiet and soundless. This stillness, followed by renewal and hope, is often overlooked and forgotten.
"The Joy of the Treasured Pearl"—a melody that brought a smile to Jiuzhu’s face.
Princess Consort An watched the delighted Ming Jiuzhu and noticed the undisguised fondness in Princess Huai’s eyes.
For the wife of the eldest prince to regard the wife of the most threatening prince as a kindred spirit was a rare sight even within the palace.
Alas, the world praises the camaraderie of men, but how many scholars write of the loyalty between women?
Princess Consort An joined in the merriment, playing a tune on her jade flute. Amid the praises of her sisters-in-law, she turned to Jiuzhu. "Jiuzhu, would you like to play something for us?"
"I don’t know many pieces, nor do I play such refined instruments." Jiuzhu hesitated before asking the attendants of Zhangliu Palace, "Do you have a xiqin?"
"Yes, Your Highness. Please wait a moment."
A xiqin?
Both Princess Huai and Princess Consort An were intrigued. Few noble ladies learned the xiqin—who would have thought Jiuzhu could play it?
"My first master often played the xiqin for me when I was young. Over time, I picked it up," Jiuzhu explained, reminiscing about her childhood. "Especially on summer nights, with cicadas chirping and the moon bright, the music would echo through the valley, as if descending from the heavens."
When the attendants brought the xiqin, Jiuzhu tested the strings with the bow, producing a screeching sound that startled the half-drunk princes into momentary sobriety.
"The xiqin is usually plucked, but like my master, I prefer using the bow." Jiuzhu placed the instrument on her lap and began to play.
The melody was graceful, like a bird taking flight in an empty valley. Yet after the bird soared away, an indescribable loneliness and sorrow lingered.
Princess Huai and Princess Consort An listened intently, unaffected, but Prince Huai, who had been drinking, suddenly reddened his eyes, downing cup after cup of cold wine.
Prince Chen set down his wine cup and turned to watch Jiuzhu play, listening carefully to the music.
"Fifth Brother, why are you spacing out? Drink!" The drunken Prince An tugged at Prince Chen’s sleeve.
Prince Chen glanced at him and mercilessly shook off his hand.
Was he spacing out?
No—he was admiring his wife’s performance.
Prince Huai’s tears fell freely, yet none of his brothers comforted him. Even Princess Huai merely glanced at him before pretending not to notice.
"Why does the wine taste bitter the more I drink?" Prince Huai wiped his face roughly with his sleeve. "Whose music is this? It makes my heart ache."
Listening to this piece, he finally understood the desolation described in "Fishing in Snow": "No bird in a thousand mountains, no footprints on countless paths."
"Eldest Brother, say less," Prince An warned, even in his drunken state, mindful not to offend Prince Chen. "That’s Fifth Brother’s wife playing."
"How can someone as young as Fifth Brother’s wife play such a—"
"The music has no intent; the listener brings their own sorrow," Prince Chen interrupted. "It’s not the melody that’s bitter—it’s your heart."
Where was the bitterness in this piece?
To him, it was a serene tune of green mountains and clear waters—like an old man, having weathered countless storms, finally finding peace and shedding his burdens.
"Where is that music coming from?" As night fell, sounds carried clearly through the palace. Emperor Longfeng paused during his stroll with Empress Su, listening to the faint strains of the xiqin. "Is that a xiqin?"
"Your Majesty, Prince An is hosting a roasted deer banquet at Zhangliu Palace. The princes and their consorts are all there," Liu Zhongbao reported. "The princes are singing heartily, and the princesses are playing music. It’s quite lively—would you like to join them?"
"No need. Let them enjoy themselves among brothers. If I go, they’ll feel restrained." Emperor Longfeng listened intently for a moment. "The xiqin is played well. I heard this melody a long, long time ago."
"Your Majesty, tell me—what piece is this?" Empress Su asked curiously. "It’s quite pleasant."
"When I was five, at my grandfather’s birthday celebration, a musician played this on the xiqin," Emperor Longfeng murmured, lowering his gaze. "Later, that musician attempted an assassination and was shot dead by the Golden Armor Guards."
"An assassination?"
"Yes." Emperor Longfeng nodded. "Some claimed he was a remnant of the previous dynasty. After that, no one in the capital dared play this tune again."
Over forty years had passed, and the melody had nearly faded from memory among the capital’s musicians.
"By then, the previous dynasty had been gone for over a century. Could its remnants still be scheming?" Empress Su found it hard to believe—if true, those descendants were remarkably stubborn.
"Truth didn’t matter—no one cared." Emperor Longfeng sighed. "Many died in the capital at that time."
The so-called "remnants" were merely an excuse his grandfather used to eliminate political threats in his old age, clearing the path for his father’s reign.
Yet his grandfather never anticipated that his father, once free of obstacles, would rule so incompetently that he nearly dragged the entire Great Cheng dynasty into ruin.
At five years old, he had watched as the musician was shot into a pincushion of arrows. The man’s wide, unseeing eyes had seared the melody into his memory forever.
"The one playing must be Jiuzhu." Emperor Longfeng smiled. Among the younger generation, only Jiuzhu—raised outside the capital—would know and dare to play this tune.
"She plays well, doesn’t she?" Empress Su nudged him gently. "Don’t mention the history of this piece in front of the children. We wouldn’t want to frighten them."
"If I did, our son would storm into Taiyang Palace and throw a fit." Emperor Longfeng chuckled. "That brat takes after me—dotes on his beloved."
By the time the roasted deer banquet ended, the princes were thoroughly drunk. Jiuzhu approached Prince Chen and noticed that, though his cheeks were flushed, he wasn’t slumped over the table like the others.
"Your Highness, shall we go back?"
"Yes, let’s go." Prince Chen stood, clasping his hands behind his back. After a few steps, he turned when Jiuzhu didn’t follow. "Why aren’t you coming?"
Jiuzhu hurried to catch up, grasping his sleeve. "Your Highness, you’re not drunk?"
"Hmph." Prince Chen lifted his chin slightly. "This little wine could never make me drunk."
Jiuzhu wrapped her arms around his. The faint scent of wine clung to him, but it wasn’t unpleasant.
"Why is there no moon tonight?" Prince Chen suddenly stopped walking and looked up at the sky.
"It might rain soon," Jiuzhu replied. "The Qingming season always brings rain."
"Oh." Prince Chen fell silent for a moment. "So we won’t be able to admire the moonlight together tonight."
Jiuzhu raised her head to look at him, and he lowered his gaze to meet hers.
In his eyes, she saw a misty shimmer, and the way his lips were pressed together made him look like a pitiful, adorable creature.
Ah, so His Highness is drunk.
