The Censorate was tasked with overseeing the hundred officials, and its specialty was seizing others’ weaknesses, gripping them tight, and seizing every chance to write impeachment memorials and lodge complaints. When Grand Secretary Du flew into a rage for the sake of his beloved daughter, he unleashed his fury with abandon, firing off eighteen memorials a day to lambast Administrator Liu.
This made clear to everyone: don’t cross Grand Secretary Du. His usual demeanor had been restrained; this was his true colors on full display.
But Du’s family wasn’t the only one cheated and wronged by the Liu family medical clinic. Seeing Grand Secretary Du lead the charge, everyone else figured victory was assured and joined in. Impeachment memorials flew to the throne like snowflakes.
The fire spread. At first, it targeted small figures like Administrator Liu, but within days, it turned fully on Tan Grand Secretary.
What had begun as fraud and harm became a minor detail. Someone dug up evidence that the Liu family had embezzled public funds, and the sanqi (pseudo-ginseng) supplied as medicine for the northern border army’s needs turned out to be fake.
Sanqi was a hemostatic, critical to the lives of soldiers guarding the northern frontier, the stability of the border, and the safety of the state itself.
And the man who had overruled all objections to put the unqualified Liu family on the list of military medicine suppliers? The Minister of War, Tan Grand Secretary.
Now even the Eldest Grand Princess, still lingering in the capital, stormed into the palace to confront the Emperor:
“Your Majesty, soldiers of the northern border defend the realm. If they die resisting foreign enemies, shedding blood and sacrificing their lives—that is their duty. But to die at the hands of their own kind—that would freeze the hearts of a hundred thousand troops on the frontier.”
The Eldest Grand Princess was the late Emperor’s elder sister and the Emperor’s own aunt. Few in this world dared to confront the Emperor based on royal kinship alone—and she was one of them.
With Tan Grand Secretary seemingly doomed, the Emperor’s favorite, Consort Tan, stepped in. Carrying chicken soup, she wept all the way to the Qianqing Palace, clinging to the Emperor’s leg, her tear-streaked face pitiful and charming:
“Your Majesty, my grandfather is loyal to the core. He must have been deceived by some villain. He didn’t know, Your Majesty. Besides, Administrator Liu is still on the northern border treating the epidemic. If we recall him now, who else can cure the plague? Please, let him redeem himself by serving his sentence later.”
It was nearly the twelfth lunar month, the New Year almost upon them, yet the court was in chaos over this great mess. The Emperor, overwhelmed, ended up ordering Tan Grand Secretary suspended from duty pending investigation. The Ministry of Justice, the Court of Judicial Review, and the Censorate would jointly investigate the fake military medicine case.
As for Administrator Liu, he was to continue treating the epidemic first. Everything else would wait until it was over.
While the court trembled from the upheaval, the Zhang family in Green Silk Lane remained detached, untouched by it all.
If anything, Zhu Qingyu found herself busier than before.
Of course, big cases like the fake military medicine scandal or grand figures like the Eldest Grand Princess had nothing to do with her.
Zhu Qingyu’s busy schedule: more and more officials’ wives suddenly came to her for medical consultations, so many that she had to clear a room in the front courtyard as a clinic and set aside half a day each day for appointments.
The remaining halfday she spent memorizing poems, edicts, and writing policy essays—often so late into the night she couldn’t get to sleep.
Zhang Ruohua was also slammed. After finishing work on recovering silver payments some time ago, she then busied herself with purchasing servants, and more recently, led seamstresses in dayandnight rush work to tailor new inner robes for Zhang Shen to wear under his official attire at the Winter Sacrifice ceremony.
Even this detail came from Madam Shao, who specifically reminded Zhu Qingyu:
“He needs to dress thick—as thick as possible. At the Winter Sacrifice, officials line up according to rank. Zhang Shen will probably stand near my husband, in the palace corridor where it’s shady and drafty, and they stand there for hours. That crosswind can freeze a person to death.”
Zhang Shen was already frail, and after his time in the imperial prison, his health had deteriorated further.
Madam Shao’s warning that the cold could kill terrified Zhang Ruohua. She added two thick layers of fox fur padding inside Zhang Shen’s robes and trousers.
So on the day of the Winter Sacrifice, Zhang Shen, wearing his special fox-fur lining, looked stocky in his originally slender frame, and even moving about was awkward.
Seeing Zhang Shen’s bewildered look of resistance, Zhu Qingyu coaxed him:
“At the Winter Sacrifice, you don’t need to move. Just kneel, rise, and stand. Bear with it. I’ll send you there, the carriage will wait for you outside. I’ll pick you up when you’re done.”
Someone to pick him up, someone to send him off—Zhang Shen was satisfied and stopped complaining about the bulky clothing. He warned her:
“Wait for me at Fan’s Tower. Don’t stand outside. It snowed again two days ago, and when the snow melts, it’s coldest outdoors.”
Perhaps other families also had experience with the Winter Sacrifice. Many had arranged carriages to wait—just like the Zhangs—by Fan’s Tower on Imperial Street.
So many, in fact, that by the time Zhu Qingyu arrived, there were no seats left in the secondfloor private rooms, forcing her to find a spot in the second-story main hall.
The moment she entered the hall, countless eyes fell on her.
Usually, when she socialized with Madam Zhuang and the others, she stayed within the women’s circles and rarely encountered men.
But today, the main hall had many male visitors among those seeing off their families, including wealthy young men surrounded by servants. Ever since she stepped in, they kept staring at her.
Zhu Qingyu was just thinking to herself, Forget it, better wait in the carriage to avoid trouble, when Madam Shao spotted her and waved:
“Sister Zhang, over here!”
Madam Shao had arrived early and booked a private room. Her servants knew Zhu Qingyu, and reported her arrival, so Madam Shao came out to fetch her.
Inside the private room, the door shut, and the unnerving stares finally disappeared.
Madam Shao invited her to sit by the window, and they chatted about domestic trifles.
Zhu Qingyu remembered that when she first met Madam Shao, the woman seemed shy. But now, with familiarity, she found that Madam Shao was quite bubbly in front of close friends, and loved gossiping.
From their brief chat, Zhu Qingyu felt that Madam Shao had a grasp of every household matter in the capital.
When talk turned to the recent buzz about the Tan family, Madam Shao lowered her voice:
“Tan Grand Secretary was reprimanded. Everyone’s hiding from the fallout. But Commander Han alone has sent up a memorial defending him. Doesn’t he know to avoid suspicion?”
A Commander surnamed Han. Zhu Qingyu had memorized the court registers. This must be Commander Han of the Imperial Guard, in charge of palace security.
Curious, Zhu Qingyu followed Madam Shao’s thread:
“What connection do they have that calls for such avoidance?”
Madam Shao blinked and whispered even lower:
“Consort Tan was once betrothed to Commander Han. The engagement was set, but for some reason it didn’t work out. Commander Han hasn’t married to this day.”
Just as they were chewing over gossip, a sudden commotion and loud voices erupted next door.
Madam Shao craned her neck, looking around. “What’s happening? What’s going on?”
Suddenly, she pointed out the window, nearly leaning halfway out, and exclaimed:
“Oh heavens! Oh heavens! That flag—a Ministry of War eight-hundred-li urgent dispatch! Something huge has happened!”
Zhu Qingyu also rose and followed Madam Shao’s gaze outside.
A courier horse, bearing three black military pennants, was galloping wildly down the Imperial Avenue, forcing pedestrians and riders alike to scramble out of its path.
The courier, practically flattened against the horse's back, drove the animal straight through the avenue, burst through the palace gates, and charged into the midst of the Winter Sacrifice Ceremony.
The neatly arrayed ranks of officials in the great hall's square scattered in panic as the horse crashed through their midst.
The horse charged heedlessly forward, all the way to the jade steps before the throne, right up to the presence of the Son of Heaven himself.
The courier, at the end of his strength and running purely on instinct and conviction, caught sight of the bright yellow imperial robes, tumbled from the saddle, presented the urgent dispatch, and cried out in a voice torn with anguish:
“Urgent dispatch from the northern frontier, eight hundred li! Administrator Liu has died of the plague! The epidemic in the north has spread and is out of control!”
