Chapter 66: The Fragrance of Reading with Crimson Sleeves

Jia Mu’s carriage waited more than two hours outside the palace gate before a eunuch from the inner court summoned her to pay homage to the Empress Dowager.

The current Empress Dowager Yi Zhang was of similar age to Jia Mu, also born into a prominent aristocratic family; in their youth, the two had been acquainted, and their bond surpassed that of other noblewomen.

This was why, when such a major crisis struck the family, Jia Mu’s first thought was to don full ceremonial attire and seek help from this old friend of her youth.

“Your Majesty, though my son may be unworthy, he would never commit such an unfilial act as murdering his own brother—he is merely the victim of this wicked servant’s baseless slander.”

“I am but an old woman, my days few; I beg Your Majesty to uphold justice for me, to preserve some dignity for the Jia family, so that when I meet my late husband beneath the earth, I may face him with honor.”

As Jia Mu spoke, tears streamed down her face, smearing much of her makeup, leaving her appearance disheveled and pitiful—something that stirred a measure of pity in those who watched.

The Empress Dowager Yi Zhang, though also aged, wore a magnificent, ornate phoenix-patterned robe, her silver hair arranged with regal grace, her eyes clear and spirit sharp—far more vigorous than Jia Mu.

Seeing Jia Mu in this state, she sighed inwardly; her old friend from girlhood, once so sharp and decisive.

After decades as a peerless duchess, had wealth and comfort dulled her mind, turning her foolish?

As Jia Mu’s carriage departed the palace gate, her expression remained dazed, indifferent even to the fact that she had returned empty-handed.

The Empress Dowager paused, then smiled: “Your Marquis is not without other sons.”

Whether Jia She’s involvement stemmed from the witchcraft scandal or some other matter, the Empress Dowager could not be certain, nor did she care to find out.

“Lady Jia, do not be so distressed. The Marquis has merely been summoned by the Clan Office—not arrested or detained. He is likely only being questioned; he may return in a few days.”

“Thus, the matter you seek from me, I truly cannot assist with.”

But hearing the Empress’s final words, Jia Mu grew puzzled: “Are you speaking of Jia Lian?”

The imperial harem must not interfere in state affairs—this rule applied even to the most exalted woman in the realm.

Thus, regarding the Emperor’s affairs, she could only observe from afar, never stepping beyond the boundary.

The Emperor’s will is as vast as the sea, the state as deep as the abyss; even as the reigning Empress Dowager, she would never forget this truth.

Jia Mu of course knew whom the Empress meant—but how could the Empress, secluded deep within the palace, know of this wretch? Had he stirred up some new mischief again?

Her son’s troubles still hung unresolved, yet whenever she turned, this wretch always appeared—Jia Mu’s head throbbed.

Had she not seen that the Emperor merely wished to warn the Jia family through the Clan Office’s summons, as a cautionary measure?

Jia Mu had listened to the Empress’s long speech, yet gained no clarity—every word the Empress spoke was as good as silence.

Though troubled inside, she dared not show it; after decades as a duchess, she had learned such restraint. She understood: the Empress had no intention of intervening.

She recalled the Empress Dowager’s final words: “Your Marquis is not without other sons.”

She sighed again: “Whether in the imperial family or among noble houses, when there are many sons, disputes are inevitable—as long as they break no law and betray no imperial grace, the rest can be overlooked.”

“Your eldest son, the Marquis, though often involved in foolish antics, is not entirely without merit—he has raised at least one fine son, has he not?”

“You are advanced in years; learn to let go of all things, and take care of your health—that is true fortune.”

…

Wu Er and Qing Wen noticed that Third Master had become increasingly diligent in his studies; though they had only recently joined him, and had seen him reading in the outer study, they had never witnessed such tireless effort as now.

He slept only after the hour of Yi, and by the first watch of the morning, before dawn, the eastern study of Qingzhi Studio would already be lit—he began his daily reading without delay.

In his own words, his mind was clearest at this hour; one hour then equaled two ordinary hours.

Each night, the two maids took turns keeping watch, sleeping on the bedside couch to serve him with blankets and water through the night.

Wu Er and Qing Wen were still young, naturally fond of sleep; at the hour of Mao, they were deep in dreams.

Each time Jia Cong rose, he moved silently, unwilling to disturb the girls’ sweet slumber.

Qing Wen slept deeply; whenever she was on watch, Jia Cong’s rising rarely woke her.

Only when Wu Er awoke at dawn did she notice half the candle in the eastern study had burned down, and Qing Wen was still asleep.

Wu Er would laugh and scold her for sleeping like a frozen fish—even a stick could not rouse her.

When it was Wu Er’s turn to watch, her sleep was lighter; as soon as Jia Cong rose, she would wake, often half-drowsy, following him to brew tea, pour water, grind ink, and spread paper.

Wu Er’s frame was delicate; within days, dark circles formed under her eyes. Qing Wen, feeling guilty, insisted on taking Wu Er’s watch.

Jia Cong told them he was accustomed to rising early to study—they need not wake so early to serve him; they should sleep as they pleased.

But neither girl would agree: how could a master rise while his maids still slept?

So Jia Cong found a reclining chair somewhere and placed it beside his desk.

Each morning, when the night-watch maid rose and finished serving tea and ink, she would rest on the chair, awaiting his needs—a compromise that allowed the girls to fulfill their duty without overexertion.

Qing Wen, once she leaned on the chair, would usually fall asleep within moments.

Wu Er, on the chair, remained half-asleep, her watery eyes secretly watching Jia Cong, thinking how handsome he looked when absorbed in his studies.

At the hour of Chen, Jia Cong would step into the courtyard to stretch his legs, often running more than ten laps around Qingzhi Studio.

After he finished his exercises and washed, Wu Er would already have sent Si Er and Juan Er to fetch breakfast from the kitchen; when the east turned bright, another full, purposeful day began anew.

Over this period, Wu Er and Qing Wen grew deeply satisfied with their master—never had they served anyone so good: humble, ambitious, and considerate.

And, of course, he was also very good-looking.

At first, they had not noticed; Jia Cong had lived poorly in the eastern courtyard, barely eating enough, thin and frail, his features undeveloped.

They heard he had secretly earned silver by writing calligraphy, buying snacks to fill his belly—his complexion improved somewhat, but only slightly.

When Wu Er arrived, having grown up under her mother’s care, she had absorbed the finest knowledge of diet and nourishment.

Worried he was overtaxed by study, she often brought nourishing ingredients from her mother, devising ways to supplement his meals.

Young men respond quickly to care; within days, Jia Cong’s hollow cheeks filled out, his skin glowing like jade, his slightly arched brows radiating vitality and refined grace.

His eyebrows were dark and straight, his eyes like autumn pools, his lips finely shaped; when focused, he unconsciously pressed them together, revealing quiet determination.

He seemed to be undergoing a slow transformation, often making the two maids blush faintly as they watched.

They had heard rumors of Jia Cong’s mother—a legendary beauty, a courtesan of unmatched grace; it was said he inherited her looks, but his former hardship and poor nourishment had concealed it.

Now that his life had improved, his beauty was gradually emerging; when he grew older still, who knew how magnificent he would become?

(End of Chapter)