Chapter 71: Hidden Misfortune Within the Household (Part Two)

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Chang’an, Pingkang Ward, Valley of Forgetting.

In the bronze mirror, a charming face appeared—equally suited to smiles or coquettishness. Slender jade-like fingers traced the heart-shaped pendant at her neck, then brushed the tiny teardrop jade earring at her lobe. Sweetness and delight filled her; standing, she spread her arms and spun in fragrant circles, the jingling of her ornaments and the shimmer of jewels surrounding her. “My lord, am I beautiful?” she asked.

Quan Ce lounged against the edge of the divan, chin resting on his hand. He said nothing, simply watched her with a smile, his eyes filled with admiration and affection.

Fuqiu needed no spoken reply. Overjoyed, she darted to him, nestled in his arms, and hugged him tightly. Her delicate cheek pressed against his burning chest, flushed crimson by its heat, her smile unending.

Quan Ce kissed her lightly on the brow. “Fuqiu, I’ve never asked—where is your hometown?”

Closing her eyes, Fuqiu held him even closer, murmuring softly, “I was born in Wucheng County, Huzhou, in the eastern region south of the Yangtze. My family were simple farmers, but my father’s gambling ruined us. I was sold to the Music Bureau and passed through many hands before coming to Chang’an. The matron here was lenient enough, letting me learn singing, dancing, and instruments. After my debut, I earned enough to buy back my freedom and lived peacefully—until I met you at Guest’s Sorrow Pavilion... Now, thinking back, I feel so fortunate, so blessed.”

Quan Ce gently stroked her dark hair, chuckling. “All these years in Chang’an and the Eastern Capital—have you met anyone from your hometown?”

“Twice,” Fuqiu laughed, her joy uncontainable, warmth suffusing her. “A fellow villager came to Chang’an on business. He heard me sing and even entertained improper thoughts, but I would never agree.” She giggled, her moist lips planting a kiss on Quan Ce’s neck.

It tickled; Quan Ce scratched the spot, sighing. “From Jiangnan to Chang’an—a thousand miles—and you ran into two people?”

“My good lord,” Fuqiu’s heart soared at his words. “Don’t be jealous now. Though I fell into hardship, I have always cherished and respected myself, waiting to give myself to you one day.”

Quan Ce smiled, then asked about the recent state of business at the Valley of Forgetting and the Yi River Painted Boat. The entertainment industry in the Great Tang was indeed flourishing, and these establishments, backed by several powerful officials, naturally thrived.

After a tender interlude, Fuqiu tidied her dress and went to change, determined to cook a meal herself and serve her beloved.

Quan Ce watched her leave, the smile fading from his face. Turning, he entered the study, where the leaders of the Stele Without Words awaited, their expressions cold and grave.

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“Master, the messenger from the Eastern Capital found nothing—not a single clue,” said Jue Di, breaking the silence, his face bleak. “But in the worst case, the messenger either wants to spark conflict between us and the Censorate for his own gain, or he’s trying to disrupt our footing and flush us out. Either way, as long as the Stele Without Words acts in the shadows, we are safe.”

“Is it possible,” Astrologer suggested, hoping for the best, “that this is just a ruse? Perhaps they found nothing at all.”

“This is too important to take that chance. The fault would be mine if we grew complacent,” Quan Ce said, taking responsibility first. After taking in the Zhu couple and Zhu Ping’an, he had deliberately allowed them freedom of movement to avoid suspicion. Besides household chores, the family sometimes left the estate. “If their activities have already been exposed, do any of you have a solution?”

Quan Zhong frowned. “Eldest Brother, it’s been over a year. The village elders who knew the truth are dead. Even if someone recognizes them, there shouldn’t be much trouble.”

“I fear those with malicious intent,” Quan Ce sighed. During the case of Prince Yue’s orphan, officials had traced a pawned jade pendant to Shun Emperor’s Temple Village. The supposedly burnt family had reappeared in Quan Ce’s estate—a simple deduction revealed the truth.

“Master, for now, we must not act rashly,” Jue Di’s eyes flashed coldly. “There are too many people at Shun Emperor’s Temple Village; someone is sure to be watching. We can’t move openly, so we must cut out the rot within and arrange another family to act as Ping’an’s parents.”

“No, killing them to silence witnesses only gives our enemies leverage,” Quan Zhong immediately objected. “And Ping’an is three years old already; he recognizes people. If he causes a scene, it’ll be hard to control. We can’t possibly... can’t possibly…”

The study fell silent. Zhu Ping’an was the last bloodline of Prince Yue Li Zhen, and Quan Ce had gone to great lengths to protect him; he could not abandon the effort now. Yet every path seemed perilous.

“Master, I have an idea,” the Astrologer said hesitantly, clearly unsure. “I could disfigure the Zhu couple—not with fire or blades, but with silver needles to twist their faces, leaving no visible scars. As for Ping’an, we could… poison him mute.”

Quan Ce frowned deeply, refusing without hesitation. “No, we’ll discuss this further. The Censorate has not acted immediately; perhaps they learned of this only recently and have no hard evidence. For now, make some moves of your own, set up some diversions, and distract them. I’ll consider our next step.”

“And the Zhu couple? Should we keep them under watch?” Quan Zhong asked.

“No, let them carry on as usual,” Quan Ce shook his head, his expression shadowed. “But monitor their activities closely.”

In Shanglin Ward, outside the Princess Yiyang’s residence, a few distracted patrons sat in a street-side teahouse. They were an odd group—one in a clean sheepskin jacket, another wrapped in a dirty, tattered coat.

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“Third Brother is going out?” the gatekeeper of Princess Yiyang’s residence called out. A short, thin servant in a sheepskin vest strode out, chest high. “Yes, spring is almost here. I’m off to find some flower and grass seeds. The garden needs more life.”

“Take care!” the gatekeeper replied respectfully. Ever since Quan Xiang, the steward of Unnamed Court, had overstepped his authority and executed seventeen servants, the servants of that court were well-known among the princess’s household, second only to the accountants in status.

The man in the tattered coat glanced over, then looked away, gulping down tea. Under the table, he received a kick. “Did you get a good look? Is this man from your village?”

“Huh? Cough—gentlemen, I don’t think so. Our village is poor and harsh; no one is so fair and proper,” he sputtered, choking on his tea.

“Idiot—you were a beggar, but once you enter a grand house, you can become respectable,” the man in the sheepskin jacket cursed, clearly frustrated. They had watched Princess Yiyang’s residence for too long with little to show. This man, known as Zhu San, was most suspicious. Using informants near the Lijing Gate in the Eastern Capital, they’d tracked him to Shun Emperor’s Temple Village, where a man called Zhu San had died a year earlier. Thus, they had come to identify him.

“Let’s go, follow him.” They trailed Zhu San at a distance. He did indeed buy flower and grass seeds, but then his movements grew erratic—he circled around Shanglin Ward, paused before a certain manor, then took a lengthy detour before eventually returning to the princess’s residence.

The man in the sheepskin jacket rubbed his reddened nose, turned his head, and looked at the plaque on the manor’s gate.

Wu Residence. These days, Chang’an was full of Wu Residences.

This particular manor belonged to Wu Youxu, Palace Attendant to the Crown Prince.