Chapter 53
Chapter 53: Buddhist Scion—Don’t Think You Can Stay Untouched by the Mortal World
Yesterday’s banquet farce became the newest joke in the Heir Apparent’s residence.
The happiest person in the aftermath was Third Miss Lin Yu Ning.
She lounged in her room and retold the scene to her personal maid, Chun Cao, growing more animated with every sentence.
“Chun Cao, you were outside helping me count gifts. You didn’t hear what Miss Zhao said. It was incredible.”
She cleared her throat and lifted her chin, copying Zhao Lü Liu’s sweet, brazen tone with perfect cruelty.
“Good Buddhist Scion, you’re like an immortal. If one day you return to lay life, take a wife, and enter the bridal chamber… on that long night, will you chant scripture with madam, or perform the rites every mortal performs?”
Chun Cao stared, horrified, mouth falling open wide enough to fit an egg.
“Heavens! A proper young lady dared to say that in front of so many people?”
“Not a word off,” Lin Yu Ning swore, thumping her chest. “You should’ve seen Big Aunt’s face. Green as pond moss. Spectacular.”
The two of them laughed until their stomachs hurt, tears bright at the corners of their eyes.
The next day, dawn again.
A gatekeeper came sprinting into the First Madam’s courtyard, feet pounding, breath thin with urgency.
“Reporting to the First Madam! Outside the residence there’s a Miss Zheng. She says she’s Zheng Xiu Yun—your cousin’s daughter on your natal side. She’s come to seek refuge!”
The First Madam had been pressing her throbbing temple, exhausted from worrying over her son. At the report, her spirit snapped awake.
“Bring her in. Quickly.”
Not long after, a young lady in a water-green dress was led inside.
She was slender, the fabric washed pale with wear, making her waist look fragile enough to snap. Her brows knit softly, mist clinging to her eyes. Even her steps were careful, as if a breeze might topple her.
She bowed the moment she entered. When she spoke, her voice was gentle enough to melt sugar.
“Aunt, I hope you are well. Xiu Yun came without permission and has disturbed you. Please don’t blame me.”
Her posture was faultless. Her manners were perfect.
The First Madam hurried to lift her, holding her hands as she studied her face, eyes softening.
“Good child. Get up. How is your mother? We played together when we were young. We were very close. Later she married far away, and we haven’t met for years. Is she well?”
Zheng Xiu Yun’s eyes reddened immediately. She took out a plain handkerchief and dabbed delicately at the corner of her eye.
“Aunt… Mother—she… she passed away about half a year ago.”
“Before she died, she took out a token tied to you and told me that if I couldn’t stay at home, I should come to the capital and find you.”
The First Madam’s chest tightened.
She remembered that cousin—same age, same temperament, laughter shared like candy. Now she was gone, separated forever.
Zheng Xiu Yun offered up an old sachet. Two twin lotus blossoms were stitched on it in clumsy thread, uneven but unmistakably earnest.
Her tears fell at exactly the right moment.
And as she lowered her head, behind the handkerchief, her eyes flashed—cold, measuring, weighing how deep the First Madam’s pity truly ran.
The First Madam recognized the sachet at once. It was something she and her cousin had stitched together when they first learned, their needlework messy, careless, and entirely theirs.
Her heart softened completely.
She drew Zheng Xiu Yun closer and asked what had happened at home, one question leading into another.
It turned out that what Zheng Xiu Yun meant by “couldn’t stay” was this: her father had remarried and now wanted to marry her off to a poor scholar from a humble family, promising that once he passed the imperial exams, he would support the household.
Once he passed.
As if success could be scheduled like a market day.
It reeked of the new madam’s plan—send her away quickly, be rid of her.
Zheng Xiu Yun, confident in her beauty and talent, refused to be traded for a vague future. So she took her mother’s token and traveled all the way to the capital.
The First Madam listened with growing pity and decided on the spot.
“Prepare the best guest room. Let her stay. Tell her to treat this place as her home.”
When Zheng Xiu Yun was led away by a maid, Matron Zhou finally stepped forward, voice low.
“Madam… forgive this old servant, but this Miss Zheng… her eyes don’t feel right.”
The First Madam skimmed her tea slowly, the lid tapping porcelain with a soft, lazy sound. A calculating smile tugged at her mouth.
“I can tell.”
“Then why…”
“I want Qing Xuan to see different young ladies,” the First Madam said, setting the cup down with a firm clack. “I want him to stop keeping his eyes on Yao Xiao Man alone.”
“Once he’s seen enough—once he has choices—he won’t cling to a lowly maid.”
Matron Zhou’s mouth opened. Then closed.
She swallowed her advice and cursed quietly in her heart. Whatever possessed the First Madam to think this would work?
Perhaps this was what people meant by being too deep in it to see clearly.
After entering the residence, Zheng Xiu Yun behaved with perfect “obedience.”
Every day she either went to greet the First Madam, offering warmth and sympathy, or stayed in her courtyard doing needlework. She didn’t wander.
Only—her courtyard had been arranged directly along the path to the Auspicious Cloud Residence.
So she always managed to “happen” to be strolling under the corridor when Lin Qing Xuan returned, shyly bowing as if she’d merely been passing by.
Or she would “happen” to pause by a blooming crabapple near the Auspicious Cloud Residence gate, frowning faintly in a way that begged for pity.
After several days, she finally caught something worth sinking her teeth into.
One afternoon, she lingered outside the Auspicious Cloud Residence again, “admiring flowers.” A voice drifted from the study window.
“Your hand is sore?”
Lin Qing Xuan’s voice—cool, even, calm.
“Obviously,” Xiao Man complained, lazy and oddly intimate. “I’ve copied the Heart Sutra thirteen times! Buddhist Scion, have mercy and let me rest…”
Zheng Xiu Yun’s heart tightened. She crept closer and peered through a window crack.
Inside, Lin Qing Xuan held the brush, dipped it in ink, then placed it directly into Xiao Man’s hand.
“The fourteenth copy,” he said. “I’ll recite. You write.”
Xiao Man let out a long, suffering groan—yet the next moment, Lin Qing Xuan’s hand covered her wrist, steady and large, guiding her across the paper.
Sunlight spilled through the carved lattice, stretching their overlapping silhouettes across the floor. His broad sleeve brushed her faded rough cloth—once, then again.
The scene was quiet.
It was also, inexplicably, unbearable to watch.
Zheng Xiu Yun’s nails dug into her palm until she nearly drew blood.
That night, she stood in her room and smashed a teacup to the floor. Porcelain exploded into shards.
She stared at her reflection in the bronze mirror—pretty, sorrowful, fragile—and then smiled, cold as winter.
“Yao Xiao Man,” she whispered, “if you can seduce him, why can’t I?”
She yanked open her makeup box and rummaged to the very bottom, pulling out a small white-jade porcelain bottle. The label had been torn away, but a trace of bright red powder still clung to the rim.
Spring Wind Intoxicant.
She had bought it before leaving home, paying dearly to a brothel old maidservant.
Meanwhile, Xiao Man had no idea anything was coming. She yawned over a stack of copied scripture, eyes watering.
“Tomorrow’s rest day,” she muttered. “Buddhist Scion, please don’t torment me again…”
Lin Qing Xuan lifted his gaze, eyes settling on her tired but lively face.
“Rest day?”
“It’s written on the countdown board!” Xiao Man snapped back at once, righteous as a judge. She pointed toward the corner. “One day off every ten days—you promised that yourself, Buddhist Scion. Don’t you dare go back on it.”
His eyes followed her finger to the stone countdown plaque. Beneath “180 days,” someone had added “rest day” in crooked charcoal, with a tongue-out ghost face drawn beside it—shameless and smug.
Lin Qing Xuan’s gaze darkened.
Outside the window, unseen, a thread of black qi quietly curled around the hem of Zheng Xiu Yun’s skirt, circling with eager delight as it grew.