May Day: The Prince Has Issues

Fourteenth day of the seventh lunar month. The moon was full and bright in the heavens, its silvery light spilling over the prince’s mansion, gathered with orioles and swallows, casting a dazzling spell of prosperity and grandeur.

“How did you end up here as well?” Mo Han, as always, was gracious and unpretentious.

Lingran felt a little petty by comparison, but now Mo Han was the mistress, and she herself a maid. Too much familiarity might look like currying favor, so she simply replied, “Thanks to the grace of the Twelfth Lady.”

Mo Han arched her delicate brows, but Lingran had no wish to debate the matter here. She turned instead to observe the other ladies, whose ranks she could not yet distinguish.

The four women were all young—none appeared over twenty. Some were charmingly petite, others dressed with the extravagance of an empress. They each had their maids set floating lanterns, and so, eleven women waited together in the gentle glow.

“If you are free tomorrow, come visit me at Moon-Viewing Pavilion. We sisters can have a talk,” Mo Han invited.

Lingran did not commit herself, only smiled faintly in response and withdrew behind Liang Qingcheng.

Standing quietly aside had its advantages: one could observe the subtle glances and fleeting expressions of everyone present. Though the ladies chatted and admired the scenery, their eyes often drifted toward the nearby red walls. Within was silence, broken only by the sight of treetops and a glimpse of golden rooftops, softly lit—presumably the Hall of Tranquil Remembrance, where Chu Yu resided.

The ladies whispered among themselves. Of all present, the most spirited was the Consort Fang, and the most melancholy a girl whose beauty was as delicate and wan as Lin Daiyu from the old tales: arched brows like smoke, soulful eyes, and even her demeanor matched the literary image. She spoke to no one, standing alone on the bridge, gazing up at the bright moon.

A girl like her was never meant to be a concubine—she’d probably waste away from heartache in no time! Lingran nearly wanted to recite, “A lonely crane’s shadow crosses the cold pond, the cold moon buries the spirit of fallen flowers.”

After a while, a maid finally appeared at the corner of the red wall, running as she called out, “He’s coming! He’s coming!” Her excitement was palpable.

The man whose arrival was so eagerly awaited was, without suspense, Prince Xiang—Chu Yu.

Normally, the sight of such a peerless beauty would have made Lingran sit up with interest. But tonight, she could only stifle a yawn.

So dull! Not a hint of surprise. Couldn’t there be something unexpected for once? She grumbled inwardly.

From afar, a cold, piercing gaze struck like lightning.

…Of course, that was probably her imagination. At such a distance, he surely couldn’t have noticed her. She kept reassuring herself.

Yet Lingran couldn’t help but admire her two new mistresses. For tonight, even the infamous, wicked Prince came dressed in Daoist robes. The three of them were, in effect, wearing matching outfits.

He wore pristine white Daoist garb, even sporting cloud-patterned shoes. His tall, athletic frame gave every stride the bearing of a swordsman from an immortal’s tale—though with a touch more enchantment than any immortal she’d read about.

The women, seeing him, seemed to lose their very souls. Silence fell, enveloping even the maids.

Only as he drew closer did someone regain her wits. Consort Fang hurried past the others to greet him, her tone syrupy sweet, “Your Highness.” She bowed gracefully.

Lingran was curious how this icy prince would conduct himself among his women—would he remain as frosty as ever?

All the women bent in courtesy. Lingran was a beat slower, but she quickly knelt, a little lower than the rest, stealing a peek at Chu Yu’s expression from behind Liang Qingcheng.

Truly, he was a block of eternal ice!

He ignored them all—his eyes held only the cold clarity of wind and moon, his proud nose lending him an even more aloof elegance. He walked past as if strolling alone in the courtyard.

To him, these concubines were but shadows on the air; but the women swarmed after him like flies. Even Zigao and another young page, following close behind, were jostled aside and barely managed to make room.

Consort Fang was first, trailing after him, speaking: “Your Highness, my brother has recommended a Taoist priest who communes with spirits. I’d like to invite him tomorrow to perform a ritual for the Dowager, to ease wandering souls…”

Before she could finish, Chu Yu glanced coldly at her and said, “Troublesome.”

Chastened, Consort Fang fell silent, her steps faltering until the rest caught up with her.

Most of the concubines stifled laughter. The maids were left behind, clustering together in a knot.

Next, Sun Min spoke mildly, “Your Highness, I have ordered the same offerings as in previous years—paper garments, ritual wine, and food. If anything is lacking, please instruct us.”

Chu Yu nodded with a single “Mm.”

This small acknowledgment emboldened many. Several women vied for his attention, but Liang Qingcheng was quickest, adopting a coy air: “Your Highness, for the Dowager’s blessing, I have kept sleepless vigils, copying the ‘Medicine Buddha Sutra,’ the ‘Sutra for Resolving Grievances,’ and the ‘Surangama Sutra’ for the Buddha Hall’s burning tomorrow.”

Chu Yu gave another “Mm.”

“Your Highness, will you go to Baiyun Monastery for the ritual tomorrow? May I accompany you? I wish to pray for the Dowager’s blessing, and for a protective charm for you as well.” This time, it was a woman in the distinctive dress of the Miao people—Chen Mengjie, the Ninth Lady, adopted daughter of General Chen You, a trusted commander of Chu’s. She was not born a Chen; her sworn sister, Chen Yao, was a concubine in the Chu family—both Miao women, rumored to be skilled in seductive arts.

Within moments, Lingran had caught a dozen unfamiliar terms: paper garments, ritual wine, Daoist rites… Her head spun. With so many consorts, she couldn’t tell one from another and longed to shut her eyes and ears, to find peace.

At Chen Mengjie’s half-coquettish, half-flirtatious invitation, Chu Yu remained unmoved. The others were not content, several chimed in, “Take me with you, Your Highness!”

“Your Highness, I wish to come too!”

Amidst the confusion, Chu Yu suddenly halted and turned, his silken Daoist robe billowing, a white mist seeming to swirl about him.

Lingran guessed it was just dust from his sweeping stride (how anticlimactic!).

At last, a clear expression crossed the face of the eternal ice prince.

It was utter impatience. Though his peerless features remained unchanged, the chill he emitted could have been felt by a child of three.

Foolish women! Lingran thought. If I wanted to win his favor, I’d never do it this way. All at once—what’s the point? I’ve long since resolved not to warm myself by his coldness, and what a wise decision it was!

All the women sensed the prince’s displeasure. Not only did they not dare approach, several even shrank back.

Zigao and the other page finally squeezed through.

Chu Yu spoke: “During the memorial, none of you are to disturb me.”

“Your Highness!” Consort Fang, heedless, called out in a wheedling tone.

Chu Yu did not look back. With Zigao, he strode away. The other page spread his arms, barring the women from crossing the bridge, smiling apologetically: “The prince has spoken. If you wish to pay your respects to the Dowager, please wait till he’s finished his rites.”

Lingran could barely contain her laughter and quickly covered her mouth.

Suddenly, a curious and amusing question occurred to her: with so many concubines, why had she never heard that Chu Yu had any children? Medically speaking, could it be that Chu Yu himself was the source of the problem?

She quietly delighted in her own daring thoughts, laughing inwardly until her stomach ached.