A Precious Pearl in the Imperial City-Chapter 105

"No need. With these highly skilled ladies accompanying me, there’s nothing to worry about." Jiuzhu smiled. "Besides, Kirin Palace has many affairs that can’t do without you."

"Then you must be careful." Chunfen fastened a money pouch to Jiuzhu’s waist. "Return early."

"Don’t worry, Sister Chunfen." Jiuzhu picked up a wine jar from the table and stepped outside, addressing the guards. "I’ll trouble you ladies."

"It’s our duty, Your Highness. You’re too kind," the lead guard said, taking the jar from Jiuzhu’s hands. "After you."

The rain had yet to cease. Jiuzhu rode in a carriage to the outskirts, where withered grass blanketed the hills, and tender green shoots peeked through the cracks, trembling in the wind.

"Your Highness, we’ve arrived," a guard announced after sweeping the area for hidden threats.

Not far from the carriage stood a solitary grave. Were it not for the cut weeds atop it, one might mistake it for a mere mound of earth.

Jiuzhu opened an umbrella, cradled the wine jar, and approached the grave, carefully studying the weathered inscription. The name carved into the stone was barely legible: Changsheng.

Named for longevity, yet dead at nineteen.

Jiuzhu set the jar of peach-blossom wine before the tombstone. Raindrops slid down its surface, leaving trails like tears.

"My master said that chance encounters are fate. I heard Consort Dowager Zhao’s story and received her wine, so I came to see you in her stead." Jiuzhu handed the umbrella to a guard, plucked away the dead grass, lit incense, and hung a string of spirit money over the grave.

The tomb bore no offerings, nor traces of burnt paper—few had come to mourn him.

"The imperial physicians say Consort Dowager Zhao is gravely ill. She has lost the will to live." Jiuzhu crouched before the grave, watching the flames consume the paper offerings. "Don’t blame her. Under the weight of power, she had no choice."

"To stand firm for what your heart desires is remarkable." Jiuzhu fed the fire with more spirit money. "Both you and Her Highness are extraordinary. You died of heartbreak for her; she lived on for you. Sometimes, death is easy—living is the hard part."

"The world holds countless wonders. If there’s a next life…" Jiuzhu smiled faintly. "May you become husband and wife, bound in love, growing old together without doubt."

Despite the rain, the paper burned fiercely, like Changsheng’s undying love for Consort Dowager Zhao.

Her master once said she was unfit for the monastic path—her heart belonged to the mortal world. That was why, all these years, she stubbornly prayed before the gods for her benefactor, never learning to let go.

As the last embers faded, Jiuzhu mused that if anyone harmed His Highness, she might sooner perish with them than let them triumph.

She rubbed her face, dispelling the dark thoughts, and sighed. Her master was right—she truly lacked the temperament for asceticism.

"Your Highness, someone approaches."

Jiuzhu stood and turned to see a woman leading a little girl by the hand, a basket on her arm, struggling with a tattered oil-paper umbrella.

"Don’t stop her. I recognize her—she’s the storyteller from the teahouse."

The storyteller clutched her daughter tighter at the sight of noble carriages and armed guards in the wilderness. "W-who are you? What business do you have here?"

Had one of her tales displeased a patron? If so, they could simply stop listening—or pay her to change the story. Bringing guards to intimidate her was excessive.

This content is taken from freeweɓnovel.cѳm.

A storyteller’s life mattered too.

"Madam Storyteller." Jiuzhu stepped forward. "Do you remember me?"

Of course she did. This young lady’s patronage had made the Overbearing Prince series the talk of the capital.

Who could forget their benefactor?

"You jest, miss. How could I forget you?" The storyteller relaxed slightly, eyeing the entourage. "Are these your companions?"

"They’re escorts assigned by my family. They harm no innocents—you needn’t fear."

The storyteller loosened her grip on her daughter. "I see. Might I ask why you’ve come here?"

Her gaze fell on the wine jar and offerings at her great-uncle’s grave. "Did your family know him?"

"He was your great-uncle?" Jiuzhu studied her face for deceit before returning to the grave.

"Yes." The storyteller arranged her own offerings—paper flowers and stacks of spirit money—and lit them. "He died young. I never met him. My grandfather said he was betrothed to a winemaker’s daughter, but she was taken away by a noble. After that, he fell ill, calling her name until his last breath."

"Granduncle passed away before reaching his capping ceremony, leaving the elderly to bury the young. Since he never married nor had descendants, he couldn’t be buried in the ancestral tomb." The storyteller sighed. "To grant him a place in the family grave, my great-grandfather intended to have my eldest uncle’s child adopted under Granduncle’s name. But that very night, Granduncle appeared in his dream, pleading not to assign him another’s child—he only wished to have offspring with the brewer’s daughter."

"After my great-grandfather and great-grandmother passed, no one came to offer him incense anymore." The storyteller took a sickle from her basket and deftly cleared the fresh weeds from the grave. Her daughter trailed behind, gathering the cut grass.

"As a storyteller, I often weave tales of love and loss for my audience. When I learned of the real heartbreak in my own family, I couldn’t bear to leave him lying here alone." The storyteller approached the tombstone, her gaze lingering on the wine jar. "Besides, my husband is gone. His family claims a widow visiting graves brings ill fortune, while my own kin say a married daughter paying respects disrupts her brothers’ luck. No one can fault me for offering incense to him."

"He has no descendants to honor him, and I’m barred from honoring my other elders. So neither of us can judge the other." Noticing Jiuzhu holding an umbrella to shield her daughter from the rain, the storyteller smiled. "Thank you, miss."

"An elder in my family was an old acquaintance of the gentleman here." Jiuzhu handed the umbrella to the little girl and bent to unseal the wine jar. "This wine was specially brewed for him by that elder. Buried beneath a peach blossom tree for decades, it only saw daylight a few days ago. I took the liberty of bringing it to fulfill their wish."

The wine poured over the weathered tombstone, its fragrance enveloping the grave.

"Mother, it smells like peach blossoms," the little girl said, sniffing the air and eyeing the jar curiously.

The storyteller remained silent as Jiuzhu emptied the entire jar.

Once the jar was placed beside the tombstone, the storyteller spoke. "Miss, if it’s no trouble, could we ride back to the city with you?"

The guards assessed the storyteller but didn’t object.

"Of course," Jiuzhu replied warmly. "The roads are slippery in the rain. I’d worry about you two traveling alone."

"Thank you, miss." The storyteller bowed deeply.

Inside the carriage, two female guards seated themselves between Jiuzhu and the mother-daughter pair.

Throughout the journey, the storyteller didn’t inquire about Jiuzhu’s identity. Only upon disembarking did she suddenly say, "Miss, wait a moment. I have something Granduncle left behind. Please deliver it to your elder."

Jiuzhu nodded. "Very well."

After the storyteller and her daughter stepped away, the guards bowed to Jiuzhu. "We overstepped by entering the carriage without Your Highness’s permission. We await your reprimand."

"You boarded to protect me. There’s no fault in that." Jiuzhu smiled sweetly. "I appreciate your care."

The guards’ cheeks flushed at her kindness. "It’s our duty."

No wonder Prince Chen and Her Majesty the Empress adored the princess consort. Who wouldn’t love someone so gentle and understanding?

The storyteller soon returned with a faded wooden box.

She handed it to Jiuzhu. "Granduncle left little behind. This is all that remains. Please take it."

"My thanks, madam." Jiuzhu accepted the box without opening it.

"Nothing to thank me for." The storyteller gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Someone like me, who spins tales of parting and loss, can’t bear to see it in real life. I wish lovers could always stay together, promises never broke, and good souls never suffered. But life is a mix of bitter and sweet, long yet fleeting. Whatever comes, we endure."

"In three days, I’ll perform a story at the teahouse—about a domineering prince and a clever lady. If you have a favorite trope, I’ll weave it in." Her usual lively storyteller’s smile returned.

"Apologies, but I won’t be able to attend." Jiuzhu retrieved a silver ingot from her pouch and pressed it into the storyteller’s hand. "Let the prince and lady stay together forever, unshaken in their love. And grant the kind-hearted in your tales a happy ending."

"Done." The storyteller pocketed the silver. "I’ll tell it exactly as you wish."

Patrons were sovereign. With payment secured, any story would do.

Returning to the palace, Jiuzhu changed out of her plain dress and carried the box to the western quarters.

Outside Consort Dowager Zhao’s courtyard, she found several elderly consorts wiping tears. Spotting Jiuzhu, they hastily dried their eyes and forced smiles.

In the palace, even grief was taboo.

"Greetings, honored consorts." Jiuzhu curtsied, pretending not to notice their tears. "How is Consort Dowager Zhao?"

The highest-ranking consort shook her head slowly. "The imperial physician says… only days remain."

Jiuzhu’s heart sank. Glancing at the box in her hands, she lifted her skirts and hurried inside.

Hearing footsteps, the bedridden Consort Dowager Zhao murmured, "Is that Princess Consort Chen?"

"Your Highness, it is indeed Her Highness." The matron set down a medicine bowl, too preoccupied to bow. "She’s come to see you."

"Help me sit up." Consort Dowager Zhao extended a hand. After a hesitant pause, the matron obliged, propping her against the headboard.

"Your Highness." Jiuzhu sat by the window, ignoring the pallor of illness, and vividly described the sights beyond the palace walls. She even fetched a storybook and read aloud.

Consort Dowager Zhao listened quietly, a faint smile gracing her lips. When Jiuzhu finished, she turned toward the window. "Is it nearly dusk?"

"Still early." Jiuzhu chuckled. "Do keep me a while longer. With His Highness away, Kirin Palace is too dull alone."

"Very well, stay as long as you like." Pleased, Consort Dowager Zhao even ordered pastries served, her demeanor belying her condition.

Her eyes were clear, her spirits unusually high, her voice stronger than in days.

Noticing the chipped wooden box on Jiuzhu’s lap, her expression softened with nostalgia. Long ago, the boy she’d loved had crafted her such a box—for storing jewelry.

[I’ll give you one piece each year. By the time we’re surrounded by grandchildren, this box will be full.]

Jiuzhu stood and placed the worn box into her hands. "Open it."

Consort Dowager Zhao stared at it, trembling fingers tracing the peeling lacquer. For a long moment, she couldn’t speak.

She didn’t rush to lift the lid. Instead, she caressed every groove and pattern, as if memorizing its surface, before finally opening the box—its clasp long gone.

Inside the box lay only a lock of hair tied with a faded red string and a dusty wooden hairpin.

The red string had lost its vibrancy, but its owner had wrapped it around the hair so meticulously that even after years, the strands remained bound together.

"Bound hair for eternity..." Consort Dowager Zhao gently brushed her fingertip against the string, afraid that even the slightest pressure might unravel the fragile keepsake.

Her young love, her beloved.

Tears she thought had long dried up spilled onto the wooden hairpin. She hurriedly wiped them away with tender care, then tucked the hairpin into her silver-streaked hair. Turning to Jiuzhu, she asked, "Does it suit me?"

"It does." Jiuzhu leaned in to adjust the hairpin and nodded firmly. "Very much so."

"This hairpin... Changsheng made it himself." A faint smile touched Consort Dowager Zhao's lips. "That year, I teased him, saying I wanted a peach blossom hairpin—not one bought from a shop, but one he crafted with his own hands."

"He called me spoiled." She touched her temple lightly. "By the time I entered the palace, I still hadn’t seen that peach blossom hairpin. Turns out he had hidden it here all along."

The old maidservant stifled a sob behind her sleeve and quietly retreated to the outer chamber, not wanting the dowager to notice.

"Before I entered the palace, I cut off a lock of my hair and told him, 'Severed hair means severed love.' I urged him to find a woman he truly loved and live a happy life." Her lips curved upward, yet tears streamed down her cheeks. "But that fool... he cut his own hair and placed it with mine."

In folk tradition, on their wedding night, a bride and groom would each cut a lock of hair and bind them together—a symbol of unbreakable unity.

"Does anyone visit his grave?" Consort Dowager Zhao’s gaze was clear as she looked at Jiuzhu.

"Yes." Jiuzhu nodded. "A younger relative pays respects to him every year."

"That’s good." The dowager murmured softly. "That’s good."

Her life had been ordinary and dim, yet in Changsheng’s eyes, she had always shone with the brightest light.

"I brought the peach blossom wine you brewed to his grave," Jiuzhu said gently. "I’m sure he loved it."

"Jiuzhu, thank you." Consort Dowager Zhao clasped her hand tightly, gazing at her for a long moment before finally releasing her. "Go now. Your prince will soon return home."

"As for me... I’d like to sit quietly with Changsheng for a while."

"Of course." Jiuzhu rose and bowed deeply in respect before turning toward the door.

"Jiuzhu." The dowager called out to her.

Jiuzhu quickly turned back.

"In the imperial records, I am merely 'Consort Zhao.'" She smiled. "But before entering the palace, I had a name—Taohua."

Peach blossoms radiant, their brilliance unmatched.

When Prince Chen returned to Kirin Palace and didn’t find Jiuzhu in the courtyard, he headed straight to their chambers.

A candle flickered inside, but his beloved "Little Pig" sat curled up in the dimmest corner, hugging her knees like a drenched puppy nursing some unseen sorrow.

His heart clenched at the sight. Rushing to her side, he asked, "Jiuzhu, what’s wrong?"

"Your Highness." She lifted her face to him, eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"What happened? Who upset you?" He brushed away the moisture at the corner of her eye, softening his voice to the gentlest tone as he pulled her into his arms. Stroking her back, he murmured, "Tell me. I’ll make it right."

This little pig of his—he couldn’t bear to even raise his voice at her.

"My heart aches." Jiuzhu shook her head, her voice small and weary. "No one wronged me."

Prince Chen sat down and settled her onto his lap. "Then tell me why your heart aches. Let me cheer you up."

She ​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​​‌‌​​‌​‌​‌‌​​​‌​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​‌​‌​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​​​​‌‌​​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌​​‌‌​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌​​‌‌​‌‌‌​‌‌​​​​‌‍nestled against his chest, silent.

If only the late emperor hadn’t been so cruel, so many innocent women wouldn’t have been forced into the palace.

When she didn’t speak, he didn’t press. Instead, he rocked her gently, patting her back as if soothing a distraught child.

A man known for his impatience, yet in her presence, his tenderness knew no bounds.

"Your Highness, Your Grace." Yang Yiduo’s hushed voice came from beyond the door. "Word has just arrived from the western palace—Consort Dowager Zhao has passed."