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As the final plucked notes of the pipa dissipated, the serving women gathered in the courtyard burst into applause.
“Simply splendid as always, milady!” Qiu Fen exclaimed. The other palace maids bobbed their heads in agreement.
Ling Mo Yan inclined her head in acknowledgement of the compliments, but she derived little pleasure from them. She didn’t doubt her maids’ sincerity—though they were duty-bound to appease her every whim, it was the consensus across every strata of the Xi You imperial court that the princess was a gifted musician. After all, she’d trained from a young age under the most esteemed masters. She devoted most of her spare hours to studying music, and as a seventeen-year-old girl on the cusp of womanhood, she was already composing her own songs. Even so, her love for the art and the acclaim it earned her couldn’t quite erase the ennui that had taken root inside of her. It had even crept into her musical creations.
For example, the original composition she’d just performed was technically competent, deftly combining classical musical structures with poetic lyrics, and it was plainly pleasing to the ear. However, it lacked a certain… something.
Frankly, the same could be said of the entire imperial court itself. Commoners might envy Ling Mo Yan’s pampered lifestyle, but she yearned for a different existence nonetheless. For all the comforts the court offered, there was little true happiness to be found here, only rules, rules, and more rules, each one a string rendering her a mere puppet acting out a script written for her before she was even born. Since Ling Mo Yan wasn’t in the direct line of succession, she would be educated in the ways of a proper noblewoman until she was eventually married off as a political pawn. Though the women of the Xi You imperial family were compared to phoenixes, they were scarcely better than pet songbirds, trading the cage they were born and raised in for the cage they would die in, with no freedom to ever truly spread their wings.
Without meaning to, she let out a deep sigh.
The delight on Qiu Fen’s face quickly morphed into concern. “What’s wrong, Your Highness?”
“Oh, it’s nothing. I’m simply tired.” There was no sense in venting about this particular discontent to her maids, who were also acting out their own assigned roles. It would only rub her privileged status in their faces.
Unfortunately, instead of being pacified by her comment, they began fussing over her. The royal family members were known for being prone to ailments of both body and mind—rumored to be the curse of a demoness who had seduced the emperor many generations ago. Regardless of the reason, if her condition took a turn for the worse, her servants would likely face punishment for negligence.
Thus, she didn’t protest when the women ushered her back to her bedchamber and arranged for the imperial kitchen to send over soup with medicinal infusions.
When she finally had some semblance of privacy, she reached under her pillow to retrieve the book stowed there. It was the latest volume in a popular novel series that she’d badgered her maids into smuggling to her despite knowing that the stuffier sorts at court considered such books vulgar entertainment for the lower classes.
This particular novel series featured an orphaned young swordsman named Wu Ji who got caught up in all sorts of adventures while wandering the jianghu. The most recent installment saw Wu Ji breaking into the imperial palace in search of a forbidden weapon stored in the palace vaults. While on the run from the guards, he snuck into a building in the rear palace that just so happened to house one of the princesses. In a desperate attempt to hide, he wound up submerged in the princess’ bathtub with her in it.
The whole scenario was far-fetched and even a bit hare-brained since Wu Ji would have a hard time making his final escape while sopping wet, but there was a certain undeniable thrill to it. For better or for worse, such a salacious encounter was destined to exist only in the pages of fiction.
As she read on, a star-crossed romance blossomed between these two people who were brought together by fate but torn apart at the next juncture time and again. With nothing better to do, she spent the rest of the day devouring the volume and fell asleep dreaming of a dashing warrior who taught her martial arts and spirited her away from the imperial court.
***
Although no ruggedly handsome sword thief showed up in Ling Mo Yan’s bathtub in the following weeks, a different sort of unexpected development intruded upon the routine of her lackluster life in Phoenix Light Palace: a summons from the Crown Prince himself to perform for him in a private setting.
When she first received the news, she thought she’d misheard. Though the Crown Prince was her cousin through her maternal line and they were close in age, she’d never met him. At his birth, it was declared that he was touched by the gods and could not see anyone but his closest kin lest the land suffer catastrophe.
Some whispered conspiratorially that it was to hide some infirmity, but no one dared openly challenge an imperial edict for fear of losing their heads. For sixteen years, the Crown Prince had remained secluded from the world in a heavily guarded special residence in the rear palace that Ling Mo Yan only ever glimpsed in passing.
What could have inspired him to call on her? Was he simply bored out of his mind and in need of a diversion? Was he lonely and seeking companionship in one of the few people allowed in his presence? Was he trying to assess her usefulness as a future pawn for his political machinations? Whatever the case, she had no choice but to obey the summons.
On the day of the performance, her maids dressed her in an outfit gifted to her for the occasion. In contrast to the bright or pastel shades she typically wore, the dress was monochrome white. It looked more like mourning garb than anything fit for a normal occasion, but she kept the inauspicious and impudent thought to herself. Per the messenger’s instructions, her hair was styled less elaborately than usual, most of it down and loose except for two bundles on the sides that were braided and secured at the back using the white silk ribbon that came with the dress. With her pipa as her only accessory, she departed her residence for the appointment.
Qiu Fen escorted her only part of the way since she wasn’t permitted any further than the gate marking the sole entrance to the Crown Prince’s walled-off residential compound. For the rest of the journey, Ling Mo Yan was accompanied by a young man she recognized as the son of the current chancellor. She primarily remembered him for his uncanny resemblance to statues of the Laughing Buddha Budai, which had quickly become her mental nickname for him. His near-constant smile looked forced, more grimace than grin, as if to reassure people he wasn’t a threat to them, the way a dog flattens its ears and tucks its tail when faced with a more dominant canine. From what scant conversation they’d made in the past, it was clear he didn’t possess his father's political savvy or commanding presence. However, what he lacked in guile and grace, he made up for with sycophantic loyalty. As far as Ling Mo Yan could tell, he’d recently been appointed to serve the Crown Prince as little more than a glorified errand boy.
Despite Budai’s proximity to power, he wasn’t even allowed to interact with the Crown Prince face-to-face per the imperial edict. Once they arrived outside the place where Ling Mo Yan was supposed to perform, he prostrated himself before the closed doors and announced her presence in that squawking voice of his. Then, clambering to his feet, he shuffled out of the way so that the guards on either side of the entrance could open the doors for her.
She had barely crossed the threshold when the doors thudded shut behind her, leaving her to find her bearings in a dimly lit space. Unlike the grand halls typically used to host public events in the imperial court, this room was barely larger than her bedchamber. Directly ahead of her just a few paces away was an elevated platform with a row of bamboo curtains covering it from end to to end. A pair of lanterns somewhere behind the screen illuminated the area, allowing her to make out the silhouette of a broad-shouldered figure sitting there.
“Greetings, Your Highness,” she said with a bow. She’d practiced and executed the motion while cradling a pipa countless times before, but what if her grip failed her this time? Her hands had started sweating almost as soon as she had set foot in the room.
“You may rise.” His voice was surprisingly deep for a boy one year her junior. When he followed with “Take a seat,” she shivered. The room was a comfortable temperature, slightly cooler than outside where the afternoon sun shone on a warm spring day, but the Crown Prince sounded like an impassive, unreachable god. Her grip on her pipa tightened as she hugged it to her chest like a shield. Spying the chair that had been prepared for her off to the side, she sat down as instructed. The soft padding of the silk cushion did little to put her at ease.
“What shall I play for you, Your Highness?”
“You may choose whatever song you deem appropriate.”
It felt as if he were testing her, but what answers did he seek? Erring on the side of caution, she chose a classical poem that had been set to a melody and began her performance. She prayed she would not make any careless mistakes.
When she finally reached the end of the song, silence descended. While she hadn’t exactly expected enthusiastic applause, this lack of reaction still unsettled her. Since she couldn’t see the Crown Prince’s face, she was left with no inkling of his impression of her.
“If Your Highness is not satisfied, I can play a different song,” she ventured.
“No, that is enough. You are dismissed.”
“As you wish, Your Highness.” As she rose from her chair, her knees almost gave out, but she managed to catch herself and transition into a bow. She backed up toward the doors, which swung open to grant her a welcome escape from the foreboding presence of the Crown Prince.
Ling Mo Yan was never summoned to play for her cousin again, but soon after that performance, a momentous announcement set the court abuzz: the Crown Prince would be engaged to the princess of a neighboring tribute state. The actual wedding date was still some years away given their relatively young age, but the foreign princess was relocating to the Xi You imperial court in advance, set to arrive in a few months, just in time for the summer solstice celebration. Ling Mo Yan couldn't help but get swept up in the anticipation as well. As fellow princesses, perhaps they could become allies or even friends and confidants to each other. Coming from so far away, the foreign princess would likely appreciate someone who could help her adjust to the new environment.
Allegedly, the Crown Prince’s bride-to-be was a delicate beauty with hair like inky waterfalls who excelled at the four arts of the zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting. Yet no matter how lovely or learned this woman might be, Ling Mo Yan questioned whether she was prepared to be a match for that eerie young man set to inherit the throne of Xi You.
Due to the timing of the news, there was a part of Ling Mo Yan that wondered whether her performance for the Crown Prince a few weeks prior had actually been an audition for becoming his future consort, and this foreign princess had taken her place. If so, she did not envy her.
Despite knowing that an arranged marriage also awaited her, Ling Mo Yan longed for more than just a match made on paper, a cold calculation of the benefits for a family and a nation. She wanted to fall into the embrace of someone who stirred her heartstrings and made her whole being sing with rapture.
And so in spite of everything, Ling Mo Yan wondered whether—hoped, really—there might be a potential suitor for her among the entourage this foreign princess brought with her, a man who would fulfill her wish for a whirlwind romance of a lifetime. Only time would tell.
