Chapter 47: Burning Incense

The more someone who usually treats the world with cynical indifference speaks seriously on occasion, the more unexpected it feels. Especially when he is so strikingly handsome—his eyes are exquisitely shaped like peach blossoms, the corners tilting upward, marked by a tear mole, yet they hold no watery gleam. Instead, his pupils shine like stars, a deep smoky black, and when he fixes his gaze on someone, it feels as if even their soul might be drawn in.

Even after spending many days with him, Lingbo found herself momentarily breathless.

But she, having seen through the illusions of love, quickly retracted her attention like a southern sparrow fleeing a miasma, or a desert fox breaking free from shifting sands.

“There’s a question I’ve wanted to ask you for a long time,” Lingbo said with a smile. “What does it feel like to be so beautiful, Pei Zhao?”

Pei Zhao smiled as well.

There was a kind of ease about him, the kind only someone accustomed to beauty could possess. He never worried about his clothes or his demeanor. At that moment, reclining back in his chair, he leaned his face close to Lingbo’s and asked, “Then, what does it feel like to look at someone as handsome as me?”

It was a dim winter afternoon. The sky was overcast, and with the lights on indoors, it was the worst light for appearances. Yet, even under such light, his face gleamed smooth as silk. His head was sculpted like a divine statue crafted by a master artisan, his skin stretched tight over this flawless image with no blemish.

Drawing near, Lingbo caught the scent of fresh grass on him. She knew he must have just come from the stables. The thought was somewhat despairing—someone so handsome, and even the scent of horse hay on him smelled like priceless incense.

He calmly let Lingbo examine him—from those peach blossom eyes to his high nose bridge and the faintly smiling thin lips shaped like a bow, both delicate and spirited, utterly flawless.

“Your mother must have been a beauty,” Lingbo concluded. “Was your father handsome too?”

“Probably,” Pei Zhao replied lazily. “I haven’t seen much of him.”

“No wonder Xi Shi was just a washerwoman. Sometimes, the sons of noble families aren’t as good-looking as common folk,” Lingbo mused.

“That’s because there are so many commoners. Most city dwellers are too busy struggling to survive to care about looks; they’re usually drab and dull…” Pei Zhao corrected her.

Lingbo, who often found honest words hard to swallow, immediately narrowed her eyes.

“Are you lecturing me? I know plenty of commoners. I even manage a shop and an estate. I’m no sheltered lady ignorant of the world.”

Pei Zhao laughed at once.

“Alright, alright, my mistake. You’re right, miss, got it!” he teased.

Lingbo laughed too.

“You’ve never received an imperial edict, so how do you know how to say ‘got it’ so well?”

“There was a celebration banquet at the palace earlier. We were summoned to attend, and the eunuchs delivering the orders said it just like that.”

“You’re good at learning these useless things,” Lingbo said, sitting atop a brazier, taller than him, kicking his leg lightly while peering at the ledger. “By the way, how was the palace feast? I heard the imperial kitchen’s golden belly is the real deal, supplied by the Maritime Affairs Department, renewed year after year, without a hint of rancidity. No matter how good the best we buy among the commoners is, it can’t compare. Is that true?”

Pei Zhao replied lazily, “I didn’t eat.”

“Why not?” Lingbo asked.

“Didn’t feel like it,” he said. “Wasn’t it when Wei Yushan blocked your way? I went with Cui Jingyu to watch the commotion. Afterward, they went to the banquet, but I found it cold and just went back to camp.”

Lingbo looked at him with exasperation.

“Of course you can’t get on the high stage. So many people never get to attend a palace banquet in their lifetime, and you just turn back.”

Pei Zhao didn’t get angry, only smiled softly. He wasn’t really from a commoner background, but his usual lazy demeanor made him seem like a cat. When Lingbo spoke, he replied; when she was silent, he leaned back in his chair like a beautiful ornament, adding a splash of color to the dull winter afternoon, making even the ledger less tedious.

He was lazy; Lingbo was diligent. She had spent the entire afternoon handling countless matters. Fortunately, Lady Yang came in with replies—first to review the finalized New Year’s Eve feast menu, then to arbitrate a quarrel between two young servants fighting over a task, and later to bring gifts from Lord Ye’s disciples, asking if they should be announced at the other courtyard.

Lingbo managed each matter with ease and grace, while Pei Zhao listened and teased her, “Miss Ye, so busy with state affairs.”

“Don’t tempt me to hit you,” Lingbo said with disdain.

Yet she understood why Pei Zhao was here.

When he mentioned his parents, it seemed they were no longer around. The Northern Garrison had been gradually merged into the capital’s defense forces, allowing soldiers to return home for the New Year. But he probably had no home to return to, especially since the Peaceful Neighborhood had been reassigned by the Princess to another place.

No matter how cynical one was, even on New Year’s Day in the heavy snow of the capital, everyone yearned to warm themselves by a familiar hearth.

So Lingbo let him stay until dusk, sending out for dinner and asking, “You don’t have any dietary restrictions, do you?”

“Miss Ye even grants me dinner. I’m truly grateful,” Pei Zhao teased again.

“Stop joking,” Lingbo said with annoyance. “Finish eating and then go back. Don’t drink, and don’t wander in the snow.”

“As you command.”

“Oh, and one more thing,” Lingbo called after him as he was leaving. “Come by at noon on New Year’s Day—I have something to ask you.”

Once Pei Zhao left, the entire warm chamber felt empty. Lingbo wrote in the ledger for a while but soon grew bored and rose. Xiao Liu’er stood nearby and asked, “Miss, what do you need?”

Lingbo said nothing, only pacing the room. For some reason, she felt dispirited. Catching her reflection in the ornate mirror, she gave a self-mocking smile.

Pei Zhao would never understand why she asked him what it felt like to be beautiful.

Beautiful people were all like that—they never took their beauty seriously.

Just as A’cuo would never know that Lingbo should not have brought her to the front courtyard today.

Among those disciples of her father, only two had returned to the capital as officials: one in red robes named Qi Xiangyong, the other in green robes named Zou Maolin. Qi Xiangyong’s parents had both passed away; he had lived with his uncle, who was stingy and harsh, so when his mother was alive, he spent half the year at the Ye family’s home. Zou Maolin was known for his good character and premature maturity.

The twenty-four seasonal winds and the peach and apricot blossoms still understood the east wind’s embrace. Lingbo was not without plans.

But her plans lacked force.

Last year, there had been a similar occasion. She had carefully arranged a gathering, even read two of Zou Maolin’s essays to understand his tastes and family background, knowing he liked people to wear green. Yet at the first meeting, he was taken with A’cuo. The previous year, it had been Qinglan.

Youthful admiration—words Lingbo had scribbled on paper as a child but only now understood. Desire for beauty is a natural human trait. Even when one carefully considers who is the best match, the first glance of attraction is beyond control.

She had never been pretty, barely delicate. The man she would marry might not care for her at all. It would be a union of equal status, mutual respect, proper age, and decent conditions—typical for a noble lady, but still disheartening.

She would never possess Qinglan’s youthful romantic feelings, nor the mutual understanding of hearts. No one would look at her like Cui Jingyu looked at Qinglan, as if she held supreme power over him, as if his heart was hers to command, as if every future he imagined included her.

If she had already seen this outcome, why did she feel so melancholic? Why did she not refuse when A’cuo wanted to come along?

Perhaps she still harbored a hope—to be truly loved by someone.

Lingbo looked at her reflection and smiled wryly.

She really should have drawn a few lines on Pei Zhao’s face; after all, he wouldn’t care.

That fellow was even more wasteful than Shen Biwei—possessing everything enviable yet never caring at all.

But no matter how gifted, on the long, cold winter nights of the capital, returning alone to an empty home was still hard to bear.

“Xiao Liu’er, tell Liu Ji to send a box of lotus flower pastries from the kitchen to Pei Zhao, and bring a pot of wine,” Lingbo instructed. “If the snow gets heavy, he shouldn’t come back tonight.”

Xiao Liu’er’s eyes lit up instantly.

“Understood, I’ll tell my brother right away.”

—

On December 29th, Qinglan went up the mountain to burn incense.

Cien Temple was actually quite small, nestled in a remote wooded hill on the outskirts of the capital. The hill wasn’t high, and the scenery was unremarkable. The only notable thing was that when Lady Ye was still alive, she had once brought Qinglan here for a visit and shared a vegetarian meal at the temple.

Qinglan, the eldest and most sensible, was not as burdened as Lingbo, nor as clingy as Yanyan, so Lady Ye mostly focused on the younger two. That rare moment of solitary time left Qinglan with a lasting memory of holding her mother’s hand as they entered the temple’s meditation hall—the damp chill of the ancient trees, and the fresh fragrance of gardenia blossoms in the courtyard.

But as family affairs grew busy, she always came at year’s end, missing the gardenias in bloom.

She burned several long incense sticks, offering a year’s worth of lamp oil. The temple nuns, familiar with this devotee, noted that this year she burned one less stick. One nun hesitated before saying, “Miss, you’ve burned incense for four years now. To stop halfway is a pity. It’s best to see things through.”

Qinglan said nothing. The nun, feeling she had spoken out of turn, whispered, “Did something happen to the one you pray for? Perhaps you should ask the Bodhisattva to protect him, so misfortune might turn to blessing.”

“No misfortune,” Qinglan replied calmly. “He has returned.”

When the twenty-four seasonal wind banquet ended, he would have a wife worthy of him—the March Marquis’s lady—praying daily for his safety.

This incense was not hers to burn.

Just like her relationship with him—it had a beginning but no end.