Xie Miao’er was still unable to extricate herself from the shock.
The victor of history, the next emperor who redressed Lu Huaihai’s grievances at the beginning of his reign, was Emperor Xuanle, whose courtesy name was Chenglan.
Courtesy names1 were typically used by peers of the same generation, but who among peers dared to call an emperor by his courtesy name? Therefore, most emperors simply didn’t have courtesy names, sparing their subjects from having yet another name to avoid mentioning out of reverence.
But this emperor was different. His behavior was unconventional and absurd; he often referred to his ministers as brothers, forbade his concubines from addressing him as “Emperor,” insisting they use his courtesy name instead. When reviewing memorials, he didn’t use the imperial seal but rather stamped them with his own small personal seal.
That’s why Xie Miao’er had a deep impression of this particular courtesy name.
Could it be a coincidence?
But…
In an instant of sudden clarity, all the previously incomprehensible historical details clicked into place.
Xie Miao’er remembered clearly that Emperor Xuanle was the seventh son of the current emperor. Because his birth mother had fallen out of favor, he was sent to the secondary capital at the age of three under the pretense of “clashing fates.” For unknown reasons, he later wandered through the Jianghuai region, drifting for many years before being summoned back to the capital at the age of twenty and granted the title of Prince An.
After returning to the capital, Prince An was almost immediately drawn into the battle for the crown prince’s position.
Or perhaps, that was precisely why the emperor had brought him back.
Lu Huaihai regarded him as a fellow townsman, and when he later rose to prominence, it was no surprise that people associated him with Prince An’s faction. During the years when Lu Huaihai faced the most suppression, it coincided with Prince An being at a disadvantage.
Xie Miao’er knew that the concept of “fellow townsmen” in the court had always been an unbreakable force. Where someone was born or served as an official determined regional ties and factional alliances. This phenomenon had persisted throughout all dynasties.
However, she had never understood why merely staying in the same place as Prince An made Lu Huaihai his fellow townsman. If that were the case, wouldn’t the entire Jianghuai region’s officials be considered Prince An’s supporters?
Now she finally understood.
Perhaps they had known each other long ago.
Under such circumstances, remaining neutral was impossible. If one didn’t take a side, they would end up ostracized by everyone.
The idea of a truly impartial official was a mere idealistic concept. Moreover, in the Yong Dynasty, the military’s influence was weaker than that of the civil officials. Without backing, one might find themselves taking the blame and losing their life unexpectedly.
But after realizing that Lu Huaihai and the future emperor were old acquaintances, Xie Miao’er felt even more frustrated and pained.
If he could have endured just a few more years, keeping a low profile until the other ascended the throne, wouldn’t he have had endless opportunities to realize his ambitions as long as he didn’t rebel?
Once caught up in the struggles for imperial power, things were far more complex than she had imagined…
Lost in thought, Xie Miao’er didn’t even notice the beaded curtain on the carriage window being rolled up in front of her, let alone hear what Lu Huaihai had said.
She didn’t catch a single word.
To Lu Huaihai, however, her expression conveyed a different meaning.
This was the first time she had shown such obvious nervousness and anxiety.
Who was she worrying about?
“What are you thinking about?” Lu Huaihai frowned, his tone unfriendly, snapping his fingers casually in front of her eyes.
Only then did Xie Miao’er pull herself out of her endless spiraling thoughts.
Her gaze revealed a complex mixture of emotions—regret, melancholy, and even faint traces of… disappointment?
Still not fully recovered from her earlier reflections, Xie Miao’er responded to Lu Huaihai in a stiff tone, “Nothing.”
Even stranger.
Lu Huaihai raised an eyebrow at her. “Xie Miao, you still haven’t answered my question just now.”
He sat there carelessly, left hand propped on his knee, while his right hand was already braced beside Xie Miao’er, trapping her in place. “You still haven’t told me—do you know that person from earlier or not?”
His words and posture carried such an aggressive edge that Xie Miao’er straightened her back, pressing the back of her head tightly against the carriage wall.
But Xie Miao’er wasn’t someone who responded well to pressure. She was already annoyed from thinking about how this man in front of her would one day disregard his own life for the sake of loyalty and justice.
Lifting her chin slightly, she uncharacteristically replied with a sharp tongue, “What if I do? What if I don’t?”
Seeing her attitude, Lu Huaihai became even more convinced that something was amiss. He let out a cold snort, his words dripping with sarcasm. “It’s got nothing to do with me, but I just worry some people don’t know good from bad and might be fooled by others.”
His remark left Xie Miao’er completely baffled. What “good or bad”? What “being fooled”?
Even if she had another brain, she wouldn’t have guessed that Lu Huaihai was feeling a misplaced sense of jealousy over an imaginary rival.
Still, although Xie Miao’er didn’t understand, she quickly calmed down.
Why was she wasting her energy fretting over something that hadn’t even happened yet? Besides, he carried the weight of his duty to the nation—her anger and frustration suddenly seemed unwarranted and out of place.
But Lu Huaihai had already withdrawn his arm, leaning back against the other side of the carriage with his arms crossed and his face turned away.
Xie Miao’er lightly poked his arm and said, “I don’t know him. I was just thinking about something else earlier, so I didn’t hear you speaking to me.”
Finally getting the answer he wanted, Lu Huaihai responded with a curt “Hmm” and said nothing more.
Having explained herself, Xie Miao’er let it go. She didn’t notice anything unusual about Lu Huaihai and instead turned her attention to the scenery outside the window.
It took three days for a fast horse to reach Hangzhou, let alone a horse-drawn carriage. To make good time, the driver urged the horses to move quickly, and after only a short while of watching the scenery outside, Xie Miao’er had to pull her head back in.
The constant jolting of the carriage left her feeling a bit dizzy.
Noticing that Lu Huaihai was still sitting in the same posture, Xie Miao’er grew curious and asked, “Aren’t you tired?”
Lu Huaihai ignored her.
It was then that Xie Miao’er realized something was off.
He didn’t talk much, but ignoring her completely like this was a first.
Before she had time to think further, the carriage suddenly jolted violently a few times. The driver called out from outside, “The road here is bumpy. Be careful, you two.”
Xie Miao’er, already leaning forward, was on the verge of throwing up. Lu Huaihai frowned and shouted toward the driver, “Slow down! It’s fine if we’re a couple of days late.”
Xie Miao’er had finally tasted the hardships of long-distance travel.
She clutched her chest as she consoled herself with a wry smile, thinking that her body was in good shape now. If this had been her past self, a few more jolts like this might have already sent her straight to the afterlife.
A tangerine fell from above, landing on her skirt. Xie Miao’er looked up, and though Lu Huaihai still didn’t glance at her, he said, “Press it down.”
The distinct citrus fragrance of the tangerine wafted through the air. Xie Miao’er took a deep breath and indeed felt significantly better.
She stole a glance at him and saw that, for some unknown reason, his entire posture remained rigid, like a steel plate. Not daring to provoke him further, she shrank herself into the corner.
Once she stopped looking outside, the dizziness subsided. Xie Miao’er curled up in the corner, not daring to move. Mimicking Lu Huaihai’s posture, she crossed her arms and leaned against the carriage wall. Before long, she dozed off.
It wasn’t clear how much time had passed, but the jolting sensation had disappeared. When Xie Miao’er groggily opened her eyes, the carriage had already come to a halt.
The curtain was lifted, revealing an unfamiliar scene outside. Instinctively, she grabbed the person beside her.
“Where are we?” she asked.
Lu Huaihai was about to stand up but paused when she pulled on him. He replied, “We can’t make it in one day. We’ll stay at a relay station tonight.”
His voice was still icy, making Xie Miao’er shiver. But then, something didn’t add up. Before she fell asleep, there had been a considerable distance between them, so how had she managed to grab him so easily now?
The fabric on his shoulder was even creased and wrinkled.
Realizing this, Xie Miao’er finally woke up completely. She grabbed onto the leather belt at Lu Huaihai’s waist, her eyes curving into a mischievous smile as she looked at him.
Caught by her gaze, Lu Huaihai froze for a moment before decisively prying her hand off his belt. He turned and practically fled the carriage.
Xie Miao’er stumbled a few steps forward as she followed him out. Amid the jostling, a pale green sachet fell from his sleeve.
The ink-like bamboo shadows embroidered on the sachet were all too familiar to Xie Miao’er.
Lu Huaihai didn’t notice and had already walked off.
But Xie Miao’er’s eyes lit up. Picking up the sachet, she awkwardly but quickly followed after him, shouting as she walked, “Shaoye, you dropped your sachet!”
—
Footnotes:
- Courtesy Name (表字): A name traditionally given to a Chinese individual upon reaching adulthood, used by peers or acquaintances of the same generation. It often reflects an aspect of the person’s character or aspirations. It was uncommon for emperors to have courtesy names because their status made it inappropriate for others to use them.