Wen Liu

It had been three months since I entered the temple to pray for the Late Emperor’s soul, yet my husband, Zhou Yang, had not sent the feigned death medicine as promised. He offered nothing but excuses: “Back then, the sovereign stole a subject’s wife. I did indeed promise that I would bring you back to our manor once the Late Emperor passed. “But the Young Highness who just ascended the throne is cold and ungrateful, and his ruthless methods have left me with quite a headache in court. “My dear Ah Liu, I have my own unavoidable difficulties. I only ask that you be understanding-just a little more understanding.” When the Late Emperor had originally forced me into the palace, I would have rather slit my own throat than submit. It was Zhou Yang, with his reddened eyes and his pleas of “my wife, please be understanding,” who made my heart soften. But now, he couldn’t even be bothered to weave a convincing lie to deceive me. Beneath the downcast, merciful eyes of the Bodhisattva above, I rubbed the agarwood prayer beads on my wrist and softly asked the person behind me, “Zhou Yang says the Young Highness is cold, ungrateful, and ruthless. Is that true?” Aunt Yun carefully combed my hair, smiling as she recalled the past within the palace walls. “Her Ladyship truly has the memory of a noble; you’ve forgotten how the Young Highness used to hide in your arms and cry whenever he felt wronged.”