The autumn was bleak, and the Confucian temple stood in dilapidated silence.
The temple was half-abandoned, its caretaker nowhere to be found. Old Master Yang pushed open the creaking door and was greeted by the rhythmic sound of a loom. The stone floors inside had been swept clean, with half-dried vegetables laid out to dry.
Under the eaves, an elderly woman with graying hair worked at her loom, its wooden frame creaking with each movement. Old Master Yang’s expression grew distant, as if seeing the ghost of his long-departed mother.
In his youth, his mother had woven cloth day after day beneath their own eaves to pay for his schooling.
"Elder sir, have you come to offer incense?" Shen's Mother paused her weaving. "The caretaker isn’t here, but you may light incense yourself."
Old Master Yang, a man of simple habits, dressed plainly and appeared no different from any other elderly passerby.
He did not reveal his identity, merely nodding calmly. "Indeed, I’ve come to pay respects to Confucius."
With slow steps, he entered the main hall. Though the statues of the sages were worn, they had been dusted meticulously. After lighting incense, his gaze drifted to a few old books and sheets of calligraphy paper drying on the windowsill.
The book covers were frayed, the pages yellowed and mended in many places. Old Master Yang opened one at random and found meticulous annotations—clear, insightful, and thoughtfully arranged. He then picked up a sheet of coarse paper, the kind prone to ink smudges. On it was an essay critiquing "The Policies of Emperors."
Though flawed in places, the analysis was sharp and profound. At the bottom was a signature: Shen Xiuming.
"A thinker with promise," Old Master Yang mused, stroking his beard.
He set the papers down and wandered the temple grounds. The complex was small—just the main hall and five side rooms. Near one of these, he spotted a young scholar seated at a desk, carefully turning the brittle pages of an ancient text.
Old Master Yang cleared his throat deliberately, but Shen Xiuming remained absorbed. After a while, the scholar reached absently for his teacup—only to drink two mouthfuls of ink without noticing, his eyes never leaving the book.
Amused, Old Master Yang left quietly.
Outside, his round-faced servant Qinghe returned from gathering news.
"Master, I’ve learned about the mother and son in the temple. Ah, that old woman weaving cloth—her life is hard. Her eldest son died at the border, her eldest daughter was recently divorced, her younger daughter sold herself as a concubine, and her youngest, the scholar, studies day and night. She weaves to keep food on the table."
"Yet she’s kind-hearted. Even in hardship, she helps neighbors in need."
Old Master Yang stroked his beard, deep in thought.
The autumn air was crisp, and osmanthus blossoms speckled the courtyard like grains of rice, their fragrance drifting through the garden. Shen Wei sat in the pavilion, a thin woolen blanket over her knees as she reviewed ledgers from Qixiang Studio.
Nanny Rong entered with tea. "My lady, word has come from the temple. Old Master Yang has accepted Young Master Shen as his student. The young man was overjoyed—he kowtowed before the statues of the sages."
"Additionally, Mrs. Luo, Old Master Yang’s wife, went out to admire the osmanthus yesterday. The scars on her face were fully concealed."
Shen Wei exhaled in relief.
All was proceeding as she’d planned. Having Yang Xuanji mentor Shen Xiuming served two purposes: to prepare him for the imperial exams and to secure his future.
If Shen Xiuming entered officialdom, Yang Xuanji’s influence would be his shield.
She calculated silently. Her child was due in March—the very month the exams began. By the time the babe was a month old, the list of successful candidates would be public.
If Shen Xiuming ranked among them, he’d be granted a post, however minor, lifting their family from peasantry to gentry. Even a ninth-rank title would give Shen Wei the protection of official connections.
And if he excelled, earning a top-three placement in the palace exams? A seventh-rank position would secure her future entirely.
Now, her focus shifted to the child growing within her. Every preparation must be made for a safe birth.
Time flowed like water. Shen Wei’s belly swelled as autumn faded into winter. After the first snowfall, Yanjing City lay blanketed in white.
She detested the cold, and as her pregnancy advanced, she moved less, spending most days in the heated pavilion—reviewing accounts, sewing winter robes for the Prince of Yan, or experimenting with pastries alongside Li Yao.
The room was warm and cozy. In the square, intricately carved bronze brazier, blue-hued "auspicious charcoal" burned steadily. This special charcoal, exclusively supplied to the imperial family, emitted no flames—only a soft red glow—and carried no pungent odor. The Prince of Yan had sent Shen Wei an entire crate of it as a gift.
Li Yao carefully picked up a roasted cake from the charcoal fire with a pair of chopsticks and said cheerfully, "Auntie, the plum blossom cakes are ready!"
Plum blossom cakes were Shen Wei’s latest creation. The recipe was simple: fresh plum blossom petals were plucked, washed, and kneaded into dough before being shaped into flat cakes. Once roasted over the charcoal fire until golden on both sides, the delicate fragrance of plum blossoms blended with the toasty aroma of the baked dough, creating a uniquely delightful flavor.
"Auntie, let’s bring some plum blossom cakes to Aunt Zhang—she loves food so much!" Li Yao pleaded, her eyes shining with anticipation as she gazed at Shen Wei.
After a moment’s thought, Shen Wei nodded with a smile. "Very well." The latest_epɪ_sodes are on_the ɴovelfire.net
She had been resting for most of the day and could use a walk to stretch her limbs. Pregnancy was no easy task—her belly felt heavy, and her legs had begun to swell, requiring daily massages or movement to ease the discomfort.
Li Yao packed five freshly roasted plum blossom cakes into a food box, and together with Shen Wei, they stepped out of Liuli Pavilion.
Fresh snow blanketed the prince’s estate in pristine white. Shen Wei was well-bundled against the cold—a white fox fur hat atop her head, a thick padded jacket of plain velvet and gold brocade, a snow-white damask cloak draped over her shoulders, a warm hand warmer cradled in her palms, and sturdy lambskin boots on her feet. She looked like a soft, fluffy bundle.
Cai Lian and Cai Ping followed closely behind Shen Wei, ready to steady her should she slip.
Li Yao, however, dashed gleefully through the snow, laughing and playing. As they passed the estate’s garden, she suddenly spotted two figures dressed in white.
It was Liu Ruyan and her maid, Xue Mei.
Liu Ruyan stood beneath a white plum tree, wrapped in a white fox fur cape, while Xue Mei crouched nearby, gathering fallen white plum blossoms into a bamboo basket.
"Greetings, Aunt Liu!" Li Yao called out cheerfully. "Aunt Liu, what are you doing?"