Ch 15: When the Wild Goose Returns

Qing Yan wanted to speak, but her mouth was stuffed with lotus syrup pastry.
Her hands were busy holding the food box and couldn’t spare a moment.
So she subtly curled the corners of her lips, forming a small arc, and with the tip of her tongue, she gradually pushed the pastry inward until she’d managed to swallow the whole thing.

Her cheeks puffed out, quivering softly with each chew, like tender little snowballs.
The lotus pastry was too delicious for her to spit out—so she let her pearly teeth gently grind it down, savoring the entire piece bite by bite.

Bit by bit, her full cheeks deflated. Then she raised her lips into a smile, revealing deep little dimples.

Duan Wucuo silently watched her finish the pastry—
well, not the whole thing, since he had already taken a bite.

“It’s good,” said Qing Yan.
She didn’t believe Duan Wucuo at all—how could he call something this delicious terrible?

The outside was flaky and crisp, drizzled with sweet syrup.
The inside was soft and melted with a lick of the tongue, releasing the fresh fragrance of lotus flowers in June.

Without making a fuss, Qing Yan ran her tongue over her teeth that had just chewed the pastry, collecting the lingering lotus scent that had softened her tongue and dulled her teeth.

Duan Wuyu chuckled. “This must be Princess Huachao?
It’s one thing to bring just any pastry, but for the princess to personally make lotus syrup pastry just to bring to Ah Jiu…”

He turned to Princess Consort Kang, who had just walked over. “Wanwan, do we still have any of the lotus pastry Ah Jiu brought?”

Princess Consort Kang gently adjusted the thin blanket draped over Duan Wuyu’s legs before replying, “If Zhao Wei didn’t sneak any last night, there should still be some left.”

The couple shared a knowing smile.

Then Princess Consort Kang turned to Qing Yan with a gentle smile.
“If there’s any left, Princess, you must try the other version later.”

Qing Yan nodded with a smile—
but her thoughts weren’t on the pastries.

She snuck a sidelong glance at Duan Wucuo, hoping to catch a hint of disgust on his face.
But…

He was too tall. No matter how she tilted her eyes, all she could see was his Adam’s apple.

Qing Yan quickly looked away.

Consort Shu brought over Cheng Mujin and Tao Ningxin, who both offered their courtesies.
Duan Wuyu asked his wife to continue hosting while he and Duan Wucuo left the residence.

Qing Yan and the others followed Princess Consort Kang into her plum garden.
She hadn’t lied—she really had cultivated her plum trees with care.
Though fewer in number than the royal garden’s, each one had been tended with great dedication.

Qing Yan’s beauty needed no mention, and both Cheng Mujin and Tao Ningxin were also widely admired in the capital.
As for Consort Shu and Princess Consort Kang, their charm was of a more mature, refined allure.

The five women sitting among the plum blossoms looked like a living portrait of unmatched beauty.
Even the blossoms paled in comparison, reduced to mere background.

Tao Ningxin couldn’t help but ask,
“Princess, you know Prince Zhan dislikes overly forward women. Why did you…”

Cheng Mujin gave her a sidelong glance before returning calmly to her tea, sipping quietly.

Qing Yan’s apricot-shaped eyes widened in mock surprise.
“Forward? How was I being forward? That was just proper courtesy.
If anything, Prince Zhan should have returned the favor!”

Tao Ningxin was stunned. “Then what do you think counts as being forward?”

“I didn’t force him to drink wine, or…”
Qing Yan pulled her collar slightly to reveal her snowy collarbone, fluttered her lashes flirtatiously,
“…or throw myself into his arms, seduce him with beauty.
So how is that too forward?”

She sounded completely justified.

Tao Ningxin’s gaze stuck on her exposed, slender collarbone, momentarily speechless.
Even Cheng Mujin lowered her teacup, looking at Qing Yan with a complicated expression.

Consort Shu pursed her lips, her eyes showing concern—Qing Yan’s personality might just drive Duan Wucuo away.
But she didn’t know how to persuade her, so she simply murmured,
“Prince Zhan doesn’t drink.”

Qing Yan’s eyes spun—clearly brewing up another bad idea…

Cheng Mujin and Tao Ningxin stayed another hour before politely taking their leave.

“I’ll walk you out,” Qing Yan said with a bright smile.
…clearly, she had no intention of leaving.

No one wanted to chase her away either.
So Princess Consort Kang invited her to stay for dinner.

“Lovely!
You’re so kind, Princess Consort. I felt so close to you the moment we met—like family!”

Qing Yan played the naïve girl perfectly.

Princess Consort Kang smiled gently.
“Well, we will be family someday.”

However, Duan Wucuo didn’t appear for dinner, and neither did she get to try the alternate lotus pastry recipe.
Qing Yan was left disappointed.

—

The next day, she returned again to Prince Kang’s residence.

“Princess Consort, I think I left my hairpin here yesterday—maybe in the plum garden…”

Princess Consort Kang clearly remembered that Qing Yan had worn a dangling hair ornament, not a pin.
Still, she said nothing and led the servants to search high and low—even nearly digging up the earth—but the hairpin was nowhere to be found.

Qing Yan sat at the stone table, chin in her hands, looking pitiful.
“Sorry to trouble you, Princess Consort…”

Princess Consort Kang only shook her head with a kind smile and invited her to stay for lunch.

As Qing Yan was leaving in the afternoon, the princess consort softly said,
“Life in the residence is often dull. But you, Princess—you have a lovely temperament and a pleasant presence. It brightens the mood.
If you’re ever free, I hope you’ll come by often to keep me company.”

Standing by the carriage, Qing Yan turned back to look at her.
Her eyes curved gently like the moon’s reflection, dimples deep and sweet.

“I like you too, big sister. I’ll come again tomorrow!”

—

The next day, fierce winds howled and dark clouds loomed.
It looked like the sky was holding in a downpour, ready to crash down at any moment.

Duan Wucuo and Duan Wuyu played chess beneath the window.
Duan Wuyu’s son, Duan Zhaowei, sat on a soft stool nearby, playing with dice bones.

Duan Wuyu remarked,
“A man’s body was found last night on Puan Street.
His head was severed, the cut unnaturally smooth.
Limbs intact, but all joints were smashed.
His organs were missing—but they did find traces of internal tissue inside his mouth.”

“Your move, Fifth Brother,” said Duan Wucuo.

Duan Wuyu placed a piece on the board and continued,
“That method seems like your handiwork. Be honest—was it you?”

Duan Wucuo picked up the black piece he’d just eaten and lazily intoned,
“Amitabha… This humble monk has renounced the world and holds compassion above all.
It is my duty to ferry the living through the mortal world, and to deliver the dead beyond the veil.”

Duan Wuyu paused, then broke into laughter.

Princess Consort Kang entered with a frown, scooping up Zhaowei.
“Zhaowei is still here—don’t talk about such things.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll stop,” Duan Wuyu said indulgently, looking fondly at his wife and child.

Princess Consort Kang smoothed Zhaowei’s hair, ignored her husband, and turned to Duan Wucuo.
“Spring’s almost here. I’ve invited the seamstresses from Langxiao Pavilion.
Come get your measurements taken for some new clothes.”

“Thank you, Sister-in-law.”

Duan Wuyu added, “Yes, yes—we should get you some new clothes.
You shouldn’t keep wearing that rough monk’s robe every day.”

Princess Consort Kang still ignored him.

Helpless, Duan Wuyu grinned and coaxed, “Wanwan, come sit with me.
I can only beat Ah Jiu if you’re by my side.”

She shot him a glare and replied,
“When have you ever beaten your Ninth Brother?
Even sitting next to a living Buddha wouldn’t help you.
Besides, I need to go accompany Princess Huachao.”

“That foreign princess again?”

Duan Wuyu glanced at Duan Wucuo, then turned to look at the gloomy sky.

Duan Wucuo’s face revealed nothing—no one could read how he felt about Qing Yan.

After Princess Consort Kang left, the brothers resumed their game.
A few more moves in, Duan Wuyu suddenly recalled Duan Wucuo’s line:
“To ferry the living, to deliver the dead.”

Did Buddhists even talk like that?

He’d never heard any bald monks chant such words.

He said,
“If you did it, then fine.
But if it wasn’t you, be careful—someone might be setting you up.
This capital isn’t as peaceful as it seems.”

Duan Wucuo’s lips curled into a faint smile.
“The capital is far from peaceful, true.
But peace does not exist anywhere the living roam.”

He placed a white piece on the board and said lightly,
“Time to get measured.”

Then he rose and strolled off.

“Hey, the game—” Duan Wuyu looked down at the board and realized he had lost.

He’d once been obsessed with chess in his youth, aspiring to be a grandmaster.
After feeling invincible for a time, he’d roped Duan Wucuo into a game only to suffer a devastating loss.

Unwilling to accept it, he challenged the other royal brothers.
Among the nine of them, he lost seven games.

The only match he won was against the now-Emperor, back when he was still the Crown Prince, and that victory had infuriated His Majesty so much he refused to eat for two days, pounding his chest and scolding Duan Wuyu for lacking tact.

—

Before Duan Wucuo even stepped inside the warm chamber, he heard Qing Yan’s chirping voice.

The corners of his mouth lifted as he pushed open the door.

Qing Yan was pulling on the two seamstresses, learning how to take measurements.
When she heard the door open, she turned, gave Duan Wucuo a sweet smile, and waved the soft measuring tape in her hand.

Lifting her little chin, she spoke with a touch of spoiled arrogance:
“I’ll be taking your measurements personally.
No one else is allowed to touch you. Hmph—”

That last note was the softest little pout.

The seamstresses and maids in the room all lowered their heads.

Marry a virtuous wife—jealousy ranked among the seven grounds for divorce.
No man wanted a jealous woman as a wife.

Qing Yan braced herself, waiting for Duan Wucuo to get angry.

But…

He smiled faintly, casually let out an “Oh?” and raised his arm, smiling at her with his eyes.

Qing Yan froze.

Wait—this… this wasn’t going how she’d planned.

Hiding her disappointment, she stepped behind him, tiptoeing to measure his shoulder width.
The tape slowly stretched across his shoulders, then came around to the front.
She motioned for him to raise his arms so she could measure arm length.

The tape wrinkled, and she pressed it flat with her fingertip—sliding gently over his arm through the monk’s robe.

Her fingers came to rest at his wrist. Thump thump—she could almost mistake his pulse for her own nervous heartbeat.

Next came the waist.

Lowering her eyes, she deliberately tugged her collar slightly to the side in front of him, revealing a patch of snowy skin at her collarbone.

Then she crouched, waist tucked, hips slightly raised.

She wrapped the soft tape around the back of his waist.
As she raised her hand, a slender, porcelain wrist brushed against his side.

One of the seamstresses peeked at the scene and quickly turned red, bowing her head and daring not to look again.

Qing Yan slowly looked up at Duan Wucuo. Her long lashes trembled gently, eyes shimmering with softness.

“All done?” he asked, gazing down at her.

She held the measuring tape and gazed up at him dreamily.
In a deliberately coy tone, she whispered,
“The moment I saw you, my heart fluttered… I lost my mind and forgot what else I had to measure…”

“Hmm.”

Duan Wucuo narrowed his eyes slightly, then a warm smile touched their corners.

“No matter,” he said.
“This humble monk shall teach the princess.”

He took her slender forearm and gently pulled her to her feet.

Qing Yan stumbled slightly, nearly falling against his chest.

She hurriedly raised a hand, her fingertips pressing against his firm chest.

The measuring tape hadn’t even fallen when Duan Wucuo picked it up.

He pinched the tape between his fingers, his gaze fixed on Qing Yan.

“In return,” he said,
“this humble monk shall personally take the princess’s measurements as well.”

He turned her slender body around, the tape resting on her shoulders.

“Shoulder width,” he recited, giving the number. One of the seamstresses noted it down.

Then he turned her back around and slowly passed the tape under her arm.

Qing Yan tensed, feeling the tape inching upward along her back, the sensation tingling through her even beneath the fabric.

“And now—bust circumference.”

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