Ch 16: When the Wild Goose Returns

Duan Wucuo tugged lightly on both ends of the measuring tape, and Qing Yan’s toes instinctively shifted forward a little—bringing the two of them just slightly closer.

The soft tape rested across her chest, both ends overlapping, pinched in Duan Wucuo’s fingers. As he gently drew the tape taut over her clothes, his knuckles came to rest against her chest.

His eyes lowered, focused calmly and attentively on the measuring tape.

Qing Yan stood frozen, a flush rising quietly on her cheeks.
She stared at him, her heart pounding, afraid his knuckles might hear the frantic rhythm of her pulse.

Then Duan Wucuo suddenly looked up.

Their eyes met.
Qing Yan felt like a thief caught red-handed—nowhere to hide.

He read out the measurement.
The seamstress, surprised, cast a discreet glance at Qing Yan’s figure and quickly jotted it down.

Duan Wucuo’s voice seemed to reach her ears half a beat late.
She blinked and awkwardly turned her gaze away.

“Next, the waist.”

As he loosened his grip on the tape, her tense body eased slightly.
Only then did Qing Yan quietly exhale and find her breath again.

The tape slid down her back, brushing past her shoulder blades like a fleeting, ghostly touch.

Duan Wucuo bent down and wrapped the tape around her slender waist.
He reported the number.

“And now, hips.”

It was as if her soul had just returned to her body—Qing Yan hurriedly stepped back in alarm, as if the tape in his hand was a deadly snare.

Desperate to escape, she blurted,
“I have plenty of silks and fine dresses! There’s no need to make new ones!”

“Oh?”

Duan Wucuo’s tone was lazy, with a long, drawn-out ending.

His gaze slowly drifted downward—not intrusive or indecent,
but with the detached cleanliness of a man still dressed in monk’s robes.

He said offhandedly,
“Perhaps… being away from home for so long.”

Qing Yan was startled.
Cold sweat broke out along her spine.

Was he saying her clothes didn’t fit?

Had he noticed something?

No, impossible!
Although all the clothes she brought for this political marriage had been tailored to the Huachao Princess’s measurements,
her own figure wasn’t that different—barely noticeable.

Could he really detect such subtle differences?

Her heart pounded, but on the surface, she maintained a proud and haughty air.
She gave a dismissive snort and snapped,
“This princess never imagined the mighty Yi Kingdom would serve such awful food!”

A flicker of amusement passed through Duan Wucuo’s otherwise serene gaze.
Sweeping his eyes over her shapely figure, he said with veiled meaning,
“It seems the only dish the princess finds palatable is papaya.”

“Papaya?
I haven’t had any—is it good?”

Qing Yan looked at him in confusion.

He didn’t answer.
Instead, he crouched before her, monk’s robes sweeping the floor, and resumed measuring her hips.

Qing Yan wanted to run—but she forced herself to stay put.

She reminded herself:
She was playing the role of a spoiled princess hopelessly infatuated with Prince Zhan.
She mustn’t back away—she should act pleased.

But it wasn’t real.

Inside her sleeves, her delicate hands curled into fists, nails digging hard into her palms.

Beneath the folds of her skirt, her toes clenched tightly in their embroidered shoes, gripping the ground as if to nail herself in place.

She couldn’t falter. She couldn’t run.

She steeled herself, standing rigid as Duan Wucuo continued taking her measurements.

Finally, he stood up and gathered the measuring tape.

Qing Yan felt an enormous weight lift from her chest, like a prisoner released at last.

“Since we’re done, this princess will now return to have tea with the Princess Consort!”

As she brushed past him, he called out.
His voice reached her ears and made their reddened tips tingle faintly.

“Princess.”

He stepped back, leaning lazily against the long table behind him.

Qing Yan summoned her courage and turned around.

He gave a soft chuckle, straightened up, and once more spread his arms.
The tape hung from his slender fingers, its end swaying gently.

He asked,
“Did the princess forget something?”

Qing Yan blinked—then realized:
She had originally insisted on taking his measurements.

Mimicking his tone, she drawled out a long “Oh—” and tugged the tape from his fingers, forcing herself to finish measuring him.

When she finally finished, she tiptoed and looped the tape around his neck, letting it drape over his chest.

Then, without a word, she turned and briskly walked out.

The maids and seamstresses exchanged knowing glances—then quickly lowered their eyes and resumed their tasks.

Qing Yan walked lightly until she reached an empty corridor, where her steps slowed.

Wen Xi hurried to her side and subtly steadied her.

Qing Yan tilted her head, grumbling wearily like a sulky child begging for candy.

Wen Xi, sighing, didn’t scold her poor performance.
Instead, she gently patted Qing Yan’s hand and soothed her, “You did well. Don’t be afraid.”

Qing Yan immediately broke into a smile, eyes curving.
Just as she was about to speak—
a loud crack of thunder rumbled across the sky.

Soon after, the deep rumble of a storm followed.

“A heavy rain is coming,” said Wen Xi.

“Perfect!”

If it rained, she’d have a legitimate reason to stay overnight.
No need to invent an excuse tomorrow.
Her clingy, “hopelessly-in-love” act would look all the more convincing.

Whenever Qing Yan visited, Princess Consort Kang always hosted her at Xianglan Pavilion.

Qing Yan and Wen Xi rushed toward it and ran into a maid sent by the Princess Consort carrying umbrellas.

The maid had just made it back when a torrential downpour crashed down.

Princess Consort Kang set Zhaowei down and hurried to the door, kindly saying,
“Good, you didn’t get caught in the rain.”

Qing Yan’s eyes spun with calculation. She sighed in mock disappointment,
“Pity… Who knows how long this rain will last?
I’ll surely be soaked when I return to the palace.
So troublesome!”

As expected, the Princess Consort said, “In this weather, you shouldn’t go back. Though our residence is small, we’ve no shortage of guest rooms to host you comfortably.”

“Oh—but how could I impose!”

Qing Yan widened her apricot eyes in feigned protest.

“If you insist on returning in the rain, you’re telling me you don’t wish to be friends,” the Princess Consort said gently.

A maid in the corner closing the window cast a look of disdain—just in time for Qing Yan to catch it. But she wasn’t offended. On the contrary, she was delighted, for it played perfectly into her hands. Her coquettish smile grew even sweeter.

Hooking her arm around Princess Consort Kang’s, she said softly and cheerfully, “Your Highness is so kind! I really like you!”

Qing Yan had dinner with the Princess Consort and young heir, then retired to the guest room.

As soon as the door shut, she rushed to the window and opened a square porcelain box.

Immediately, a rich aroma of wine spilled out.

Inside was nü’er hong—a strong rice wine—and soaked in it was a sachet with embarrassingly poor stitching.

She fished it out and wrung it dry with all her strength.

“It must be completely dry by tomorrow morning.”

Qing Yan placed it beside the lamp, took off the shade, and let the flame dry it directly.

Wen Xi came over and sat opposite her. She studied Qing Yan’s face for a moment before speaking. “Qing Yan, do you feel wronged… or ashamed?”

“Hm?”

Qing Yan was busy turning over the sachet and barely heard her.

Wen Xi grabbed her hand, looked her in the eye, and said seriously,
“In this life, you’ll only ever be the princess’s shadow. No matter whom you marry, your only purpose will be to make him hate you—so that you can shrink into a corner and go unnoticed. There will be no tender love, no matching gazes across a shared table. Just cold lamps and bitter tea for a lonely lifetime.”

“So long as I’ve got breath and food, that’s enough.
Who cares about romance?
A man’s heart is nothing but a wolf’s heart—worse than a dog’s liver! All men are heartless liars and bastards. Who needs ’em anyway?”

Qing Yan’s tone was light and carefree. She suddenly blinked and asked,
“Sister Wen Xi, what’s so special about the papayas in Yi Kingdom’s capital?
Can you make me papaya soup tomorrow?”

Wen Xi looked at Qing Yan’s clear, limpid eyes that shimmered like they were steeped in lychee nectar. She lost her breath for a second, then flicked Qing Yan’s hand away, done trying to talk sense into her.

She must have lost her mind to worry Qing Yan might be upset.

They’d known each other half a year, and she’d never seen Qing Yan not smiling—always so radiant, as if sorrow never touched her.

“So young, yet acts like she’s nursing a heartbreak,” Wen Xi muttered.

Qing Yan didn’t respond.
Her gaze was innocent, her smile simple and unguarded—like a naive child.

Her heart was soft: repay kindness tenfold.
But also hard: no love, no pain. All men were bastards.

—

The next morning, Qing Yan woke up and ran barefoot to check the sachet.

It had dried completely, but the wine scent still clung.

“Prince Zhan doesn’t like women who are too forward.”
“Prince Zhan doesn’t like alcohol.”
“Prince Zhan doesn’t like cats.”

—Shufei’s words, Qing Yan remembered them all.

After washing up, she summoned the courtyard maid and asked where Duan Wucuo was.

The maid answered politely, but after turning away, couldn’t help rolling her eyes.

Prince Kang loved chess. While Duan Wucuo was staying at the residence, he always got dragged to the Qiangli Garden each morning to play.

Qing Yan packed the sachet and headed for the garden with Wen Xi.

Along the way, she overheard some maids chatting while sweeping the paths.

“That Princess Huachao really has no shame. The marriage isn’t even settled yet, and she’s already clinging to Prince Zhan.”

“Exactly! Yesterday, she even had the nerve to say, ‘This princess will personally take your measurements—no one else may touch you!’”
One maid put her hands on her hips and mimicked Qing Yan’s voice.

“You weren’t there, but she was absolutely shameless!”

Their laughter rang out.

“She’s blinded by his looks, not knowing how cold he is.
Tch, let her make a fool of herself.
You think Prince Zhan will put up with her? This is just giving face to Tao Kingdom.
Even if they do get married, once the delegation leaves, she’ll be tossed aside—left miserable and unwanted…”

Qing Yan’s lips curled high. Her joy was impossible to hide.

She gripped the sachet in her hand, so happy she nearly wanted to hum a tune.

She didn’t avoid the maids—just walked right past them, bold and carefree.

The maids all dropped to their knees in fear, cold sweat breaking out.

—

Early spring still carried a chill, but Duan Wucuo seemed immune to it. Even in winter, he only wore thin monk’s robes.

He was sitting on a bench in Qiangli Garden, idly twirling a smooth chess piece.

A few maids stood nearby, ready to attend him.

He had been playing chess with Prince Kang, but when a servant came to report the young heir was crying, he had gone to check.

Qing Yan arrived on light feet, sat across from him, and cupped her face in her hands, eyes bright with laughter.

She said,
“What a coincidence!”

Duan Wucuo’s fingers paused, and he lazily lifted his eyes to glance at her.

Qing Yan gave an awkward smile and admitted sheepishly,
“Fine. It’s not a coincidence. I came here just to see you.”

She pulled out the sachet and held it out to him with both hands.

Looking at him with eyes full of stars, she said:
“I made this myself—for you, Jiu Lang!”

(T/N: Jiu = Ninth. Lang is a respectful or affectionate term to call a young man).

The scent of wine lingered faintly in the air.

Duan Wucuo’s lips pressed together, but a faint and meaningful smile curved at the corners of his eyes.

In his dark gaze was a depth she couldn’t fathom.

That made Qing Yan nervous.
She couldn’t figure him out.

So she moved, circling the table, her goose-yellow skirt fluttering like layered petals in the sun.

She sat beside him—very close—and leaned in slowly.

Her eyes locked on him without blinking, voice sweet and soft:
“Jiu Lang, do you like it?”

Too close.

Should she move back?

As she hesitated, Duan Wucuo’s hand suddenly pressed lightly on her waist. With just a bit of force, her body tilted toward him, and her chin knocked softly against his chest.

“Indecent!”

Qing Yan’s shoulders trembled.
She turned to see an older woman, face flushed with fury.

Su Ruche stood behind her, attendants all kneeling on the ground.

°❀.ೃ࿔°❀.ೃ࿔