The wind outside the Baotao Courtyard carried a faint chill of late autumn. Shang Yukuan was half-leaning against the embroidered headboard, the scent of medicine still clinging to the air, when the quiet was broken by a sudden uproar—hoarse cries and sharp, accusing voices echoing from the outer yard.
Madam Wei’s expression turned cold and severe. Her eyes, which had always carried the dignified restraint befitting the Duchess [furen – formal title for a noble lady], now gleamed with restrained fury. “It must be the women of the Third branch again,” she said, her tone bitter. “They refuse to give up.”
For the past few days, she had used the excuse of the Duke’s convalescence to deny them entry, yet the women of the Third House—those foolish, restless souls—kept returning to stir trouble. The Third Old Lady, in particular, seemed to have lost all sense of propriety; instead of maintaining her dignity, she caused scenes in the courtyard daily.
Madam Wei’s eyes reddened; a lump rose in her throat, and tears welled unbidden.
Shang Yukuan, already weary and short-tempered from his injuries, felt his irritation rise at the sight of her weeping. “What’s happening outside?” he demanded, voice sharp with impatience. His right arm, still wrapped in silk bandages, throbbed with pain, yet his hearing was sharp enough to recognize the familiar tones of the Third Branch’s servants.
Madam Wei hesitated for a moment, then let out a trembling sob. “Master,” she began softly, “you’ve been recuperating these past days. I dared not trouble you with worldly matters, fearing it might hinder your recovery. But if I keep holding them off like this, I fear the Third House will make a public spectacle of themselves. I… I no longer know what to do.”
“Did Erlang of third branch lose silver at the gambling tables again?” Shang Yukuan asked curtly. “Or is this about there Si Niang’s marriage?”
Madam Wei shook her head, drawing a deep breath. “If it were only that, I would have handled it quietly. But this time—it is far graver.”
Her tone dropped low, trembling slightly as she continued, “Master… you may not yet know. But this assassination attempt upon your life—it was carried out by someone within our own household.”
These words struck like a thunderclap on him .
Shang Yukuan’s face hardened as disbelief clouded his eyes. “What did you say?”
Madam Wei’s tears flowed anew. “It was Mama Qin—Erlang’s wife’s wet nurse. Do you remember her?”
“Mama Qin?” He frowned deeply. The name was faintly familiar—maybe she was one of the older servants from the Third Branch—but he had never had cause to quarrel with her. “Why would she want me dead? What possible benefit would my death bring her?”
Madam Wei’s voice quivered with righteous grief. “Master, you don’t know the full story. On the very day you were attacked, the Jingji Division [the capital’s imperial investigative bureau] captured the assassin. Liu Lang personally led the interrogation, but the man confessed nothing. It was only when His Majesty ordered the Ministry of Justice to intervene that the truth finally surfaced.”
Her words carried an unmistakable undertone—an accusation veiled beneath proper concern, subtly implying Shang Ji’s incompetence in the handling of the case.
Shang Yukuan’s eyes narrowed. “And then?”
“After the investigation concluded, my brother was sent to lead the follow-up search. When they reached the Third House in Beiyuan [northern compound of the Duke’s residence], they attempted to evade responsibility. But Heaven’s justice does not hide long—Madam Qin was arrested on the spot. In Erlang’s wife’s chamber, two thousand five hundred taels of unaccounted silver were discovered.”
Shang Yukuan’s entire body stiffened. “I have never treated them unjustly,” he said hoarsely. “Why would they turn against me like this?”
He coughed violently, pain lancing through his chest as the wound reopened.
Madam Wei hurried forward, dabbing his lips with a handkerchief. “Even I could hardly believe it, Master. But the evidence is irrefutable—the silver was found with them, and…”
“And what else?” he rasped. “Speak plainly—I can bear it.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper. “And in Third Uncle’s room, they found witchcraft dolls—carved in your likeness, as well as those of the East and West Courtyards. Each bore the family’s names written in cinnabar ink.”
Shang Yukuan froze. His breath caught, his mind whirled. The world spun in disbelief and betrayal.
Madam Wei pressed on, sighing heavily. “The Jingji Division has already taken Third Uncle, Erlang’s wife, and Mama Qin for interrogation. Third Aunt comes to me daily, begging for mercy for them , but what can I do? I am only a woman of the inner residence.”
With a roar of anger, Shang Yukuan hurled the porcelain bowl from his bedside table. It shattered against the floor, scattering fragments and dark streaks of bitter medicine. His chest heaved violently, fury and grief twisting together until he could scarcely breathe.
For a fleeting second, a spark of triumph flickered in Madam Wei’s eyes—but it vanished almost as quickly as it appeared. When she lifted her gaze again, her expression was one of pure distress.
“Now that the Third House knows you are awake,” she said softly, “they are clamoring to see you. Should I allow them in—or shall I refuse them?”
Shang Yukuan’s lips curled in bitter disgust. “Why should I see them? Do they think my life is not short enough already?”
His words were cold as frost, devoid of the fondness he once held for his kin. Had a blade been within reach, he might have struck them himself to vent his fury.
Outside the courtyard gate, Mama Jiao, the chief stewardess of Baotao Courtyard, was standing guard with a cluster of maids. She barred the Third House from entering.
Sanlang’s wife, more sensible than the rest, had come once before and never returned. The ones making the greatest scene now were the Third Old Lady herself and her daughter-in-law, Fan-shi, accompanied by the timid Si Niang, who stood aside quietly, weeping into her sleeve.
“Mama Jiao!” the Third Old Lady cried, voice shrill with desperation. “Please, let us in! Yukuan has suffered so much—at least allow us to see him!”
Mama Jiao kept her composure, her tone polite but unmoved. “Third Madam, the Duke is well. As for what you are thinking—you know it, and I know it too. Please, do not make things difficult for me.”
To her, the Third House had already been marked for ruin. If they were to perish, better they did so together—then no loose threads would remain. Yet she knew her master’s temper. If the Third Old Lady wept before him long enough, the Duke’s soft heart might once again be moved to pity.
Thus, she would not permit them entry.
But the Third Old Lady was nothing if not stubborn. Seeing no one willing to help, she gritted her teeth and pushed forward, forcing her way through the servants. Four or five maids struggled to restrain her, yet she tore free, stumbling into the main hall.
Madam Wei was startled by the intrusion, but the intruder’s target was not her—it was the Duke.
“Yukuan!” The Third Old Lady fell to her knees the moment she entered, crawling toward the bed with trembling hands. “Please, save your Third Uncle! You know his heart toward you since you were a boy! That talk of witchcraft—it’s a frame-up!”
Her sobs rang through the room, raw and piercing. Shang Yukuan’s temples throbbed. His mind swirled with confusion, pain, and fatigue. He glanced toward Madam Wei helplessly, but the other woman merely lowered her eyes.
The Third Old Lady, seeing her chance, clung harder to his bedpost, her tears falling like rain. “That venomous woman, Guan-shi—she dared to hire an assassin to harm you! If I had known she was such a wretch, I would never have allowed her into our household. And now, to save her own life, she’s dragging our Third Branch into ruin! Isn’t she determined to see us all destroyed?”
She cried harder, her wails rising to the rafters. “I’ve already had Erlang write the divorce letter. What she did has nothing to do with us anymore! You can kill her, dismember her, do as you please—but your Third Uncle is innocent, I swear it!”
She fumbled through her sleeve and produced the xiushu [divorce document written by the husband’s hand], holding it up with trembling fingers.
Her desperation caught both Shang Yukuan and Madam Wei off guard.
Madam Wei’s gaze hardened slightly. So, she thought, the Third House truly has no backbone. To save themselves, they would offer up Guan-shi as sacrifice.
Hiring an assassin to kill the Duke—framing her own husband’s kin for witchcraft—such crimes were enough to condemn not only Guan-shi, but her entire family line.
In the heavy silence that followed, the faint fragrance of spilled medicine mixed with the salt of tears. Outside, the cries of servants faded, leaving only the low, ragged breathing of the Duke and the quiet rustle of Madam Wei’s silk sleeves as she stepped closer to his bedside—her expression serene.