She still had important matters to attend to that day, so she needed to go out.
It was not for anything else, but to take along her elder sister-in-law, Madam Liu (the wife of the Duke’s eldest son), her young nephew Ping’er, and her eighth sister Xueniang, to see how the renovations at the General’s Mansion were progressing.
After returning to her chambers to straighten herself up, she sent a maid to invite them.
An incense stick of time later, the four of them left the Duke’s Mansion in high spirits, none of them paying heed to the bleak quietness of the North Courtyard as they travel past it.
Since the Fifth Branch had been expelled, the people of the Third Branch had grown markedly more cautious.
They had long known of Madam Wei’s formidable methods, yet once believed she restrained herself toward them out of consideration for kinship. But now, even a fool could see that keeping them here was nothing more than a way to disgust the East Courtyard.
If they truly provoked Madam Wei, she would not hesitate to uproot them. Their fate would likely be even worse than that of the Fifth Branch. Thus, the Third Branch began to harbor thoughts of leaving.
But where could they go once they left?
The entire household sat in gloom. Even Shang Erlang (the second son of the Third Branch), who usually idled away his days drinking and gambling, now remained obediently at home, not daring to step out.
After a long silence, Shang Sanlang (the third son of the Third Branch) finally spoke.
“How about we move to the house on Guihua Lane? That was what Great-Grandfather left to our Third Branch. Though smaller, it is better than living here under another’s control.”
Yet aside from Sanlang’s wife, no one seemed willing to move.
The reason was plain: moving itself was not difficult. The true problem was survival.
Over the years, the Third Branch had squandered or sold off nearly all their business deeds. Little remained besides the burial funds set aside for the Third Old Master and Third Old Madam.
But to touch those funds was unthinkable—they were unwilling, and besides, it was but a drop in the bucket.
Living off Erlang’s wife’s dowry alone was impossible, so silence once more prevailed.
Seeing her husband’s proposal met with indifference, Sanlang’s wife sighed softly, tugged at his sleeve, and signaled for him to stop. After all, saying more was useless and would only irritate others.
At this point, Erlang’s wife’s heart gave rise to another thought. Rather than keeping such a large family clumped together, it would be better for them to split and live separately.
She herself had her natal family’s support, as well as a profitable shop. Supporting her three sons alone would not be difficult.
But with such a large crowd together, it was uncertain.
Indeed, at times unity was beneficial, but at other times separation brought its own advantages.
Of course, such words could never leave her lips. If outsiders heard, she would surely be branded unfilial—for the grandparents, as well as the parents-in-law, were all still alive. No matter what excuse she found, tongues would wag.
Thus, the household fell back into stagnant silence.
“If you wish to move, you two can go yourselves. I have lived in this Duke’s Mansion nearly all my life. Now I am old, half-buried in the earth already—I will not make a fuss outside,” said the Third Old Master at last, his tone a mix of stubbornness and helplessness.
Though he knew they were unwelcome here, he was unwilling to leave.
There were two reasons.
First, he did not wish to be driven out in his old age like the Fifth Branch, reduced to stray dogs.
Second, he still coveted the honors of death. Remaining in the Duke’s Mansion, he could at least preserve some dignity; but if he left, he feared he would end with nothing more than a green lamp (the Buddhist vigil lamp lit for the deceased) and a thin coffin.
That, he could not accept.
Seeing his father’s stance, Shang Sanlang had no choice but to hold his tongue, no longer daring to raise the matter of moving.
Compared to the worries of the North Courtyard, the atmosphere in the West Garden was no less heavy.
Ever since Shang Zhihe (the son of the Duke’s family) had his leg broken by Shizi Fu, no one in that courtyard had managed a smile.
Though Prince Fu and Princess Consort Fu had sent great quantities of medicinal herbs as compensation, they did little to ease the pain.
On the day of the banquet, after bidding farewell to Princess Yuehua, Madam Wei personally escorted Princess Consort Fu to the West Garden.
When she saw Zhihe sweating and pale with pain, and little Douzi (his young son) also weeping beside him, Madam Wei’s heart felt as though it were being ground by sand.
Madam Shang (Zhihe’s wife) had borne no children since Douzi’s birth. Though illegitimate sons and daughters had been born within Prince Fu’s household over the years, none were ever acknowledged. Thus, Prince En was their only legitimate child—naturally Prince Fu and his consort guarded him jealously.
Although they expressed apologies, they would not allow their son to pay any real price for crippling another boy.
Silang’s wife (Zhihe’s mother) was filled with rage, yet there was no one in the household who could speak up for her and her son. She felt utterly isolated, like a lone reed in the wind.
The imperial physician, after examination, declared that Zhihe’s limp could be treated so that he might walk. But he would never again ride horses, draw the bow, run, leap, or give chase.
This cut off half his prospects in life. How could Silang’s wife not be driven to despair?
The West Garden sank into utter desolation.
Madam Wei in particular felt torn—between the anguished cries of her grandson and daughter-in-law, and the tearful apologies of her own daughter and son-in-law. Neither side could be soothed, and she herself was worn thin.
This double torment, compounded by the exhaustion of planning the grand birthday banquet, finally struck her down.
Once, she had never suffered from headaches. But now they came daily.
She drank bowl after bowl of calming decoctions, yet found little relief.
Each time she closed her eyes, she was haunted by her grandson’s sobs and the image of his broken future. So Sleep never came peacefully.
Within just a few days of tossing in such torment, her face grew pale, her body haggard, and she appeared ten years older—like a woman in her fifties.
“Madam, please take your medicine,” whispered Aunt Jiao, her eyes full of worry and distress.
At this point, none felt greater pain than Madam Wei herself.
The Duke, mild-tempered by nature, merely voiced his sadness on the surface. Now he secluded himself daily in his study, refusing to manage household affairs.
Thus, the immense burden still fell upon Madam Wei.
She coughed twice as she rose from bed, dizziness nearly toppling her. Had Aunt Jiao not steadied her, she would not have managed to rise at all.
Yet no matter how arduous, she forced herself to drink the medicine. If she did not take care of her health, how could she manage the matters yet to come?
Clear in her mind, she downed the bowl in one draught.
When she set it down empty, she drew a ragged breath, trying to ease the cough in her chest.
Aunt Jiao rubbed her back gently to help her breathe, murmuring, “Do not worry, Madam. This is but a temporary disorder of the breath. After a few days of medicine, it will pass.”
At these words, Madam Wei managed a bitter smile.
“My own illness will heal, yes. But He’er’s (Zhihe’s courtesy name) legs will remain like this for life. That, I cannot bear.”
Indeed, the grandson she had raised so painstakingly, with all her heart, was far superior to Shang Zhiping (the young son of the East Courtyard) next door.
Yet who would have expected that it would be her grandson who was ruined?