Chapter 6: Father Gone, Mother Cold

The next day. Barely dawn.

Su Ruan was dragged out of bed by Lizi.

"Miss! Wake up! Time to get up!"

Su Ruan's entire body ached like it was about to fall apart. Her feet especially—after last night's ordeal, they'd swollen to the size of steamed buns. The slightest movement sent needle-sharp pain shooting through them.

"Lizi..." she whined, burrowing deeper into the covers. "Let me sleep a little longer. Just a bit..."

"No can do, Miss!"

Lizi stamped her foot, her grip undiminished, physically hauling Su Ruan upright.

"We have to go pay respects to the Madam! If we miss the hour, you'll be punished!"

Su Ruan cracked one eye open. Outside the window, the sky was still a dim gray-blue.

She let out a howl of despair.

"So I have to do this every single day?!"

"Of course!"

Lizi was already efficiently dressing her in her inner robes.

"Morning and evening greetings—you can't be late by a single minute! Did you forget, Miss? Last month you overslept by a quarter hour, and the Madam had you kneel in the ancestral hall for two whole hours!"

Su Ruan: "..."

Help! Being a villainess was bad enough—there's a morning clock-in torture too?

She accepted her fate and hauled herself up, submitting to Lizi's ministrations.

Washing, hair, dressing—every movement tugged at her mangled feet, making her wince and hiss.

Lizi eyed the thickly bandaged feet, face creased with worry. "Miss, can you even walk on these?"

"Can't walk, still have to walk."

Su Ruan said, drained of all energy. Leaning on Lizi's arm, she limped and hobbled toward Yilan Garden—the residence of the family's matriarch, Qiu Wanrou.

By the time she arrived, the sky had brightened another shade.

Yilan Garden was already swept spotless and bright. Morning dew still clung to the greenery, and the faint scent of orchids drifted through the air.

The main hall doors stood open. Before Su Ruan even stepped inside, she heard gentle laughter and soft conversation.

She gripped the doorframe and peered in.

Su Ruan's mother, Qiu Wanrou, sat poised in a red sandalwood armchair at the head of the room. She wore a pale celadon robe traced with lotus vine patterns, her hair pinned immaculately.

At that moment, she was smiling warmly, holding Yu Qinghe's hand, chatting affectionately. Her eyes were gentle.

Yu Qinghe sat with her head slightly bowed, listening attentively, occasionally responding in a soft voice—poised and sweet.

The original novel hadn't described Qiu Wanrou in much detail—only that she was mild-tempered and came from a scholarly family.

Seeing her in person now, Su Ruan realized the woman had refined, elegant features and a graceful air that shared nothing with her own vivid, striking face.

It was Yu Qinghe's water-pale, delicate features that echoed Qiu Wanrou's likeness.

Qiu Wanrou heard the movement and turned.

Seeing Su Ruan limp in, the warmth in her expression dimmed instantly. Her brow furrowed slightly.

"Where did you go causing trouble this time? Look at you." Her voice wasn't loud, but the displeasure was unmistakable. "Your father is away on the emperor's border inspection. Can't you behave yourself and save me some worry?"

Before Su Ruan could fabricate an excuse, her body reacted before her mind—flinching tight, instinctively.

The original Su Ruan was this afraid of her own mother?

She lowered her eyes and said nothing.

Seeing her sullen silence, Qiu Wanrou's irritation climbed another notch. But with Yu Qinghe present, she couldn't lose her composure entirely.

She pressed the annoyance down and said coolly:

"Come sit."

Su Ruan shuffled over and sat obediently on the embroidered stool across from Yu Qinghe.

"The Flower God Festival is in two days. The Duchess of Mu is hosting a spring outing and flower-viewing at her country estate for several young ladies of the capital. New dresses and jewelry have arrived for you both. You and Qinghe, go ahead and pick."

She looked up and signaled the matron beside her.

The matron understood and clapped twice toward the door. Several maids filed in carrying trays.

Soon, a row of newly tailored dresses hung from the rosewood clothes rack on one side of the hall.

Colors ranged from understated moon-white, pale jade, and lotus pink, to vibrant buttercup yellow, cherry blossom, and begonia red—every shade represented. The fabrics were all the finest silks and gauzes.

The jewelry sets laid out on the table glittered even more—gold filigree with kingfisher feather inlay, dazzling enough to make one's eyes swim.

Su Ruan marveled inwardly.

The Su family really doesn't skimp on dressing its daughters. No wonder the original Su Ruan could afford to scheme all day—this lifestyle is absurdly cushy.

But then again, in the original novel, Su Ruan's penchant for chaos probably had everything to do with this ridiculously privileged environment.

Yu Qinghe rose first, smiling at Su Ruan and Qiu Wanrou.

"Ruan Ruan, you pick first."

Su Ruan's gaze swept the dresses. She reached out and touched the nearest one—a pale blue high-waisted ruqun of gossamer-thin fabric, light as spring water, sheer as morning mist, cool to the touch. Silver thread embroidered scattered magnolia branches across it—elegant and refined.

The moment her fingers brushed it, Qiu Wanrou reached over and pulled the dress away from her, handing it to Yu Qinghe instead.

"This color and embroidery suit Qinghe's temperament better."

"Qinghe, try this one?"

Yu Qinghe glanced at Su Ruan. "Auntie, perhaps Ruan Ruan should choose first..."

Qiu Wanrou waved it off casually. "It's fine. She's young—any bright color looks good on her."

Su Ruan's hand hung frozen in midair. Something sour and unnamable bubbled up inside her, gurgling like a simmering pot.

When she'd read the novel, she'd known the backstory: Yu Qinghe was the only child of Qiu Wanrou's late elder sister. Qiu Wanrou doted on her niece as if she were her own daughter.

Even after the original Su Ruan's death, Qiu Wanrou had redirected all her maternal love to Yu Qinghe entirely.

Back then, reading as Jiang Luyi, she'd found the aunt's devotion touching—even shed a tear at the warmth of it.

But now she was Su Ruan.

Standing here, feeling this body's instinctive flinch, watching her mother's unmasked coldness toward her and effortless warmth toward her cousin...

It was a completely different feeling.

She suddenly wondered: had the original Su Ruan antagonized Yu Qinghe purely over a man she'd met once and never spoken to?

Or was it the resentment that built up, day after day, year after year, from exactly this kind of differential treatment?

Like a flower planted in a corner where the sun never reached—growing twisted, rotting, until it started giving off poison.

Su Ruan looked away and pointed at random to a cherry blossom pink dress of gossamer silk scattered with embroidered flowers.

"This one."

Layers of skirt, embroidered with large cascading begonia blossoms edged in gold thread—bright and vivacious.

Truth be told, she'd never liked overly muted colors anyway. She preferred bold, vivid tones.

This dress suited her far better.

After choosing her dress, Su Ruan turned to the jewelry on the table.

The most conspicuous set was a collection of hairpins and side-combs inlaid with perfectly round freshwater pearls—the luster soft and warm, luxurious but not ostentatious. Clearly made for Yu Qinghe.

Su Ruan, reading the room, shifted her gaze and tapped a different set—a vivid tourmaline ensemble.

"I'll take this one."