The low-key prince summons trainees from the Imperial Household Department at the start of the game.

In the days following the plum blossom viewing banquet, preparations were being made inside and outside the Zhenguo Marquis's mansion for Chen Qing.

Although no clear decree has been issued from the palace yet, the Dowager Empress is no ordinary person.

After Granny Zhou came to deliver the message on the day of the plum blossom appreciation banquet, she had several rooms in the west courtyard cleaned up that very evening.

The window screens were replaced with new ones, the underfloor heating was turned on, and even the old elm tree in the yard had its branches pruned.

To outsiders, it might seem like just a routine winter cleaning, but the elders in the household knew that it was a preparation for any eventuality.

If the marriage goes through, Chen Qing will naturally not be able to continue living next to Ci'an Hall. The west wing is closer to the second gate, making it more convenient for him to go about his business.

In addition, the old lady had the account books in Chen Qing's hands rearranged.

Chen Qing has been in charge of most of the household affairs in recent years, including the rent from the estates outside the city, the income from the two shops in the east city, and the amount of money to be spent by each department during the holidays.

If she gets married, these matters will have to be handed over to someone else, and arrangements will inevitably need to be made in advance.

That afternoon, Chen Qing, as usual, helped the old lady at Ci'an Hall to look over the winter tents sent from the estate.

The window of the warm room was half open, and fine snow was falling outside, each flake landing silently in the snow piled up an inch thick along the windowsill.

The charcoal brazier was burning warmly, and occasionally a spark or two would pop out of the red-hot charcoal in the copper basin, sending up a very faint wisp of smoke.

Chen Qing was wearing only a simple, moon-white jacket. Her hair was loosely tied up and secured with a plain silver hairpin, with a few stray strands hanging down beside her ears, swaying slightly as she lowered her head.

She held a wolf-hair brush in her hand, and a thick account book lay open in front of her, its pages half-turned. Beside her were several letters written by the estate manager, some with fresh ink and some with old ink.

Several stewards stood below, the one in the lead surnamed Wang, who was in charge of the largest estate outside the city. He was a strong and sturdy man who could carry a sack of grain with one hand on the estate, but now, as he stood in front of Chen Qing to answer his questions, fine sweat appeared on his forehead.

He had just given a number, and Chen Qing paused for a moment, without looking up. He simply flipped the ledger two pages forward and one page backward before closing it.

She closed the ledger very softly, but Steward Wang's back straightened instantly.

He had seen the Third Miss do this gesture far too many times.

She didn't speak or ask any questions; she simply closed the ledger, raised her eyes, and quietly looked at you.

That look wasn't fierce or cold; it was even quite gentle. But beneath that gentleness lay a layer that made you feel like you hadn't said anything clearly, like a lamp shining on a table, bringing out all the dust.

"Uncle Wang," Chen Qing began, his voice low and even tinged with amusement, "you just said that the estate harvested 470 shi of winter wheat this year, which is 20% more than last year."

"But I remember you reported 320 shi last year. According to that, 20% is 64 shi, which, combined with last year's figure, should be 384 shi. How come it's almost 90 shi more than you reported?"

A bead of sweat slid down Steward Wang's forehead. He instinctively reached out to wipe it with his sleeve, but then withdrew his hand halfway: "Well... Miss Third, this year the weather has been perfect, and the harvest is better than in previous years..."

"I believe the weather will be favorable." Chen Qing reopened the account book, his fingertip pointing to a number in a certain line, his tone still unhurried, "But the estate has a total of four hundred mu of land, of which one hundred and twenty mu are newly cultivated wasteland this year, and according to the rules, no rent or tax will be collected for the first three years."

"If you include the output from this new field in the accounts, it will look good on paper. But when I ask about it, you don't mention the new field at all, only saying that the weather is good. Uncle Wang, we've known each other for four years, do you think I can't see through it?"

Steward Wang's mouth opened and closed repeatedly before he finally knelt down with a thud, his voice trembling: "Third Miss, spare me! It was this old servant's foolishness; I was thinking of reporting higher harvests for the household at the end of the year to save face..."

"Get up." Chen Qing closed the account book and placed it on the corner of the table. His voice was still gentle. "Why are you kneeling? You are an elder in the manor. Do you think I would make you kneel for such a small matter? Just remember to write down the accounts for the new and old fields separately from now on. Don't mix them up."

"A good harvest is a good thing, but our Marquis's mansion doesn't rely on good numbers to make a living; it relies on every single account being crystal clear. Don't you agree?"

Manager Wang nodded hurriedly, his legs still weak when he got up, and he practically ran out of the warm pavilion.

After Chen Qing and the other managers had all left, he let out a soft breath and put the crooked wolf-hair brush back on the brush holder.

She looked down at the faint nail mark she had made when she pressed too hard while closing the account book, rubbed it with her fingertip but didn't wipe it off, leaving it there.

The old lady sat on the warm couch, her eyes closed, as if she were dozing off.

But she kept slowly and deliberately moving the white jade prayer beads in her hand, pausing her thumb on the surface of each bead as if counting some kind of rhythm.

When Chen Qing looked up, the old lady had just finished playing a round of music, opened her eyes, and said indifferently, "That monkey Wang Fu, you haven't scared him in years."

"His granddaughter didn't scare him." Chen Qing stood up, tidied the account books, and then took a cup of hot tea to the bedside. "He's just feeling guilty."

"You should punish him because he's guilty, but what about the few taels of silver he owes? You asked Manager Zhou to investigate, but he found out and then did nothing. You girl, it's like having a knife to someone's throat; not cutting it off is more unsettling than actually cutting it off."

As she spoke, the old lady took the tea, sipped it, and gestured for Chen Qing to sit closer.

Chen Qing sat down on the brocade stool beside the couch, still holding the cup of tea she hadn't had a chance to drink.

She looked down at the tea in her cup; the tiny tea leaves floated and sank in the soup, like a small world that hadn't yet settled.

She didn't speak, waiting for her grandmother to speak.

The old lady placed the teacup on her lap, took her hand, and gently patted it.

Those hands, marked with age spots, covered Chen Qing's slender, white hands, warm with a slight coolness from the lingering scent of Buddhist prayer beads.

"Qing'er, tell your grandmother the truth." The old lady's voice lowered, so low that only the two of them could hear, "If the Ninth Prince's marriage really goes through, are you willing or not?"

Chen Qing did not lower her head and act shy like other young ladies, nor did she cover half of her face with a fan and say, "Grandmother, what are you saying?"

She simply lowered her eyes, looked at the hand her grandmother had placed on the back of her hand, and remained silent for a moment.

The charcoal fire crackled in the warm room, and a flake of fine snow drifted in through the half-open window, landing on the windowsill and melting into water stains before it could be seen clearly.

A moment later, she raised her head and looked at the old lady with clear, bright eyes.

There was no girlish shyness in her gaze, nor any deliberate composure, only a calmness that was very frank, as if she were talking about something she had already thought through.

"Grandmother, your granddaughter agrees."

The old lady paused for a moment.

She expected to hear things like "I'll listen to my grandmother's arrangements" or "It's all up to my grandmother."

That's what most young ladies in the Marquis's mansion would say—appropriate, considerate, and without revealing their emotions.

But Chen Qing said "I'm willing".

Those two words carry far more weight than "subject to arrangements."

"But your grandfather said," the old lady gently tapped Chen Qing's hand with her fingers, "that the Ninth Prince has no foundation in the palace, nor any maternal clan. The First Prince, Second Prince, and Third Prince each have their own power, and even the Fifth Prince has someone backing him. Only the Ninth Prince is like a tree without roots or leaves planted in a corner. If you really marry him, you'll have to start all over again with him."

Chen Qing gently pulled the hand that her grandmother was holding back, but did not pull away.

She tucked the blanket that had slipped down the old lady's knees, smoothed out a crease at the edge of the blanket with her fingers, and then looked up.

Her voice wasn't loud, but it was extremely steady; each word seemed to come from a very deep place.

"Grandma, I'm not afraid of enduring hardship. What I fear is a life that becomes so peaceful and tasteless."

The old lady lifted her eyelids slightly.

"Since His Highness has no maternal clan, no one will suppress his granddaughter at every turn. If he doesn't fight for power, his granddaughter won't have to become someone's pawn as soon as she enters the family."

"If he's cunning, I can still contend with him; if he's truly stagnant, I'll be the one to worry..." She paused slightly, a faint smile playing on her lips. There was no hesitation in that smile, only a calm acceptance of something she had already figured out. "The daughters of the Marquis of Zhenguo's household, as taught by my grandfather, fear not the decline of their husbands' families, but rather becoming mere decorations in their own homes."

The old lady listened and remained silent for a long time.

The prayer beads in her hand stopped moving at some point, her thumb resting on a particular bead as if frozen in place.

The warm room was very quiet. You could hear the very faint sound of snowflakes falling outside the window, rustling like countless silkworms nibbling on mulberry leaves.

"You child," the old lady finally sighed, her voice carrying a mixture of heartache and relief, "you don't seem like a sixteen-year-old at all."

The smile was very faint, but the corners of her eyes curved slightly, making her usually calm and gentle face suddenly appear more vibrant.

Its radiance was not flamboyant, but rather like a fine crack on the surface of a lake in winter, with a pool of living water moving beneath the thin ice.

"My grandmother taught me all of that," she said.

As she spoke, she got up and walked to the old sword on the west wall.

My steps were neither fast nor slow, as familiar as if I had walked this road countless times before.

She stopped in front of the sword, raised her hand, and lightly traced her fingertips across the black scabbard.

The scabbard was cold, having been untouched for many years, yet the wear marks from countless handles were still clearly visible on its surface, slightly concave to the touch, like the palm print left by a hand that had been repeatedly rubbed for decades.

Chen Qing's fingers slowly slid down the wear mark, from the hilt to the middle of the scabbard, and then to the bronze ornament at the end of the scabbard.

Her movements were very gentle, as if she were touching a piece of old time.

"My grandfather guarded the northern frontier for decades with his spear." Her voice was softer than before, her back to the old matriarch, but every word was clear. "This granddaughter may not have the skill to ride into battle, but she should at least learn to protect the Marquis's mansion, to uphold the family reputation her grandfather built, and whoever she marries…"

She paused, her fingertips lightly pressing against the bronze ornaments on the scabbard. "It's never just about getting married."

The old lady watched her retreating figure.

The light from the side of the warm room shone on Chen Qing's figure, casting it on the gray wall. It was long and quiet, like an outline that had not yet fully unfolded, but already knew where it was going.

The old lady's eyes suddenly reddened, but she didn't let the tears fall. She just clenched the string of prayer beads in her hand a little tighter. The sharp edges of the beads dug into her palm, causing a slight pain.

"Your perspective is reassuring," the old lady's voice was slightly hoarse, "but I'm at ease. No matter how large the Marquis's mansion is, it still needs someone capable of protecting it."

Chen Qing did not turn around.

She stood in front of the old sword, her head slightly lowered, as if talking to the sword, or perhaps to herself.

After a long while, she turned around.

The moment she turned around, the expression on her face had returned to its usual gentle calm, as if the fingertip that had just grazed the sword sheath and the silence that had followed were someone else's business.

She walked back to the table and reached out to light the bronze lamp.

The firelight flickered, illuminating half of her face while the other half remained in shadow.

"Grandma, don't worry." She picked up the lampshade and put it back on, her voice returning to its usual unhurried rhythm. "Let me add another lamp for you; it's getting dark."

She placed the lampshade securely, then casually closed the window halfway to block the fine snow drifting in.

Then she turned around, sat back down in the chair by the desk, picked up the ledger from before, and opened it as if to continue checking the remaining numbers.

But the page she opened happened to be Manager Wang's winter wheat account. She glanced at the number and then closed it again.

The light snow was still falling outside the window.

Through the half-closed window crack, snowflakes fell softly onto the blue bricks of the windowsill, then melted silently.

The light shone from behind her, illuminating half of her serene profile, revealing the soft yet distinct lines of her jaw.

Looking at her reflection in the windowpane, a thought suddenly came to her mind.

Your Highness, if we are truly of the same kind, then this marriage is not forced.

If you are not, that's fine too. The one who will marry into the Zhenguo Marquis's mansion is the third young lady, and she will let him know that this seemingly gentle sparrow has something in its claws.

She kept the thought in her mind, like placing a chess piece in an inconspicuous spot on a chessboard, then lowered her head, reopened the ledger, and continued looking at the next number.

The snow was still falling outside the window, quietly covering the entire roof of the Marquis's mansion in white.

The charcoal fire crackled occasionally in the warm room, and the old lady's prayer beads jingled again as she slowly and deliberately moved them one by one, as if counting the length of winter.