The number one sycophant of the Ming Dynasty

First, there was that pen.

She picked it up and repeatedly rubbed the stalk of the Xiangfei bamboo between her fingers; the purple spots on it felt as warm and smooth as human body temperature.

She spread out a sheet of Xuan paper he had given her, picked up the ink stick he had given her, dripped a few drops of water onto the inkstone, and slowly ground the ink.

The scent of ink slowly spread, along with the coolness of borneol, the subtle fragrance of musk, and the ancient aroma of pine soot.

The three flavors blended together, like a plum grove after a snowfall in winter, crisp yet not cold, lingering yet not dissipating, gently enveloping this cold duty room.

Once the ink was ground, she picked up her brush, dipped it in the ink, and wrote two characters on the paper.

"Zhiyu"

It is her own name.

The brushstrokes touched the paper, producing a glossy black ink that didn't bleed or spread, flowing incredibly smoothly.

Without expending any effort, the pen tip turned smoothly and effortlessly, with the pressure and speed entirely under her control.

She had been writing small regular script for eight years and never knew that a good pen could make her wrist so relaxed and her handwriting so beautiful.

She wrote another line.

Winter of the thirty-eighth year of the Jiajing reign

The words were neat and tidy, each stroke clear and distinct, carrying a relaxed smile that she herself was unaware of.

She put down her pen, stared at the words on the paper for a long time.

Then she picked up the celadon cup.

The glaze of Longquan kiln is bluish-white, warm and smooth like a piece of jade.

The fetus was so thin it was translucent; when held in her palm, it was so light it was almost weightless, just enough to fill her palm.

The crackle on the cup was extremely fine, like a small flower blooming inside the porcelain, visible only to her.

She placed the cup on the matching saucer.

The saucer was also made of celadon, with the same glaze as the cup.

The cup sat quietly on the saucer, like a small, complete ritual that belonged only to her.

When she picked up that Ding kiln cup at the Prince Yu's residence, she did pause for a moment longer.

In that instant, she was simply thinking that porcelain could be so warm and smooth, and that holding a cup in her hand could be so comfortable.

She only thought about it for a moment, and even forgot about it herself, but he saw it, remembered it, and even gave her a cup that belonged only to her.

She picked up her cup and poured herself a cup of hot tea.

The tea was the coarse tea she usually drank, but when poured into this cup, the tea soup became clear and the taste seemed to become milder.

She picked up the cup and took a sip.

The rim of the cup touched her lips, warm and smooth, unlike the chipped, rough porcelain cup that would chafe her lips with every sip.

After eight years, she finally got a new cup that doesn't hurt her lip.

Then she picked up the two pieces of moon-white plain satin.

She unfolded a three-foot square piece and gently laid it on the table.

The paper is laid out from the edge of the inkstone to the edge of the paper, just the right size.

The satin surface is smooth and soft; when you touch your wrist, it feels cool but not icy, which is incredibly comfortable.

Against a pale white background, the faint lotus scroll pattern slowly emerges when held up to the light, like clouds or mist, barely visible.

If you don't hold it up to the light, it's just a plain piece of satin, lying there quietly, unassuming and unobtrusive.

He said that it's best to keep this to yourself.

She used her finger to vaguely trace her name on the satin spread out on the table.

The satin was soft; when a finger ran across it, it left a very faint mark that disappeared in an instant, like a secret hidden deep in the heart, unknown to anyone.

She stood up and walked to the other cushion.

The prayer cushion was dusty and dusty; she had been sitting on it for eight years and was used to it.

She unfolded the moon-white satin and carefully laid it on the cushion, tucking the four corners neatly.

It was three feet square, just enough to completely enclose the entire prayer mat, no more, no less.

She sat down again.

The satin is soft and cool but not icy; even through the thin cotton wadding, you can feel its delicate gentleness.

Her back straightened naturally, and her wrists rested on the cool satin surface of the desk, so comfortable that she almost shed tears.

She lowered her head to write, and as she looked down, she saw the very faint dark patterns on the moon-white satin, like clouds or mist, almost imperceptible.

She has sat in this duty room for eight years, never having a quiet corner of her own.

There is now.

Finally, there was that packet of agarwood.

She opened the paper package, and the scraps were indeed of poor quality, varying in size and color.

But she doesn't care.

She took out a small celadon incense burner from the deepest part of the cabinet.

It was given to her by an old palace maid who had been very kind to her when she first entered the palace.

After eight years of use, a layer of ash that couldn't be washed off settled on the stove lid. She kept it hidden and never displayed it in public.

She placed the incense burner on the empty windowsill, put in a small pinch of agarwood, and lit it with charcoal.

A wisp of smoke rose, as thin as a thread, straight up into the air, and then slowly dispersed.

The fragrance of agarwood slowly filled the entire duty room.

Calm, serene, unassuming, and understated.

Like a deserted temple in the dead of night, like a mountain forest covered with fallen leaves in autumn.

Like a person staying quietly, without being on edge, without being wary of anyone, without wearing that cold, hard shell.

She sat back down on the cushion.

The satin surface of the cushion feels cool and refreshing.

My wrist rested on the smooth, soft satin surface of the desk.

The pen is made of Xiangfei bamboo, and it feels warm and smooth in my hand.

The ink was infused with borneol and musk, resulting in a jet-black, glossy finish that filled the room with a subtle fragrance.

The cup is made of Longquan celadon, and it feels as light and thin as paper in my hand, with a warm temperature.

The agarwood on the windowsill burned gently, its wisps of smoke rising straight up and slowly dissipating.

She sat in that cold, impersonal duty room for eight years.

Never before have I felt so grounded, secure, and gentle as I do today.

She lowered her head and continued reviewing the documents she hadn't finished reviewing that day.

The pen strokes landed on the paper, and one by one, the jet-black ink marks appeared.

Her hands were steady, and her handwriting was neat.

But as she was reviewing the papers, her eyes suddenly welled up with tears.

It's not crying.

She had spent eight years in the inner court and had long since learned to swallow her tears, never shedding a single tear in front of others.

My eyes are just sore, really sore.

It felt like something was stuck in my throat, soft and hot.

She put down her pen, picked up the celadon cup, and warmed it in her hands.

The porcelain body, initially icy cold, was slowly warmed by the tea, like a heart frozen for eight years, slowly coming back to life.

The wind outside the window howled through the eaves, sounding like both crying and singing.

The duty room was quiet, with only the wisps of smoke from the agarwood rising straight up and gently enveloping her.

She gently pressed the cup against her cheek.

It's warm and moist.

It felt as if someone had gently touched her face with extremely light and soft force.

She had been in this inner court for eight years, and no one had ever treated her so gently.

She put the cup down and picked up the pen again.

He approved three documents, then put them down again.

She stood up, walked to the windowsill, and looked at the burning incense burner.

The smoke rose straight up, and the fragrance was serene.

She reached out her hand, her fingers gently passing through the wisp of smoke.

The cigarette swirled between her fingers and then gently dissipated.

She withdrew her hand, her fingertips retaining a faint, pleasant fragrance.

She brought her fingertips close to her nose and smelled them.

Then she smiled.

It wasn't the usual faint, aloof, formulaic smile.

Her lips curved upwards, and her eyes followed suit, with a hint of red at the corners, like a smile that held stars and belonged only to her.

Only in this room, where she was all alone, only amidst the gentle fragrance, did she dare to let down her guard and reveal the girlish side she had hidden for eight years.

She turned around, walked back to the desk, and sat down again.

She carefully smoothed out the satin spread on the table and arranged the brush, ink, and cup one by one neatly.

Xiangfei bamboo, pine soot ink, celadon cup, moon-white satin.

The four items sat there quietly, like a small, gentle world that belonged only to her.

She picked up her pen and continued reviewing documents.

This time, she didn't stop.

The pen tip landed smoothly and steadily on the paper, carrying a gentle smile that she herself was unaware of.

……