The Waking of Insects had just passed, and morning dew still clung to the pear blossoms in the courtyard. An Lingrong suddenly sat up in bed, her chest heaving. Her fingertips still carried the lingering sensation of suffocation from the white silk tightening around her neck. Before her was not the narrow bed in the Cold Palace, thick with the smell of mildew, but the side hall where she had lived when she first entered the palace. The mirror showed her at seventeen. Her brows were graceful as distant hills, her face as lovely as a peach blossom, untouched by the malice and gauntness of her later years.
"My lady, you're awake?" Her personal maid, Baojuan, entered with a copper basin. Seeing how pale she was, she hurried over. "Did you have a nightmare? You didn't seem well when you came back after attending the Emperor last night. The imperial physician said you were worn out." Attending the Emperor
