Near the first month, Chen Qiuzhi, one of the Female Officials of Ceremonies in the Palace Ritual Bureau, suddenly passed away. The two Ceremonial Female Officials under her had only been promoted last year and weren’t ready for greater responsibility. The Ceremonial Office couldn’t immediately fill the position.
After consulting with two Palace Stewards from the Palace Management Bureau, Lady Jiang decided to promote a Reception Female Official to the Ceremonial position to handle the guidance and ceremonial duties for noble ladies entering the palace during the year’s grand banquets.
The vacant Reception Official position was filled by a senior Protocol Official, and Song Yunqing was appointed to the resulting Protocol Official vacancy.
At nineteen, Song Yunqing was the first young female official from her cohort to rise in the Palace Ritual Bureau. Yang Wan and others were delighted for her, planning to pool money for a celebration after the New Year.
However, Song Yunqing felt overwhelmed.
At night, lying on their respective beds, she couldn’t sleep soundly.
Hearing her tossing and coughing, Yang Wan got up and lit a lamp, asking, “Would you like me to serve you some tea?”
Song Yunqing hurriedly sat up, “Please don’t trouble yourself. The snow’s been heavy these days. You’ve finally warmed up in bed – if you get up and catch a chill, you’ll be coughing come spring.”
Yang Wan wrapped herself in her blanket and curled back onto her bed. “What’s wrong? You haven’t been sleeping well for several nights now.”
Song Yunqing also wrapped herself in her blanket, and they chatted across the candlelight.
“I’m worried about making mistakes at the New Year’s banquet. You know how it is – we’ve only handled bureau paperwork. I’ve never done Protocol Official duties. Being suddenly thrust into the spotlight, I don’t feel confident at all.”
Yang Wan tucked a pillow under her chin, comforting her: “We only serve the imperial consorts and noble ladies. How big a mistake could there be? The imperial consorts are like living Bodhisattvas – even if you make a mistake, wouldn’t they forgive you?”
Song Yunqing replied, “I’m not like you. You learn and remember things so quickly, like someone’s hammering information into your brain with a nail.”
Yang Wan couldn’t help laughing, “The way you put it… sounds rather frightening.”
“You think that’s frightening?”
Song Yunqing pulled back her bed curtain. Now fully awake, she felt like chatting. Cupping her chin, she asked Yang Wan, “Have you heard about how the Founding Emperor killed an official with iron nails?”
Yang Wan was startled, immediately developing a morbid academic interest.
This was a story not even recorded in unofficial histories.
“Why kill with iron nails?”
Song Yunqing explained, “During the Founding Emperor’s reign, there was a prominent scholar from Shandong named Wu Shan. The Emperor invited him to become an official, but he kept refusing. It’s said the Imperial Guard cut off one of his fingers before he was forced to come to the capital. Then, during his audience with the Emperor, he didn’t follow the Imperial Ceremonial Official’s guidance and performed the grand ceremony incorrectly. This enraged the Emperor, who considered it grave disrespect and ordered the Northern Disciplinary Court to imprison him in the imperial prison, where they nailed his hands and knees to the ground with iron nails. Wu Shan lasted three days before dying. The Ceremonial Official responsible for guidance was also beaten to death.”
Yang Wan’s exposed hand suddenly felt cold, and she quickly moved it toward the charcoal fire to warm up.
“Is this story very obscure?”
Song Yunqing nodded, “It was rather cruel. When female officials teach us, they only tell the latter half as a warning, reminding us not to treat palace ceremonies lightly. We dare not comment on the Founding Emperor being petty. Oh, you absolutely must not spread this story around.”
Yang Wan pressed her lips together, withdrew her warmed hand under the covers, got up wrapped in her blanket, and walked to the desk with the lamp to take out her notebook.
Song Yunqing asked, “What are you doing in the middle of the night?”
Yang Wan replied, “Thought of something I need to write down, or I’ll forget it tomorrow.”
Song Yunqing didn’t think much of it, lifted her bed curtain, and pressed her temples, saying, “I think I should follow your example and get up to review the ceremonial procedures.”
Yang Wan turned around with her brush, “Don’t just talk about it, get up!”
Song Yunqing hesitated with her blanket for a moment before steeling herself, “Alright, I’m getting up too.”
She got dressed and went to the desk.
They each took a lamp, and before they knew it, the hour of Yin had passed.
Yang Wan finished recording the story Song Yunqing had just told and read it over again to herself.
Speaking of cruelty, this story wasn’t particularly notable compared to later tortures in the imperial prison like intestine washing, but it probably wasn’t recorded because the Emperor, coming from humble origins, felt deeply disrespected by Wu Shan, seeing it as a loss of face. The behavior was rather childish and extreme – even Song Yunqing thought the Founding Emperor was too petty.
Yang Wan rested her chin on her hand by the lamplight, thinking how historical events tied to rulers’ personal emotions or individual characters seemed too random, seemingly impossible to explain through consistent historical principles.
“By the way, Yunqing…”
She turned around, wanting to ask for more details, but found Song Yunqing had fallen asleep at the desk.
Yang Wan shook her head helplessly, draped a cape over her, put away her notebook, blew out the lamp, and returned to her warm bed.
She recorded this incident as a casual note in her notebook without much deeper thought.
However, an event at the New Year’s palace banquet would turn Song Yunqing’s casual story into something of an ominous prophecy.
On New Year’s Eve, though the Grand Secretariat was on holiday, Yang Lun still entered the Huiji Gate early in the morning.
Last night’s snow had been particularly heavy, and the sound of snow being swept from the palace paths was almost grating. Yang Lun pressed his ears as he entered the duty room, took off his outer cape, and called for someone to bring water to wash his hands. However, it was quite a while before there was any sound at the door.
Yang Lun had already set out ink and paper, and without looking up, complained, “Have you all gone on holiday too? You’re so slow.”
As he spoke, he stood up, rolling up his sleeves while walking toward the door. Looking up, he saw Deng Ying standing in the sparse snowfall with the water basin.
“Why is it you?”
Deng Ying set down the basin and turned to close the door.
“It’s not very hot anymore, Senior Official Yang will have to make do.”
Yang Lun glanced at Deng Ying and dropped his sleeves, “I don’t want to touch anything you bring.”
Deng Ying said nothing more, but took out a memorial from his sleeve and handed it to Yang Lun.
“Please look at this.”
Yang Lun glanced at it and rebuked sharply, “How dare you steal a memorial that’s already reached the Ceremonial Court!”