The Princess did not understand the full measure of whatever potion Li Ying claimed to have in that little concoction, but seeing Li Ying’s confident composure and having fretted herself half to pieces for two days, she finally relaxed. A dull ache ran through her limbs and her whole body felt off—small aches that made her only too ready to believe in any remedy. With that, she agreed, half doubtful, half hopeful.
Li Ying changed into a spotless white robe and, in front of the Princess, washed her hands twice with deliberate care. She then took a clean square of cloth and expertly wrapped the Princess’s black hair away from her face.
“Your Highness, please close your eyes,” she said politely. “Before any facial treatment we must cleanse. I made this cleansing paste myself, with nourishing milk and tremella. It’s mild, but if the foam gets into the eyes it will sting.”
The Princess obeyed, curious despite herself. Most households could only afford soapberries for washing. Wealthier families might keep special bath powders made from ground beans, mixed with spices and seasonal flowers and pounded into fine powder—an elaborate process that could keep a woman’s skin pale and smooth for months. As a child of privilege, the Princess’s own powder would have been laced with pearls, powdered jade, and seven rare fragrances; mixed with exotic flowers and ground to an inch of luxury. Yet she had never heard of the “cleansing soap” Li Ying now produced.
Li Ying was unhurried. From a small square of violet-colored soap she whipped up a dense, silken lather and applied it to the Princess’s face, massaging in circular strokes. The Princess felt only a cool, ticklish relief as the foam glided over her cheeks; the tension between her brows and the tightness around her mouth softened. The relief surprised her so much that a faint smile eased across her lips.
Li Ying seized her moment, explaining as she worked. “Your Highness has a keen eye. The oil base I used in this soap is purple-gromwell oil, steeped for a year. The water base is goat’s milk from the northern hills.”
“Goat’s milk?” the Princess repeated, nonplussed.
“It’s rich in nutrients—unsaturated fats and fine proteins. It’s said to contain more epidermal growth factors than cow’s milk, so it nourishes and repairs the skin, stimulates cell turnover, and promotes self-repair. In short, it’s very effective against aging.”
Though unfamiliar with “growth factors” and “cell activity,” the Princess recognized the word that mattered: aging. Her lips curved. Even with some of her bloom faded, she still cared for the word as if for a promise.
Li Ying dabbed the Princess’s face dry with disposable cleansing cloths. These were no common rags but paper made from the bamboo of the Lu family’s mountain—pressed, pulped, and formed into single-use sheets. Clean, she said, with a smile, and the Princess felt gratified.
From a pale jade bottle Li Ying poured a clear liquid over the Princess’s face and gently patted it in. A rush of rose met her senses—rich, heady, as though she had stepped into a field of roses in full throng. The scent lifted her spirits; for a moment she forgot all decorum and inhaled deeply.
“What is this?” she asked, eager.
“Rose hydrosol,” Li Ying answered. “It’s the byproduct of extracting rose essential oil. Used as a toner, it cleanses, refreshes, and hydrates the skin.”
The Princess blinked. “Again with cleaning?”
She thought of the elaborate powders and perfumes she applied each day, the carefully chosen cosmetics of a woman of rank. Though her youthful glow had waned, she kept her complexion well tended—she could not imagine there being that much dirt left. Li Ying must have thought her face caked in old grime.
Li Ying laughed softly and continued. “Your Highness cherishes your face—no wonder—but the powders you wear every day are precisely what harm it. Those cosmetics contain lead and other heavy substances that, over time, turn the skin sallow and dull. Even young beauties can end up with ruined complexions. That is why I must cleanse thoroughly.”
She laid a warm cloth over the Princess’s face. The steam opened the pores; the Princess sighed in contentment. When the skin was ready, Li Ying pressed a rose-soaked sheet of bamboo paper to the Princess’s face. “This is a water mask,” she explained. “It will hydrate dry, sensitive skin and soften the stratum corneum so the oils that follow can better penetrate.”
While the mask did its work, Li Ying washed again and brought out a bowl of scrub she had prepared. The sea salt came from the Lu family’s saltworks, mixed with essential oils and honey, and she worked it onto each slender finger, massaging every joint. The Princess’s hands turned a delicate pink from the attention, and the skin felt silkier for it.
Li Ying peeled off the mask and spread a thin layer of rose-infused oil across the Princess’s cheeks. She took a smooth jade massage rod, polished and rounded, and began to work the meridians and pressure points across the face and scalp. “This is an oil massage,” she said. “We nourish the skin with oil.”
Age had thinned the Princess’s natural oils; dry flaking could turn into lines, and a compromised skin barrier would lead to redness and irritation. Replenishing oils balances moisture, rebuilds the lipid barrier, and fights aging. Li Ying’s hand was sure; the jade tool applied pressure with the precise rhythm of someone who knew faces.
At first the Princess had been skeptical of Li Ying’s unfamiliar theories, but as warmth and a gentle tingle spread over her cheeks and temples, the last of her doubts melted away. When the oils had been fully worked in, Li Ying rolled two small glass globes across the Princess’s face, cool and soothing, then massaged her shoulders and neck.
When the Princess rose and looked into a hand mirror, she hardly recognized the woman reflected back—no rouge, no powder, yet her skin glowed with a different kind of radiance: plump, flushed, as if the light came from within. She touched her cheek. It felt like the shellless bloom of an egg—soft, yielding—or the smooth pulp of a southern lychee just brought as tribute: almost impossibly tender. Joy swelled in her chest, bright and simple.