Madam Cao watched her husband’s face grow darker by the minute and felt panic rising in her chest.
“Master,” she whispered, voice tight with fear. “That Lu boy — how dare he be so bold?”
They had assumed the worst outcome would be nothing more than a failed attempt to frame Lu Xunguang. At worst, Lu’s repair of the peacock-gold robe would be exposed as inadequate and everyone would simply pretend nothing had happened. They could swallow the disgrace and move on.
No one expected the apprentice to not only mend the robe, but to mend it so perfectly that it outshone the original work of the Jiangnan weaving bureau.
“If we submit that robe to the Empress Dowager as it is… Her Majesty and the Emperor are no fools. They’ll see at once which is superior,” Madam Cao said, every word edged with dread. “If the Emperor orders your bureau to copy this repaired piece using the same method, what then? Our Jiangnan bureau could never match such craft.”
Cao’s wife clutched at his sleeve. “If that robe reaches the Empress Dowager, it’ll be our ruin.”
Cao, who had spent his life rising and falling with each edict and favor, felt the same sick dread. He had assumed Lu Xunguang’s options were limited. An escort charged with delivering the Empress Dowager’s birthday gifts had no right to pry open the packages; if Lu found damage to the robe, prudence demanded he keep silent — better to swallow the insult than risk the charge of overstepping or sacrilege. He should either quietly repair the damage or be blamed for inefficiency.
Cao had even convinced himself he knew Lu’s likely retreats, betting the young man would choose self-preservation. Yet here he was, faced with a young man who had fixed the robe so well he might actually present it at court and, in doing so, make the Jiangnan bureau look incompetent.
If Lu chose to confess everything in front of the Emperor — that the Lu household had dismantled the Empress Dowager’s gift and used some kind of “peacock-gold” fabric — the consequences could be unpredictable. On one hand, the Lu family’s meddling with the Empress’s present would be a grave offense. On the other hand, if the robe itself was presented and admired, and Lu had defenders among the powerful — men like Su Buchi or Prince Pei — the scandal might balance out into something the Emperor would tolerate.
But Cao had been plotting a trap: to pin the blame on a colleague, to destroy the royal gift and call it incompetence or worse. If the repair now provoked a fresh uproar, the mansion he’d built — the Cao family’s power — might crack.
He ground his teeth. There was one thing he must not allow: the Emperor or the Empress Dowager getting their hands on that robe.
His fingers tightened on the small white jade cup he held, the knuckles white with strain. Then he issued the order that he hoped would fix everything.
“You men who have slipped into the Lu weaving house—did you learn how they repaired the robe? How exactly did they do it?”
The weavers exchanged nervous looks. After a long pause, the oldest among them spoke with the caution of one used to speaking to senior officials.
“Master… we only heard of the method. The Lu clan used a technique called kesi — a tapestry-like weave. We also overheard words like ‘threading the warp through broken weft’… but we couldn’t steal the whole craft. We were too afraid to try.”
Cao’s frown eased by a degree. That meant there was hope. If they could strip apart the patched piece and study it stitch by stitch, they might glean the secret.
“You did well to report that,” he said, thinking through the possibilities. Lu Xunguang had gathered the profits from the salt and tea inspectors, his palace-patterned flowers and his “fragrant cloud silk” already favored by the Emperor. If Lu were allowed to bring a kesi peacock robe to court, Cao’s position at Jiangnan might be threatened.
But Lu had not shown the whole skirt of the technique — only a small, mended patch — and it had required an all-night effort and a great deal of peacock plumes. If Lu could mend a small fragment, Cao thought, perhaps his bureau could, with time and manpower, recreate an entire robe. He would just need to throw everything he had after it.
“Summon everyone in the Jiangnan weaving bureau,” Cao ordered. “All loom hands and embroiderers — stop your current work. You will study kesi until you know it by feel. I want a complete, flawless kesi peacock robe in my hands before the Empress Dowager’s birthday. Fail me, and bring your heads.”
It was an outrageous command, costly and desperate, but if it worked they would not only silence Lu — they could also dazzle the court and perhaps win even greater favor. Cao had never been more humiliated; he had set a trap for another and found it had snapped back on him. Yet he would not be the one to fall.
The weavers bowed and hurried away. The older woman who had spoken lingered a moment longer.
“Master, to weave a whole peacock robe we must have peacock plumes. That woman Li and Lord Lu only repaired a small patch — even then they used bundle after bundle of feathers and called in extra hands for an entire night. If we are to make a whole robe, we will need far more feathers than we have.”
Cao’s eyes narrowed. The storage still held some plumes. “Use what’s in the warehouse. Begin spinning the thread. I will find the rest.”
Night bled into dawn and Cao did not sleep. Where would he find the countless peacock feathers their craftsmen would require? Lu had managed it somehow — surely, if Lu could, so could he.
Servants and buyers were dispatched across the capital. Hunters were sought out, traders scoured, even exotic bird dealers at the back streets of the market were interrogated. Day one came back empty-handed. Day two was no better.
The weavers had already turned every last plume from the storage into shimmering thread, even dismantling the embroidered panels already sewn onto the peacock robe in the bureau. The more the search dragged on, the colder Cao’s hope grew. How could such a large city have so few peacock feathers? Was fortune finally against him?
He stared up at the pale morning sky and let out a long, bitter sigh. The pride that typically kept his face untroubled had fled. He felt small, the way a steward feels when the palace doors swing on weights bigger than he is.
At that exact moment the steward burst in, breathless and grinning so broadly it lit his worn face.
“Master! Good news—great news!”
Cao snapped to rigid attention.
“The peacocks you wanted—found them!”
For a heartbeat Cao feared the man had spoken madness. Then hope sharp as a blade cut through him.
“Where?”
“In the suburbs,” the steward panted. “I met some hunters who had shot birds — pheasant-like, but beautiful as phoenixes. I followed them and, by luck, they had what you seek. I bought every bird they had.”
Cao’s lips finally curved. Providence had not abandoned him. The imperial favor he’d relied on had not yet deserted the house of Cao. If these birds were truly what they claimed — real peacocks, plumage enough to spin peacock-gold thread — then perhaps the road ahead would open after all.