Thus it is said:

　　Once unaware that then I erred, now my thoughts are wild and lost.

　　All the spring breezes before my eyes turn to tears; a single broken heart cannot finish a painting.

　　After Princess Li Lingyue returned to the palace she related every detail to the Empress. Empress Wu was stricken with fury and at once summoned the civil and military ministers to the Hall of State to deliberate.

　　When the ministers assembled, the Empress recounted the affair. “My lords,” she asked, “how shall this matter be dealt with?” The ministers, hearing the charge, glanced at one another and thought within their hearts: “Once Helan Minzhi pressed himself upon the Crown Princess and the Empress did not punish him. Is this present accusation a test of our mettle, or will the culprit truly be executed?”

　　Their counsels faltered and they fell silent. The Empress, anger rising, reproved them: “In court you constantly dispute and speak with certainty—why then do you all fall mute today?” Still they said nothing. Turning to the Chief Justice Pei Xingjian, she asked plainly, “Preside, how must this be handled?” Pei, trembling as he weighed the law, stammered, “By statute—exile to the border.” “Very well,” the Empress declared. “Strip him of the Wu clan’s registry, remove his title as Duke of Zhou, and send him into exile.”

　　A murmur of astonishment ran through the assembled ministers. Some wondered in private, “Why now? In the past the Empress did not punish Helan’s assault upon the Crown Princess; now, for the molestation of a palace maid, does Her Majesty truly intend exile? What crafty purpose lies here?” Yet none dared speak openly. Empress Wu raised her voice: “Let the Three Departments draft the edict at once. If any attempt to shelter him is discovered, all shall be punished together.” The Three Departments, fearing to disobey, answered, “We obey Her Majesty’s will.”

　　A decree was quickly prepared. It read in essence:

　　By order of the throne: Helan Minzhi, relying on favor, has repeatedly transgressed; he committed adultery with Lady Yang of the Rongguo household and arranged secret rites to propitiate the Buddhas; he forced himself upon the Crown Princess on a set day and lasciviously defiled her; in the Rongguo mansion he put on mourning and then broke into festive dress, ordered music, and allowed courtesan entertainments; he has accosted the Princess and assaulted palace attendants and bullied the Princess. For these compounded crimes he shall lose the Wu clan registry and the title Duke of Zhou and be exiled to Leizhou in Lingnan.

　　The Empress signed and ordered it executed. Believing the righteousness of the deed would comfort Li Lingyue, she rose to soothe the princess—but halfway across the corridor she ran straight into her elder sister Wushun.

　　Lady Wushun (Wushun — elder sister to the Empress), weeping, threw herself into her sister’s arms. “Sister,” she cried, “if you exile my son, how shall I live? Who will warm me when I am cold, look after me when I am ill? Is my life thus cursed?” The Empress lifted her and replied, “Sister, you must know: your son’s deeds are intolerable by heaven. When he forced himself upon the Crown Prince’s wife I did not press charges, hoping he would reform; yet he remains incorrigible, and now this latest crime I cannot abide. If I do not punish him, what shall the ministers and people say?” Wushun’s sobs deepened; she entreated, “Do not exile him—lock him in custody and apply a penalty that might reform him.” Hearing her sister’s tears, the Empress was moved. Wushun reminded her, too, of Zhang Gongyi’s peaceful household of nine generations, and the Empress’s heart softened at that memory. “Very well,” she sighed. “Let us follow your counsel.”

　　Unbeknownst to them, Li Lingyue stood near, holding a peony. She watched the exchange, her eyes hollow with disappointment; tears brimmed and fell. The Empress caught sight of her and called softly, “My Moon—” but Li Lingyue would not answer; with a spray of tears she fled back to her chamber.

　　Thrown into Madam Zhang’s (Nurse Zhang’s) arms, Li Lingyue wept, “Madam Zhang, I heard Mother will spare that lecher—then Qing’er’s death would be in vain. Father is gravely ill; what will become of me?” Though Madam Zhang did not grasp all the particulars, she soothed the princess: “Her Majesty is wise; justice will be done for Qing’er. Do not weep, Princess, else Prince Li Hong will reproach you.” Hearing this, Li Lingyue's thoughts turned. “How could I forget Brother Hong?” she murmured to herself. “I will go seek him and ask that he secure justice for Qing’er.” Wiping her cheeks, she ran toward the Eastern Palace. “Princess—where go you?” cried Madam Zhang. “I go to see Brother Hong; do not worry,” Li Lingyue answered.

　　Empress Wu and Wushun argued until at last Wushun was pacified and sent away; then the Empress hurried to find Li Lingyue.

　　Arriving, she found the princess gone and learned from Madam Zhang that Li Lingyue had run to the Eastern Palace. The Empress followed.

　　Inside the Eastern Palace the Crown Prince Li Hong was busied with affairs of state. As men in attendance murmured a warning—“Princess, the Crown Prince is engaged; come later, do not disturb him”—Li Lingyue piped, “Brother Hong, I will not interrupt.” And so she threw herself into the hall and burst into Li Hong’s arms, sobbing, “Brother Hong, someone has wronged me.” Li Hong set aside his matters and asked, “Who has done this? Who dares such cruelty?” Li Lingyue answered, “It is Cousin Helan. He killed Sister Qing’er and sought to violate me.” Li Hong replied, “Has the Empress not already summoned the ministers to seek redress?” She cried, “They convicted him of many faults but only sentenced exile. Just now I overheard Aunt pleading for clemency and Mother relented, turning exile into confinement. Where is the justice?” The princess fell to deeper sobs; Li Hong’s consolations could not staunch them. Her once bright eyes were reddened with weeping. As the poets say:

　　Her airy robes flow in the wind as if in rainbow-dress;

　　Her jade-like face lonely and wet at the rail—pear blossoms bent with the spring rain.

　　Li Hong drew her to his breast and said, “Do not be so sorrowful, Moon. Your mother has burdens you do not know; you must bear some measure of patience.” Pushing him away she snapped, “So you do not love me—your mother’s side wins out. You knew of my shame and yet would do nothing.” Seeing the ruined peony in her hand, Li Hong plucked away the ruined petals and with his own hands set a fresh blossom upon her head. “If you cry more, you will look ill,” he said, smiling. “I shall not,” she pouted. He stroked her brow.

　　Just then a palace messenger shouted: “Her Majesty the Empress approaches!” Hearing that the Empress had come, Li Lingyue wiped her tears and slipped through the window, whispering to Li Hong, “Tell Mother the princess has not visited.”

　　The Empress entered and, finding the casement open, asked Li Hong, “Where is the princess?” He answered, “She left just now.” Pointing to the window, he added, “She departed from there.” The Empress thought that Li Lingyue must truly be resolved not to see her; a pang of guilt and dread stirred: had she been so harsh as to consign the girl to death? She asked, “What did the princess say to you?” Li Hong replied, “She told me how Cousin Helan has sinned time and again—once he tried to rape the Crown Princess, and now he has assaulted Qing’er—yet only exile was pronounced. The princess also said she pleaded with you, and you softened to imprisonment. She laments that the two of you, so occupied with state affairs, forget her; Qing’er stayed with her always, and now Qing’er is shamed and the princess can win no justice—she feels useless.”

　　Whatever weight in Li Hong’s words—whether filial tenderness for his mother or earnest desire for redress—the Empress was struck with remorse. “Enough,” she breathed, “I have erred; worse must be cut away.” She turned to Li Hong: “My son, I have made many mistakes; let such things not occur again.” Li Hong hastened to reassure her, “Mother, do not speak so. All your actions were for the children’s good; they are young and cannot know the depth of your care.” The Empress smiled and, taking counsel, began to discuss another vexing state matter with her son in the Eastern Palace.

　　Meanwhile, Pei Xingjian had caused the imperial writ to be executed: officers of the Dali Temple were ordered to seize Helan Minzhi. Believing the Tui Bei Tu (the prophetic charts) to have been seized by Yan Liben and Pei in the palace, the Nine-Tailed Fox made no public resistance and so Helan Minzhi was taken into custody without tumult.

　　Pei, seasoned by many cases, suspected a deeper intrigue—was the Empress’s firmness genuine, or merely a probe? He therefore brought Helan Minzhi to the palace for Her Majesty’s further examination. But the Empress, seeing the prisoner presented, burst out angrily: “Pei, do you not know, or do you pretend not to know?” “Your Majesty,” Pei answered, bowing, “I am at fault; I will proceed at once.” He ordered the officers to take Helan away.

　　As they led him, Helan trembled and asked Pei, “Justice Pei, what charge has Her Majesty laid upon me?” Pei recounted the facts. Helan fell to the earth and wailed, “How could I have dared to harm the Princess?” Pei scorned him: “A man should accept his deeds; you who are worthless, I feel only shame for you.” Helan was bound and removed.

　　Meanwhile, the Nine-Tailed Fox slipped into the Secretariat. Wandering amid the stacks from the lower to the upper floor, it could not find the Tui Bei Tu. A thought came to it: “Here lie the histories of ages—how are men to judge my nature?” Drawn, it read without measure.

　　At length it found a volume titled Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji). Turning the pages it read of the end of the Western Zhou: how the king lit beacons falsely to make Baosi laugh, and when the beacons were no longer trusted, the barbarians came — the state fell and the king died beneath Mount Li, mocked by the world. The fox closed the book with a bitter sigh: “If I lack the power, I will cling to a woman—how easily the world mocks me.”

　　It opened another book and read that among the northern realms of Qingqiu there lived a nine-tailed fox who, when transformed into a demon, brought ruin upon Yin and Shang, was destroyed by Mojie, and later returned to the Central Lands again and again to play the seductress before the feudal lords—an eternal monster. Enraged at this account, the fox flamed with fury: “I was bound under the Five-Element Mountain for a thousand years, and now, returned to the human realm, am I to bear all blame?” In its fury it set the histories afire. Then, with a greater art, it kindled the whole secretariat and fled the palace in search anew of the Tui Bei Tu.

　　The fire spread. The Golden Guards rushed to quell the blaze and at length the flames were subdued. Pei Judao (Pei Judao — general of the Left Golden Guard) reported the events to the Empress and to Li Hong. The Empress asked Li Hong, “What decree shall we give?” Li Hong answered: “The great fire is out. First, the Ministry of Works should repair the palace; second, the Ministry of Personnel must restore the damaged volumes; third, the Dali Temple must swiftly investigate the fire’s origin.” The Empress, reassured, asked Pei, “Did you hear every word?” Pei replied, “All was plain and clear.” “Then go and execute it.” Pei issued the orders, and the ministers took them up and set about their tasks.