Based on the conversation just now with that woman, quite a bit of information has already been obtained. For example, her relationship with me is very close—she must be a wife, concubine, or mistress of some sort, otherwise she wouldn’t call me “Darling” right off the bat and refer to herself as “your humble concubine.”

As for this little girl, she’s obviously the woman’s maid. Although she calls the woman “sister,” this “sister” has nothing to do with being actual siblings; in Song society, everyone calls each other “sister,” from mature women to young girls.

The term “Master” is also just a general form of address and doesn’t prove anything. What does prove something are the two bun-shaped hairdos on her head—that’s the signature hairstyle of maids in the Song dynasty. It’s not that all maids must wear this hairstyle, but anyone who does is definitely a maid, no exceptions.

Now here’s the problem: a woman dressed in fine silks and satins is treating me with great respect, and there’s also a well-dressed little maid. This can’t be an ordinary household. Either she’s a wife or concubine from a wealthy family, or a favored courtesan.

But she keeps talking about going to the palace to ask “Madam” to summon the imperial physician, so the courtesan possibility isn’t likely. This “Madam” doesn’t mean the empress, but is how Song people refer to their mothers.

“Damn! I might have been screwed over by that bastard in the sky again!” If her mother can summon the imperial physician, and she can enter the palace so easily… Thomas Foster immediately pictured a particularly hopeless profession in his mind: imperial son-in-law!

That woman just now might very well be a princess. A man who can lie in the same bed with a princess, both of them disheveled, could only be the imperial son-in-law.

Although this profession is a pushover in any era, Thomas Foster would rather be that than the guy who cuckolds the imperial son-in-law. Having an affair with a princess is way too dangerous—if her father gets drunk one day, my head would be gone in an instant. Better to be a little unambitious than dead.

As for how imperial sons-in-law were treated in the Song dynasty, Thomas Foster really hadn’t paid attention, even though he’d spent decades in the Southern Song. But he rarely had the chance to experience the daily life of Song people—most of the time he was off being a king overseas. He’d met Song emperors and high officials, but never an imperial son-in-law.

“It’s actually quite possible…” Pushing open the door, he found another room outside. Looking at the carved decorations and craftsmanship of the furniture, Thomas Foster became even more convinced he might be the imperial son-in-law.

Such a big house, such exquisite furniture, thick brocade curtains, and a clearly non-Chinese style rug on the floor—an ordinary rich family probably wouldn’t have such extravagance.

“Eighty percent sure now!” Pushing open another set of double doors, he finally saw daylight. The courtyard he was in was surrounded by buildings on all sides. Even without much knowledge of ancient architecture, the scale was obvious. This was just a side courtyard, with large bluestone steps, square bricks paving the ground, and painted corridors—definitely not low status.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” Standing on the steps, basking in the sun for several minutes, there wasn’t a single living soul in the courtyard—it was deathly quiet.

“Creak… Is Master calling for this old woman?” There really was someone. The door to a room under the eastern corridor opened, and out walked a woman in her forties or fifties, wearing a gray long skirt, a purple jacket, and her hair in a low bun.

“...Auntie, could you come over and talk?” This woman didn’t look much like the one from before, but they shared a common trait: both had faces full of worry and gloom. The look she gave me wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t friendly either.

Thomas Foster didn’t know exactly who she was, but if she lived in the same courtyard, she definitely wasn’t a relative of the woman from before. That made things easier—just address her as young lady, madam, or auntie according to age. It might not be perfect, but it wouldn’t be too rude.

“...What does Master want…” The old woman seemed surprised by Thomas Foster’s form of address. She hesitated before walking over along the corridor, stopping more than two meters away, her whole body tense and wary, as if ready to run at any moment.

“It’s like this—I think I was kicked in the head by a horse, there’s a big bump here…” Since waking up, I’d seen three people—three women, young and old, pretty and plain—but they all had one thing in common: none of them seemed to like me much.

No one needed to point it out—Thomas Foster had already noticed. It wasn’t just fear; it was a feeling hard to describe. Anyway, Thomas Foster felt that the previous “him” probably wasn’t a very likable guy. To make the old woman less wary, Thomas Foster pointed to his forehead, where there really was a big bump—it hurt to touch.

“...Master isn’t planning to take it out on the green-maned horse, is he? That horse was a gift from the emperor to the princess. If you dispose of it without permission, the censors will impeach you and bring disaster to the household!”

Apparently, the bump was obvious enough without pointing it out, and the old woman believed him. But she misunderstood Thomas Foster’s meaning and nervously defended the horse that caused the accident, with quite a solid argument.

“Auntie, don’t worry, I have no intention of doing anything to that horse. It’s just that the kick was a bit hard, and after waking up I can’t remember anything from before, so I wanted to ask someone about it.”

Now Thomas Foster was basically certain—he was ninety-nine percent sure he was the imperial son-in-law. Didn’t the old woman just say it? The horse that kicked him was a gift from the emperor to the princess—no ordinary person would dare ride such a thing.