Chapter 18: So It Was You

Days ran fast.
Cold deepened. Guangwen Hall turned toward the month-end review.
Boys sharpened skills for office. Girls polished talent for marriage—better match, better price, a noble eye in the crowd. Even spoiled Feng Anning drilled harder. Shen Qing and Shen Yue need not be named; Shen Yue especially lived in the east wing with zither and verse, hungry for another year topping the stage.
Both girls were fifteen. By custom, families began looking at matches; most married at sixteen. These two waited—not because no one asked, but because ordinary houses were beneath them and the highest reach felt just out of grasp.
Second and third branch had the same target in mind.
Of the late emperor's nine sons, only the ninth, Prince Ding, still had no consort—barely twenty, prime age to wed. For many reasons the imperial bride seat stayed empty. A honey cake. Prince Ding would sit as examiner this review. Girls painted themselves in hope—one glance, one favor, one heartbeat.
Shen Miao wanted none of it.
Born again, she was still blind to flirtation. No verse, no zither, no dance. She could not mount a stage and lecture on court affairs. And she would not tie herself to Prince Ding.
Last life he used the Shen house, killed her children, wiped her clan. Blood debt waits. How could blood debt become marriage?
Feng Anning nudged her. "Why aren't you reading? Month's end—tail again? People will laugh their teeth out." After the pond Shen Miao had seemed calmer; Feng Anning thought she'd woken up. Now she looked the same old tail-ender—slow, blank, hopeless.
Shen Miao said, "I never understand it. Why waste the hours?"
Yi Peilan laughed behind them. "Mud that won't take a wall. What else is new?"
Shen Yue chatted with Shen Qing and pretended not to hear. These days Shen Miao no longer fawned; both sisters were sour for it. They wanted her humiliated.
Shen Miao acted deaf. She stood. "I'll walk the garden."
After she left, Yi Peilan curled her lip. "Ran because she had no answer. Mouse heart."
"Done?" Feng Anning's brow snapped. "Your own grades perfect?" She carried weight in the second year and at home; Yi Peilan shut her mouth.
Shen Miao walked alone.
The academy garden was built for taste—bamboo, rock, pond, scent in the trees, air that eased the chest. She only wanted quiet. Second year was all hot blood and sharp tongues; she had been mother and empress, spent years in Phoenix Hall with empty corridors and formal bows. Mockery bored her. Praise bored her. None of it touched her.
Ahead, under the bamboo, stood a white rice ball.
Ivory satin on a body so round the robe strained at the seams. Same little topknot—funny and soft.
"Su Minglang," she said softly.
The ball spun around, hurried, lit up when he saw her—wanted to rush her, stopped, watched her face, said nothing.
He looked four or five. Her temples throbbed. Did he think she was his mother?
Minglang bit his lip, wanted to speak, could not. His eyes reddened. "Sorry…" small and sticky.
Sorry? She blinked. His mouth trembled; tears were coming.
Then a lazy voice behind the bamboo.
"So it was you."