Chapter 30: Drawing Lots

Royal blood knew royal tools. The tea crash was small, but it had snapped the rhythm and cut the bewitching tone. Fu Xiuyi would find who had done it. Caution and doubt were his nature; he did not believe in accident.
A girl in purple leaned on her palm, speaking low to a companion—cold face, far-off bearing, separated from everyone around her like glass.
"Ninth Brother—who draws your eye?" Prince Zhou followed his gaze and smiled, knowing. "Among us only you lack a wife. Father has raised the matter more than once. Which house is that? She carries well. Whose kin? Does anyone know her?"
"Fifth Miss of the great general's house. My student," Pei Lang said. He stood near.
"Fifth Miss of the Shen house?" Prince Jing had a good memory. Shen Miao's name was too loud—even the palace had heard it. "Shen Xin's legitimate daughter? Shen Miao?"
"Cannot be Shen Miao," Zhou laughed, careless. "The whole capital knows she chases our Ninth Brother. She fell in the water trying to see him. If he wanted her, why the chase? Besides—she's a rough fool. Look at that girl—quiet, noble. Not Shen Miao."
"Fourth Brother, mind your tongue. I mean nothing by it." Fu Xiuyi shook his head. His eyes stayed on the purple figure.
Shock moved under his calm. In his mind Shen Miao was like every girl who adored him—except those girls pretended modesty and knew when to step back. Shen Miao… stared and nothing else. He would not want a capital joke wrapped in gold. Only Shen Xin's sword kept his disgust sheathed.
Memory dressed her in screaming red and green, gold heaped on gold, rouge slapped like opera paint—village opera at that. The girl across the floor was cream skin, soft brows, wealth in every line, nothing like the fool he knew.
Pei Lang was equally lost. Two years her teacher—he should know her. Clothes change. Bearing does not. Scholars read bearing first. Overnight transformation—how?
He had not linked the tea to her. He too had felt wrong in the music—but a girl, and no zither skill, hearing court sorcery? Absurd.
Thoughts churned. The performance ended. The review would begin.
This year's form differed: not men against women, but civil against martial. The academy taught both, but century habit held—girls rarely chose martial. Among civil tests—policy, rhapsody, classics—boys took most seats. Those three roads fed the bureaucracy. As one minister said: *Jinshi graduates become generals and ministers—glory assured.*
Martial drew archery, foot archery, lance from horseback, weight carry—not full military exams, no true arena war.
Girls usually drew the four arts—poetry, music, chess, painting. Custom everywhere, not Ming Qi alone: women belong home, moon and verse, not office.
Ming Qi's review had three beats: **draw**, **show**, **challenge**.
**Draw**—everyone drew. Officials shuffled lots. The slip named your test. Girls drew only within the four arts; boys drew martial plus policy, rhapsody, classics—harder pools kept separate.
Shen Miao always failed here. Poetry, music, chess, painting—she knew none.
**Show**—second stage. Display what you excel at. Shen Yue often chose zither. Shen Qing reckoning.
**Challenge**—third. Not *choose* but *call out*: pick any student, duel on one skill. Used when rivals were even. Calling Shen Miao was insult to your own rank—yet some called her up yearly for sport. She lost every time.
For her, review season was nightmare dressed as festival—laughter she could not escape.
This year looked the same.
The chief examiner spoke the usual solemn speech. Two assistants brought small wooden buckets—slips inside. Boys' bucket to the men's tables, slip by slip. A tall woman carried the girls' bucket down the women's row.
Feng Anning blinked at heaven. "Please—zither or books. Painting and chess I cannot." She peeked at Shen Miao. "You're not worried. Confidence—or given up?" Not cruelty—truth. Shen Miao was the house fool for all four arts.
Shen Miao neither agreed nor denied. What did the lot matter? She knew none.
The bucket reached their table. Feng Anning drew first, ripped her slip, exhaled. "Zither! Zither! Practice wasn't wasted. What's yours?"
Shen Miao drew. White slip, long fold. She opened it.
One character.
**Painting.**