Chapter 32: Same Group

Examiners took the stage. The woman with the bucket recorded each draw—tests would run in groups.
Girls first: the four arts. First-year students were exempt; only second and third years. Third year waited the next round. Second year—barely twenty girls.
Guangwen Hall's women were high gates only. Concubine daughters need not apply. Some legitimate girls never came, tutored at home. Entry alone cost a thousand taels a year.
Shen Xin had not cared for silver and sent all three legitimate daughters. Ren Wanyun grumbled; he waved her quiet. The fees came from battle rewards the throne gave him—she dared not argue long.
Twenty-two girls, four groups. Zither drew seven—girls loved what showed grace. The other three arts took five each.
Shen Miao's painting group held Shen Yue, Qin Qing—legitimate daughter of the Left Censor-in-Chief—Fan Liu'er from the capital magistrate's house, and Zhao Yan from the Vice Minister of the Left.
Fan and Zhao were sour. Fan excelled at zither; Zhao at chess. Not everyone was Shen Yue, skilled in all four. Wrong lots, wrong mood—especially with men's eyes watching. Qin Qing stayed proud as always. Her face could rival Yue's in the whole school—the only one who could—on beauty alone. Yue was soft; Qin was bright and still, and could crush her without raising voice.
Shen Miao looked at Qin Qing—green wide-sleeve cotton robe embroidered fine, goose-yellow sash, waist a hand's span, sleeves drifting like immortal cloth. Beside delicate Yue she looked lotus on water.
In the purge after the old emperor turned on the great houses, the Left Censor's line fell. Qin Qing became camp comfort. Later word said she took a blade and died with a young officer.
Qin felt the stare, glanced over, surprise, then disgust, turned away—as if Shen Miao stained the air.
Shen Miao did not mind. Feng Anning tugged her sleeve. "Just scribble something. Don't fight."
Simple thought: shame is certain; open shame bores them. Fight for pride on stage—that would be disaster.
Shen Miao nodded.
A ritual officer struck the drum. The review began.
**Zither** first.
Feng Anning's luck held. Today's seven were middling; the best players had drawn other lots. Her recent practice finally paid. Seated straight, pretty enough, notes floated—after flat performances, her sound was breeze on the face.
A boy in blue on the men's side said, "Music that lingers three days."
Cai Lin kicked him, displeased. "What is that? You haven't heard Yue's zither. When she plays, nine-heaven fairies bow. Ignorant!"
Cai Lin always defended his crush. Su Minglang, listening, curled his lip—wanted to speak, saw his brother's warning, swallowed it.
Zither ended. Judges conferred. **Chess** next—pairs, one game, winner by path and style. Yi Peilan took that round.
**Books** followed. Shen Qing drew with Bai Wei and Jiang Xiaoxuan—friends in life, rivals today. Theme: chrysanthemums in verse—hand and wit together. Qing's strength was chess and reckoning; reckoning sat in the boys' pool; chess she had not drawn. Until marks posted, no one knew who won books.
At last—Shen Miao's group.
Yue glanced at her, still smarting from the public cut. The good-sister mask was off on both sides. She smiled sweetly. "On stage, Fifth Sister, go easy on me. You're so confident—I tremble."
Fan Liu'er overheard and laughed. "Yue, what confidence? Does Shen Miao have some secret weapon?"
"Now I'm curious," Zhao Yan chirped, cruel merry. "Last year she drew zither and snapped the silk strings on a good bamboo lute—General Shen's valor, I suppose. This year painting—don't break the brush. Such pale cheeks—will you paint your own face into a clown?"
She reached to pinch Shen Miao's cheek.
Shen Miao did not move. The look she gave was arctic. Zhao's smile died. Fan felt the chill and pulled Zhao back, sudden fear without reason.
Qin Qing was bored. "Enough noise. Take it to the stage if you want the hall to see your faces."
They shut up, sullen.
Cai Lin watched Yue on the men's side, excited. The rice ball tugged Su Mingfeng. "Pretty sister is up too, Brother, look."
Mingfeng was helpless. Why was the child fixated? He was third year—feigning illness, first outing, too "weak" to compete. He knew Shen Miao's name—the capital's story: mighty general, rough daughter.
"She'll win," Minglang whispered, fist tight.
Mingfeng doubted it. Today, surely, Shen Yue would top the women again.
Before the steps Yue could not resist one more barb. "Fifth Sister—no holding back. Sister waits."
"Certainly," Shen Miao said.
She would not hold back.