Chapter 38: Sending Flowers

"Shen girl—does the Jing Diagnostician house owe you blood?"
She looked at him quietly.
Beautiful brows, soldier's force underneath. Playboy mask, yet steadiness beyond his years—not show, but the sense that if you stood beside him, sky could fall and someone would hold it. In Qin, in the harem, she had never met anyone this clear. One sentence to the center of the matter.
Such a man, dead young—heaven jealous.
Pity flashed; voice flat when she spoke. "Yes."
"Your board is roundabout." Audit in his look. "All this circle to push Yan into office. You mean to muddy Ming Qi's court?"
Even two lives could not keep her pulse still. Before, he had seemed only too clever—touch and light. Now he felt frightening.
Ordinary men see one step. Clever men ten. His plain question sounded like sight a thousand li ahead. Direct blade—hard to answer.
After a pause: "What is that to the young marquis?"
"I don't care for your court games. Touch Lin'an Marquis Manor—don't expect courtesy." Warning threaded the words.
She glanced at him. He played hatred of his father for all to see—yet perhaps not all hatred. Else why die pierced by ten thousand arrows last life—to keep the marquis line's name?
Suspecting she would strike the Xies was fair. Shen and Xie had never matched; her moves looked mad from outside—trap the Xies? Possible.
"Rest easy, Marquis." Weather-plain tone. "Shen water and Xie water do not mix—no trouble from us. What you fear won't come. Life is short; wheels turn. Today you see enemy. Tomorrow—same boat, same foe."
"You offering friendship?" Brow lifted.
"Yes." Calm.
He measured her. From birth he had seen women—first circling his father, then him. Soft-voiced, nation-breaking, sword-handed, scheme-handed.
Clever women by the thousand—none surprised him like this.
Maybe battlefield instinct: he smelled blood on her. Dead pool, huge beast on the bottom. Surface calm—waiting—one day sky breaks, rain of gore.
Ridiculous, a inner-yard girl making waves. He never ignored instinct.
Lotus-blue cloak, frost on a small face, green plum grove suddenly like palace height—noble, alone, decisive, bottomless.
"The Shen house has a brain." Mockery, then serious. "Then do your work. Today I'll watch the play. Don't disappoint me." He straightened to leave.
"Young Marquis." She stopped him.
"What else?" He did not turn.
"Your two younger half-brothers will compete today." Flat. "You'll let them run free?"
Xie Changwu and Xie Changchao—Fang's sons, second year. Jingxing was third year but did as he pleased; the academy could not bind him, or he would be on stage with them.
Last life he skipped review and let the half-brothers shine. They were capable—top of martial lists—caught the emperor's eye, later useful beside Fu Xiuyi.
She had long wondered how clever Lin'an father and son fell so hard. Palace paid condolence—yet Fang's line ate the shade. Shen fall had second and third branch hands in it. Perhaps Xie rot was inside too.
"You want me on stage fighting them?" He turned, surprised. "Like you and your sisters?"
"Is your seat not the same?" She ignored the mock. "The deepest knife is the nearest hand. I know a man of your rank scorns bickering with bastards. Still—dikes fail at ant holes. Small things coil like snakes in dark." Clear warning, eyes child-clear: "Cut them in the sprout. Never let them sprout."
"Better than watching them win favor and play brotherly love—strip them in public, shame them in the house. Wouldn't that taste sweeter than pretending?"
Something moved in him.
His mother was Princess Yuqing—gold branch. Fighting bastards made him small; worse, it reopened the story that jealousy killed her. He could soil his name—not hers.
Cold war daily with Fang's sons in the manor. Father favored him; tongues still wagged. The trio played meek kindness—nauseating. He had watched like an outsider. Her words struck deeper.
What if their hope died before bloom? Face torn—no more false brothers?
Her voice almost spell: "Too long already. Don't endure."
*Don't endure.*
He looked down at her near—light scent, pure surface, cold heart. He knew the offer carried purpose. He could not refuse.
Lips curved. Sleeve flick—the crabapple from her hair was in his palm. Next heartbeat, where the flower had been, a small jade crabapple pin.
He held it, smile slanted, tone almost flirt. "You're interesting. This is for you. Good proposal—thanks."