Chapter 39: Provocation

Leaving the grove, Guyu and Jingzhe exhaled at once. Jingzhe peered in—no one. "Where did he go?"
Shen Miao glanced back. Green leaves swayed. Empty. He had skill; probably roof and wall gone.
"Let's go."
Back at the seats Feng Anning rushed over, complaining. "I told you to wait. Turn around and you vanish. You're not here—where were you?"
"Chrysanthemums looked fine. I walked a little." She looked to the stage. "Started already?"
"You were ages. Men's **draw** is done." Feng Anning pouted. "Now men's **show**."
Boys competed below. First round finished—she did not care. Second round: **show**, each man's best subject.
Her eyes found the men's table far left—lake-green robes.
Black and thick-built, features not bad, body making him look blunt. Green cloth darkened his skin. High topknot, jade-inlaid bamboo pin—aiming at ancient gentleman style, unable to drop vulgar gold. Summary: wanted loftiness; copied wrong; could not hide cheap.
Gao Yan of the Jing Diagnostician house. Sixteen, wings still short. Later, when Fu Xiuyi ruled, Yan would ride Jin's rise—bully the capital, even hunger for Wanyu—bold past reason.
Remembering Wanyu harassed in palace by his tongue, rage burned quiet. She watched him like prey hopping into the snare.
Yan beamed now, whispering to Jin.
Of course he was happy. A unique policy essay in his sleeve. **Draw** had given him classics—middling. **Show** with this text would shake the hall.
*Go,* she thought cold. *Carry it to Fu Xiuyi's side. Enter office before Jin climbs—Yan will sink the whole Jing Diagnostician line with his own hands.*
Her gift to that house.
Pei Lang sat in green near Fu Xiuyi. *From today, pay what you owe—slowly.*
"Shen Miao—after the men, women's **show**. Will you?"
"No."
**Draw** was mandatory. **Show** was choice—skip if you had nothing worth showing. **Show** was where confidence lived; more heat than **draw**. Old Shen Miao had always skipped—only shame waiting.
"Why?" Feng Anning was disappointed. "Your painting was wonderful. Maybe other gifts too—why hide?"
"No need." She moved pieces on the board, eyes down. "Shine or not—same to me. I am still useless in four arts. First grade was luck."
"You—" Feng Anning steamed. "Who talks about herself like that?"
"Fifth Sister." Shen Yue stood before them, worry painted on. "You truly won't join **show**?"
"Does Second Sister want me to?"
Yue choked. Why was Fifth Sister bent on tearing face? Pond fall anger at second and third branch? Doubt—and anger stacked. She bit lip, wounded soft: "I hope you will. That painting was so fine. With such talent, choose **painting** again—silence the gossip. Paint well twice and lies collapse."
Voice carried—wives and girls heard every word. Sweet surface, loud doubt: years of fool, one white-chrysanthemum scroll—who believes her hand alone? Someone coached.
Yue thought the same. Second round—paint again, no coach—she must fail.
Feng Anning smelled the trap and struck back. "Easy for Second Miss to say. Painting needs fresh conception—even you couldn't paint two masterpieces back to back. Fifth Sister is a student, not a master."
"I only ask because she improved so much," Yue smiled gentle. "If she painted once that well, why not again?"
Shen Miao never looked up. A stone to the board center. "No interest. Don't trouble yourself."
Before so many, the cold answer shamed Yue. Nothing stings like a pit dug and refused.
Refusal deepened Yue's belief—the war painting was not Shen Miao's thought. Humiliate her—fix in mind. Smile returned brittle. "If Fifth Sister insists, I won't press." She turned away.
Men's side—Cai Lin had been stealing looks at Yue. She gazed far, smiled tender at him.
Cai Lin froze, thrilled—then she bowed her head, seeming sad.
His chest tightened.