Chapter 41: The Maids

On the stage Gao Yan finished *On Conduct and Law*.
Silence, then whispers. Students caught the polish, not the depth. Officials read deeper—casual surface, yet it hit gaps in Ming Qi law today and offered clever fixes. For a student, uncanny.
Examiners had not expected hidden talent. Rules still applied—doubt meant test. Fairly, this essay topped Shen Miao's war painting for both grace and use. The judge asked: "You say the code is wide and must be subdivided—how?"
Yan's heart leapt. The packet held a second answer—same question as the judge. Gratitude to the ghost-writer—silver later. Chest out, calm, he recited: "Three layers—merchant road, official road, common road each separate…"
Below, the Jing Diagnostician lord grinned ear to ear. His rank rode imperial favor and wide friends—not true craft. Jin handled affairs young; now Yan showed wonder. Time to burn incense for ancestors.
Jin was sharper than father—still could not believe his brother's wit. Yet Yan answered fluently—judges bought too? Uncertain.
Pei Lang drank tea, hand shaking. Every line stamped itself in his skull—absurd familiarity, anxiety he could not quiet.
Su Minglang had dozed; woke to admiration around him, tugged his father's sleeve. "Father—is he good?"
"Young talent," Su Yu said flat.
Minglang curled his lip, baffled, looked for Mingfeng. "Where's Brother?"
Su Yu coughed. "Your brother is weak. Today was already hard—let him rest."
Fu Xiuyi heard, glanced at Su Yu—grief for Mingfeng unchanged in the brow—thought, and looked away.
Yan had won the bout. Questions answered, doubt gone. **First grade** without argument. Names mattered less—hereafter the Jing house would mean Jin *and* a brilliant second son.
Yan swaggered down. Men's **show** closed. Women's **show** opened.
Feng Anning did not rise—zither was her win in **draw**; other arts weak, no need. Shen Qing chose chess—reckoning skill helped. Shen Yue chose zither, as always.
Yue loved what made her look ethereal. Chen had played well, composed small tunes, written words—Yue learned perfectly. First grade every year; every year the hall watched her fingers.
With Yue in the field, no girl chose zither to humiliate herself. Qing worked hard—**first grade** in chess.
When zither's turn came, talk stirred again.
Yue mounted gracefully—incense, washed hands. Pretty in soft pink, shallow smile, fairy gloss.
She played *Ode to the Moon*.
Hard piece—traveler far from home and kin. Gentle longing, then fierce grief, ending in sigh. Technique and feeling both tested.
Last life Yue owned this song—no rival. Beside her, Shen Miao had been less than dust. Every fame of Yue seemed to climb Shen Miao's shame.
Shen Miao watched the girl on stage.
First pluck—and the strings lived, soft endless under her hands, notes floating into every ear. Fingers flew like butterflies in flowers; every turn seamless.
Feng Anning bit her lip. Dislike Yue she might—still, skill was real. Her own zither first grade now sounded clumsy beside this.
A song of homeland and family—and Shen Miao's fist closed.
Dead stay dead. Wanyu and Fu Ming would not return. Yue's music sounded like funeral bell and revenge—no comfort, only blood debt.
Cai Lin ran outside the men's rope, straining closer to catch every look on his beloved's face. He drowned in the sound—
Voices broke it.
"Second Miss is cursed—never second until Fifth stole first with tricks." Slim maid—Shuxiang, Yue's girl. Cai Lin looked without meaning to.
"And Fifth won't even **show**—pure spite against Second Miss."
"Second Miss is kind—suffers Fifth's bullying in private. Fifth leans on the general's name. Poor Second—all that practice, fruit stolen."
"If someone could avenge her—**challenge** Fifth to the stage?"
"Don't talk nonsense." Shuxiang cut in. "Everyone knows Fifth can't do four arts. Challenging her lowers *you*. Women's group won't. If a *man* challenges her in **challenge**—that's real payback."
Voices faded. Cai Lin's eyes moved—stage, Yue—and a plan formed.