Chapter 54: Sordid Plot

Ren had said enough—even the old woman was not deaf to subtext. Yu was devil-shaped; Shen Miao in his hands was pretty title only. Real gain was the clan. Yuanbai was the old woman's darling—pave his way with Fifth Girl's body—the plan fit her heart.
"Since you both approve, Yu is Fifth Girl's fine match." Old Madam's skin was thick—sitting straight she spoke it—disgust flashed in Chen's eyes.
"Mother agrees too," Ren lied without blinking. "I pick husbands for Fifth—never low. A prince's house—true climbing."
Old Madam nodded, then asked: "Has the prince's house sent formal suit?"
Ren's face twitched. She was no soft touch—yet the crone's greed startled her—ready to seal the marriage at once. Faster was better—Shen Xin back would ruin all. Even settled, the general might not let Fifth marry in. Unusual means would be needed.
Luckily the prince's people seemed in no hurry for open rites. Yu liked methods with… variety. Best done in shadow.
"Mother—too soon," Ren smiled. "Fifth is young—no rush—fixed too early draws gossip. Let them acquaint first—when hearts align and Fifth herself wills it—we speak betrothal—no one can say we forced her."
Not even a fool could love Prince Yu—pretty words over ugly will. What happened in between—unknown.
Chen smiled still and silent. She wanted Shen Miao's fall too—but caution was her nature. Let Ren take the front. If Shen Xin pursued later, blame need not reach her. Watch tigers fight—Chen's art.
Behind the screen Yue and Qing feared. In a few sentences Fifth's lifetime was set. For a girl, husband was half life's joy—and Fifth was doomed to none. Yet they felt no pity. At court Shen Xin pressed their fathers; at home Shen Miao outshone them; Old Madam's teaching made the first branch nails in their eyes—misery for Fifth was joy.
Old Madam was dull at accounts, expert at women's war—especially private filth. From singing girl to mistress of a general's house—pretty face was not all; methods were cruel. She heard Ren and understood: "Then let Fifth draw close to His Highness. Yes—if we forced her and the eldest son raged—that would be ugly."
Her face was harsh by nature; fake tenderness looked like a weasel squeezing a smile—wrong and hungry. Yue and Qing shivered and backed far from the screen.
……
In the west yard under the lamp Shen Miao sat still. Blank sheepskin before her, ink ground—she seemed to write—then sighed soft, rolled the skin away.
Forethought was good—but she was only a boudoir girl now. What she leaned on was intelligence stockpiled—not yet full power on this body. The road must be walked step by step.
Guyu and Jingzhe thought the sigh was Prince Yu. Guyu stepped close: "Miss ease your heart. If ill intent shows there, we will guard you with our lives. In the capital the master has friends—at worst—"
Shen Miao shook her head. "The prince's house sits high, royal shield behind. Father's friends, however close, will not risk feud with the throne for me." Worse—the throne watched the Shen house. Rash move made suspicious Ming Qi suspect Shen Xin of conspiracy. A subject too beloved was never sweet to any emperor.
"Then write the master," Jingzhe said. "Though he is on campaign, Eldest Young Master is only attached—not transferred. Return to Dingjing brings no punishment from above. With him home, he can shield you."
"From the northwest—even forced march—a month and more. You think they will wait?" Flat. Shen Xin's terror would make them act fastest—cooked rice, fright words—obedience assumed.
Shen Miao might have bent. The empress who bathed in blood in the inner palace—never.
"What then?" Guyu and Jingzhe paled. They knew trouble—not this grave. Yu's methods: girls he wanted, even from great houses—ruined was ruined—court soothed a few lines—nothing done. Evil, partial, clean on the surface—girls always lost.
"What? Others fail you." She watched the flame jump. "Rely on yourself."
"But Miss—" Guyu urgent—how could she guard herself? Kin might block outsiders—second and third branches might be their allies.
"I have a way." She turned the paperweight in her fingers.
The prince's house stood on imperial grace—royal shelter. If the throne withdrew favor and an enemy came—tsk—without shelter, a prince's house was mud.
Prince still carried blood—start with him. And she looked out—the window—shadows shifting—fat silhouette—Nanny Gui.
While she was at it—scour the west yard of murky trash clean.