A young woman’s voice rang out from the crowd, sharp enough to pierce through the thunder of drums and music.
Shi Huai followed the sound and saw a girl of fifteen or sixteen standing on the steps by the roadside.
She wore a pale goose-yellow jacket and held a flower aloft, waving it frantically in his direction.
The girls around her joined in as well. Some cried, “Young Master Shi!” Others called, “Third Scholar!” And one bolder voice dared to call, “Huai-lang!”
That single cry of “Huai-lang” was like a stone cast into a still lake. In an instant, the surrounding crowd erupted.
“Huai-lang!” “Huai-lang!” “Huai-lang!”
The cries surged toward him from every direction, ringing so loudly in Shi Huai’s ears that they began to hum.
The corner of his mouth twitched faintly. Whether in resignation or amusement, no one could tell. He reached up to straighten the collar ruffled by the wind and pretended not to hear.
Shen Yizhi rode behind him. Hearing the calls, he could not help laughing, his body trembling slightly atop his horse.
Wang Siyuan, the Fourth Laureate riding behind Shi Huai, leaned forward and said in a lowered voice,
“Brother Shi, by the end of this journey, I fear you’ll have calluses on your ears.”
Shi Huai did not even turn his head. “I’m used to it.”
Wang Siyuan choked on his reply and quietly drew back.
When the procession reached the corner of Chang’an Street, a second-floor window of a roadside teahouse suddenly swung open.
Shen Jinghong stood behind it.
He watched Shi Huai ride past below. His crimson scholar’s robe blazed in the sunlight like a cluster of burning flame, seizing every eye around him.
Shen Jinghong’s fingers lightly traced the rim of his cup as he watched Shi Huai’s retreating figure. Then he drained the tea in one gulp, set the cup on the windowsill, and turned to head downstairs.
Zhao Huan was sprawled at a ground-floor window of the teahouse, a candied hawthorn skewer clamped between his teeth, his eyes fixed on Shi Huai’s departing back.
“The sugar on that hawthorn skewer has melted. It’s dripping onto your clothes,” Xie Zhaolin said beside him.
Zhao Huan lowered his head to look.
Syrup had run down the bamboo skewer and dripped onto his collar, leaving a sticky patch.
He hurriedly pulled the skewer from his mouth and wiped at his collar with the back of his hand. After two futile swipes, he simply gave up.
Xie Zhaolin leaned against the window, his gaze following Shi Huai’s receding figure on horseback. He was silent for a long while before finally saying,
“Don’t you think he looks better in red than in anything else?”
Zhao Huan nodded vigorously, sugar still smeared at the corner of his mouth.
Lin Mo stood at the very back of the crowd. Being short, he could not see the front even on tiptoe, and he was so anxious that he kept hopping in place.
Taking pity on him, an auntie beside him gave up her spot.
By the time he squeezed to the front, Shi Huai was riding past him. His crimson robe billowed in the wind like an unfurled banner.
Lin Mo’s eyes reddened at once. He drew in a deep breath, forcing the bitter ache back down.
Gu Changning stood at the very edge of the crowd.
Through gaps between the people, his gaze rested on Shi Huai’s retreating figure. Complex emotions churned in his cold, phoenix-shaped eyes.
He remained there for a long time without moving—so long that he failed to notice when everyone around him had dispersed.
At the far end of Chang’an Street, the Crown Prince stood on the steps before the Imperial Examination Hall.
He wore an ordinary black robe, a dark sash at his waist. There was no dragon-patterned princely attire, no golden crown; he was dressed like any other young nobleman.
The two guards behind him had changed into plain clothes as well. They stood several paces away, watchfully scanning the passersby.
The Crown Prince watched as the procession approached in grand array from the far end of the street, the sound of drums and music drawing ever closer.
Then he saw Shi Huai riding a tall horse, dressed in a brilliant red robe, moving slowly through the crowd—and his heartbeat instantly fell into disarray.
The sight was too beautiful, so beautiful that he felt he would never forget it for the rest of his life.
Music thundered through the air, and countless heads filled the street, yet there was only one person in his eyes.
The Crown Prince stepped forward, weaving through the crowd until he reached Shi Huai’s horse. Tilting his head back, he looked up at him.
The people nearby were startled to see a young man suddenly rush in front of the procession.
One of the constables raised his spear to stop him, but the Crown Prince produced a token from his sleeve and flashed it.
The constable’s expression changed at once. He nearly dropped the spear in his hand.
Shi Huai reined in his horse and looked down at the Crown Prince, the corner of his mouth lifting faintly.
“Why has Your Highness come?”
Standing before the horse, the Crown Prince looked up at him. His lips moved slightly.
He had meant to say, “I came to see you,” but the words felt far too sentimental when they reached his lips. He swallowed them and said instead:
“I happened to be passing by.”
Shi Huai glanced at him, idly spinning his riding crop in one hand. “Your Highness happened to pass by the Imperial Examination Hall?”
The Crown Prince flushed at his words and gave up the pretense.
“I simply wanted to see how you looked in red. I heard the robes of newly appointed jinshi are specially made by the Ministry of Rites, sewn by the finest tailors in the capital.”
Shi Huai’s smile was as faint as morning mist.
“Has Your Highness seen enough? If so, this student should be on his way. The procession is waiting.”
The Crown Prince’s hand clenched inside his sleeve, loosened, then clenched again. At last, he drew out a handkerchief and held it out.
“There’s dust on your forehead. Wipe it off.”
Shi Huai accepted the handkerchief and casually brushed it over his forehead twice. Then he lowered his gaze to inspect it.
It was perfectly clean. There was nothing on it.
Something shifted faintly at the corner of his mouth. He folded the handkerchief neatly and tucked it into his sleeve.
“Thank you, Your Highness. This student will return it once it has been washed.”
The Crown Prince wanted to say that there was no need to return it, but swallowed the words again.
Because he feared that, if Shi Huai did not return it, there would be no excuse to see him next time.
He nodded and stepped back two paces, clearing the way.
Shi Huai gave the horse a gentle squeeze with his legs, and it resumed its walk. His scarlet robe lifted in the breeze and brushed across the back of the Crown Prince’s hand.
The Crown Prince stood where he was, watching the procession disappear into the distance. Then he lowered his eyes to the back of his hand.
There was nothing there.
Yet in that instant, it felt as though something had scalded him—painful and numb all at once.
From the second floor of a teahouse across the street, the Third Prince had watched the entire exchange between the Crown Prince and Shi Huai from beginning to end.
The tea in his cup had long since gone cold.
A thin sheen of oil floated on its surface. He neither drank nor set the cup down, merely holding it as he watched the Crown Prince’s retreating figure vanish into the crowd.
“Your Highness, it is time to return. Consort Rong is waiting for you to join her for dinner.”
The young eunuch behind him offered the reminder in a soft voice.
The Third Prince set his teacup on the windowsill, turned, and descended the stairs. When he reached the landing, he suddenly stopped.
“Tell me—why did my imperial brother go to watch the third-place scholar’s procession?”
The young eunuch froze for a moment before answering carefully, “Perhaps the Crown Prince merely went to see the spectacle. The newly appointed jinshi parade through the streets only once every three years, after all.”
The Third Prince’s lips twitched faintly.
“Is that so?”
Without waiting for an answer, he lifted his foot and continued downstairs.
Princess Jinse sat by the window in her chambers, holding the letter she had never sent.
She had folded and unfolded the paper so many times that its edges had begun to fray, and the ink had blurred slightly.
A maid entered carrying a bowl of sweet tremella and lotus-seed soup. She set it on the table and said quietly,
“Princess, it is time to eat.”
Princess Jinse did not move. Her gaze rested on the bare parasol tree outside the window, where several sparrows hopped about the branches, chirping noisily.
“Where has the third-place scholar’s procession reached?” she suddenly asked.
The maid paused, then replied cautiously, “Your Highness, they should be in the middle of Chang’an Street by now. I heard there are especially large crowds this year—the road is completely blocked.”
Princess Jinse placed the letter on the table, rose, and went to the window. She pushed it open, letting the cold wind rush in.
There was nothing outside—only a dim, overcast sky and the rooftops of several distant palaces.
Yet she felt as though she could see him: the young man in a brilliant crimson robe, riding through Chang’an Street on horseback.
“He must look very handsome in red.”
