Three days before the poetry gathering, the theme from the palace was finally announced.
“Ode to Snow.”
The topic was not particularly difficult, but the simpler the subject, the harder it was to produce something truly original.
Talented scholars throughout the capital were racking their brains, hoping to make a name for themselves at the competition.
Shi Huai, however, was in no hurry. He continued reading and practicing calligraphy as usual, lounging in the garden with Tangerine in his arms and basking in the sun.
Qinghe was so anxious that fever blisters had risen on her lips. Even her hands trembled as she served tea and poured water.
“Young Master, how can you be so unconcerned? It’s a poetry gathering hosted by His Majesty himself! Every talented scholar in the capital will be there. At least give some thought to what you’re going to write!”
Qinghe set the teacup down heavily on the table, her voice tight with the frustration of someone who cared too much.
Shi Huai lifted the cup and took a sip. He glanced at her, a faintly indolent smile in his eyes.
“What’s the rush?”
That look made the tips of Qinghe’s ears turn red again. Lowering her head, she pretended to straighten the books on the desk, though her fingers unconsciously twisted her handkerchief.
Her lips pressed together, then parted as if she wanted to say something, but she did not know where to begin.
Tangerine leaped down from Shi Huai’s lap and padded gracefully over to the windowsill, where she settled into a crouch. Her tail traced lazy circles through the air.
Her round eyes were fixed on the bare old locust tree in the courtyard, and her whiskers twitched faintly.
On the day of the poetry gathering, Heaven was kind. After a night of north winds, the capital saw its first snowfall of the winter.
When Shi Huai pushed open the doors of Shou’an Hall, the courtyard was already covered in a thin layer of silver-white. Snow on the flagstone path caught the morning light, shining brightly enough to dazzle the eye.
He drew in a deep breath. The cold, bracing air filled his lungs—crisp and clean, carrying the pure chill unique to snow.
Qinghe hurried after him, carrying a silver-gray fox-fur cloak. Without giving him a chance to protest, she draped it over his shoulders.
Her fingers deftly tied the fastening at his collar. Then she stepped back two paces and looked him up and down, her eyes reddening again.
“Young Master, today you... you...”
Qinghe could not finish the sentence, for she realized she could find no words suitable enough to describe how Shi Huai looked that day.
He wore a moon-white brocade robe, fastened at the waist with a dark sash, and over it the silver-gray fox-fur cloak Qinghe had just placed around his shoulders.
His glossy black hair was gathered with a white jade hairpin.
Snowlight fell across his face, and his eyes seemed washed clean by snow itself—so clear and bright that they could reflect a person’s image.
Nanny Zhou emerged from the kitchen carrying a steaming bowl of ginger soup, her voice slightly hoarse. “Young Master, drink some ginger soup to warm yourself. Don’t catch a chill on the road.”
Shi Huai accepted the bowl and drained it in one swallow. The spicy ginger soup ran from his throat to his stomach, and warmth spread outward from within.
He handed the empty bowl back to Nanny Zhou, a faint smile on his lips. “Nanny Zhou, Sister Qinghe, don’t see me off any farther. I’m leaving.”
By the time the carriage departed from the marquis’s residence, snow was still falling.
Fine flakes whirled on the wind, settling on the carriage curtains, the coachman’s shoulders, and the eaves lining both sides of Chang’an Street.
Shi Huai lifted the carriage curtain and looked outside.
The streets had already grown lively. Steam rose from the breakfast stalls.
White steam billowed up in thick clouds from the bamboo steamers, mingling with the falling snow until it was impossible to tell mist from flakes.
Several carriages had already drawn up outside the gates of the Imperial Academy. A group of youths in brocade robes of every color stood there, craning their necks toward Chang’an Street.
The moment they saw Shi Huai’s carriage approaching, their eyes lit up, their excitement nearly impossible to contain.
When Shi Huai leapt down from the carriage, snow happened to settle upon his shoulders.
A few flakes, not yet melted, clung to his silver-gray fox-fur cloak. Against his refined, otherworldly features, he looked like a freshly painted ink-wash portrait.
Wang Ren was the first to rush over. His round face was wreathed in smiles, the dimples in his cheeks deepening and fading as he moved. He carried a food box in one hand, while puffs of white breath spilled from his mouth.
“Shi Huai, you’re here! I had the cook make plum blossom cakes, and I brought a pot of warmed yellow wine. Have some on the road—it’ll keep you warm!”
There was an excitement in Wang Ren’s voice that he could scarcely suppress.
In the end, he had lost out to the others in the competition, but he was going too, relying on connections from his mother’s family.
Unlike him, Shen Jinghong—who had likewise been eliminated in the first round—was going through the influence of his elder sister, the Imperial Noble Consort.
Shen Jinghong leaned against his own carriage, inlaid with gold and jade. His peach-blossom eyes were half-lidded, and a lazy smile rested at the corner of his mouth. Shi Huai’s figure was reflected in his pale amber eyes.
Today, he wore a sapphire-blue brocade robe, bound at the waist with a white jade belt and covered by a cloak of the same color. He looked like a peacock displaying its tail—almost excessively dazzling.
“Wang Ren, what have you got in that food box?”
Shen Jinghong walked over and lifted the lid for a glance, then gave a snort that seemed to carry some hidden meaning.
“Plum blossom cakes and yellow wine? Do you think Shi Huai is a pig like you? Can he even eat that much?”
Wang Ren’s face flushed crimson at once. He snapped the lid shut and hugged the box to his chest as though it were some priceless treasure, his voice tinged with indignation.
“What business is it of yours how much I brought? It’s not for you, anyway!”
Gu Changning stood a little farther off, his back resting against an old locust tree. As usual, he held a book in his hand, yet his eyes were not on its pages. Instead, they looked over the top edge of the book at Shi Huai.
He wore a dark navy robe today, with a crane-feather cloak of the same shade over it. His face was lean, his bearing cold and austere. He was like a sword still sheathed—its edge concealed, yet impossible to overlook.
Shi Huai stopped before him and drew a sheet of paper from his sleeve, offering it to him.
It bore a poem he had written the previous night. The handwriting was neat and elegant, the ink not yet fully dry, catching the snowy light with a faint sheen.
“Brother Gu, could you see whether there’s anything in this poem that should be revised?”
Gu Changning accepted the sheet and lowered his gaze to it. A nearly imperceptible flicker passed through his cold phoenix eyes. His lips pressed together slightly, as though restraining some surging emotion.
His gaze moved slowly over the page, from the first character to the last, examining every stroke with the utmost care.
After reading it, he did not speak at once. Instead, he folded the sheet of paper and slipped it into his sleeve.
Then he lifted his head to look at Shi Huai, his voice calm, carrying a restrained sincerity.
“No need to revise it. It’s very good.”
Shi Huai froze for a moment.
He had expected Gu Changning to pick out a whole list of faults, as he always had before.
This word was not precise enough; that allusion was not quite appropriate—then he would be told to go back and rewrite it.
But today, Gu Changning had said only, “It’s very good.” That, more than anything, did not seem like him.
“Brother Gu, are you feeling unwell today?”
Shi Huai leaned slightly closer, his gaze settling on Gu Changning’s face.
There was genuine concern in his eyes, mingling with the light reflected off the snow, bright enough to be almost dazzling.
Gu Changning’s breath caught at his movement closer. The book he had been reading for days slipped from his hand and landed in the snow with a slap.
When he bent to retrieve it, his fingers trembled faintly. It took him several attempts before he managed to scoop the book up from the snow.
A few snowflakes clung to its pages, bleeding into the black ink and leaving small, dark water stains.
“I’m fine.”
