Gu Changning’s voice was a few shades deeper than usual, carrying a faint hoarseness that was difficult to detect.
His gaze lingered on Shi Huai’s face for a moment before darting away, as though he had been scalded by something.
Shi Huai glanced at him but did not press the matter. He turned and walked back a few steps, returning to the middle of the crowd.
Leaning against the carriage, Shen Jinghong had witnessed the entire scene.
He lightly tapped the riding crop against his palm. The light in his peach-blossom eyes flickered, while the lazy smile at the corners of his lips never faded.
But the smile never reached his eyes.
By the time the carriage procession set out from the Imperial College, the snowfall had grown heavier.
Fine snowflakes fell densely from the gray sky, as though someone were scattering grains of salt from above. They landed on the carriage roofs, the horses’ backs, and the shoulders of the drivers, making a soft, whispering sound.
Shi Huai sat inside the carriage, cradling a cup of hot tea in his hands. The tea was a deep amber color, glowing with a warm luster in the white porcelain cup.
A fine layer of condensation beaded the outside of the cup, while steam curled upward from the rim, forming a small, hazy veil before him.
Sitting beside him, Qinghe kept trying to press a hand warmer into Shi Huai’s hands. She chattered nonstop, telling him to put on more clothes and not catch a chill.
Her voice echoed through the carriage, carrying both a motherly fussiness and the charming innocence of a young girl.
The sound of hooves came from outside, approaching from a distance, accompanied by Wang Ren’s booming voice.
“Shi Huai! Are you cold? I have a newly made fur coat here. Do you want it?”
Shi Huai lifted the curtain and leaned out. He saw Wang Ren riding a tall, chestnut-colored horse. His round face was covered in a broad smile, and his two dimples were as deep as little whirlpools.
He held up a brown fur coat, swaying precariously in the saddle. Several times he nearly fell from the horse, making everyone watching him break into a cold sweat.
“Brother Wang, focus on riding. Don’t fall,” Shi Huai called to him with a smile.
That smile nearly knocked Wang Ren straight off his horse. He hurriedly seized the reins and steadied himself, his face flushing bright red all the way to his ears. The brown fur coat snapped and fluttered in the wind like a flag.
Shen Jinghong rode up from behind and lashed Wang Ren’s horse on the rump.
The horse cried out in pain and charged forward. Wang Ren sprawled across its back, shouting in alarm as he nearly flew off.
“Shen Jinghong, are you out of your mind?”
Once he had managed to steady himself, Wang Ren turned around and cursed furiously at Shen Jinghong. His round face was red with anger, and even the tips of his ears trembled.
Shen Jinghong ignored him. He rode slowly to the side of Shi Huai’s carriage and looked down at Shi Huai, who was still holding up the curtain.
His hand clenched and unclenched inside his sleeve. The light in his peach-blossom eyes flickered several times, and a half-smile curved across his lips.
“Shi Huai, once we’re in the palace, stay close to me. Don’t wander off.”
Shen Jinghong’s voice was calm, carrying an unquestionable certainty.
As though Shi Huai naturally belonged at his side.
Shi Huai nodded without giving it much thought, then let the curtain fall. The carriage was once again enveloped in the warm golden light. Qinghe handed him a peeled orange.
The orange segments glistened beneath the lamplight. Shi Huai accepted one and slipped it into his mouth.
Its sweet-and-sour juice burst across his tongue, crisp and refreshing, like the first taste of snow in winter.
The carriage procession traveled through the wind and snow for roughly half an hour before finally reaching the palace gates.
The vermilion palace walls looked especially vivid against the white snow, like a winding crimson dragon coiled around the heart of the capital.
A thin layer of snow covered the golden glazed roof tiles, sparkling with fragmented light in the morning sun.
The guards at the palace gates inspected everyone’s identification documents. Their gazes lingered on Shi Huai’s face several times longer than on anyone else’s.
His face, illuminated by the snow, was almost translucently pale. His brows resembled distant mountains, and his eyes shone like stars. He looked like an immortal lord who had stepped out of an ancient painting.
The captain of the guards was a middle-aged man in his forties who had stood watch at the palace gates for twenty years and seen all manner of people.
Yet when he caught sight of Shi Huai, the spear in his hand still wavered.
He would have made a spectacle of himself had the deputy behind him not caught him.
The deputy leaned close and whispered something in his ear. The captain came back to his senses, coughed forcefully, and waved them through.
The snowfall inside the palace was even heavier than outside the city. Snowflakes drifted down in great clusters from the gloomy sky, settling on the white jade railings, the glazed roof tiles beneath the eaves, and the branches of an old plum tree in the courtyard.
Several wax plums had already bloomed on the tree. Their golden petals cradled the white snow, while their crisp, wintry fragrance filled the air.
The poetry gathering was being held in a heated pavilion in the Imperial Garden. The pavilion was not large, but it had been arranged with exquisite care. The underfloor heating burned fiercely, and warmth rushed over everyone who entered.
Bright yellow curtains hung from the ceiling, glowing softly in the candlelight.
The tables were laden with delicate pastries and hot tea, and the air was filled with the warm mingling scents of tea and aloeswood incense.
Quite a few people had already arrived.
They sat in twos and threes, chatting in low voices.
Some were discussing the snow, some were guessing what kind of poetry the emperor would favor, and others were secretly studying Shi Huai.
Shi Huai chose a seat by the window.
Outside stood the old tree covered in blooming wax plums. The golden petals mingled with the white snow, creating a scene as beautiful as a painting.
Shen Jinghong naturally took the seat beside him. He removed his cloak and draped it over the back of the chair, revealing the sapphire-blue brocade robe beneath.
He crossed one leg over the other and leaned back, sweeping his half-lidded peach-blossom eyes around the pavilion. A smile of quiet confidence played at the corners of his lips.
Wang Ren squeezed over with two cups of hot tea. He set one in front of Shi Huai and kept the other for himself.
Then he sat down across from Shi Huai. His round face was covered in smiles, his two dimples deepening and fading as he grinned, while his eyes remained fixed unwaveringly on Shi Huai’s face.
Gu Changning sat in a corner, with the old wax-plum tree directly behind him.
The golden petals reflected against his lean face, lending his cold, phoenix-shaped eyes a profoundness that was difficult to define.
He took the poem Shi Huai had written from his book satchel, unfolded it, and laid it across his knees. Lowering his head, he read it line by line, his fingers brushing lightly over the paper as though caressing something precious.
Footsteps sounded outside the pavilion, drawing nearer, accompanied by the shrill announcement of a eunuch.
Everyone inside the pavilion rose and bowed their heads in respectful greeting. The rustle of fabric sounded especially clear in the quiet space.
The emperor entered wearing a bright yellow robe. Several ministers and eunuchs followed behind him.
He appeared to be in his forties, with a square, dignified face and an imposing imperial air between his brows. Yet a faint smile touched his lips, making it clear that he was in a good mood.
Imperial Consort Shen followed half a step behind him. She wore a bright red palace gown and a crown of red gold adorned with pearls and a phoenix.
She was beautiful enough to resemble a peony that had stepped out of a painting.
Her gaze swept around the warm chamber before finally settling on Shi Huai. In those peach-blossom eyes, so strikingly identical to Shen Jinghong’s, a glint that was impossible to decipher flickered briefly.
