"All of you, rise. Today is a poetry gathering, so there is no need for such formalities."
The Emperor's voice was neither loud nor soft, carrying a gentle quality that put others at ease. He walked over to the main seat and sat down, his gaze sweeping across every face in the room.
Imperial Consort Shen, seated beside the Emperor, lifted the teapot to pour him a cup of tea. Then she raised her eyes, and her gaze landed right on Shi Huai.
Shen Jinghong noticed his older sister's gaze, and nearly lost his grip on the teacup in his hand. The tea sloshed over the rim and splashed onto his fingers, scalding him so that he winced.
He lifted his head and shot his sister a glare, but Imperial Consort Shen acted as if she had not seen him at all. A faint smile played at her lips, and the glint in her peach blossom eyes was loaded with unspoken meaning.
The Emperor had also caught the direction of Imperial Consort Shen's gaze. He followed her line of sight, and his eyes fell on Shi Huai.
His gaze lingered on Shi Huai's face for a brief moment. His pupils constricted slightly, and his fingers holding the teacup tapped gently twice against its side, as if he was confirming something.
"You are Shi Huai, are you not? The young master of the Yongning Marquis's household, the top scorer of the recent imperial examination?"
The Emperor set down his teacup, leaned forward slightly, his eyes holding a hint of scrutiny and curiosity.
Shi Huai stood up, his spine ramrod straight. His moon-white brocade robe set off his clean, striking, otherworldly features, and the silver-gray fox fur coat he wore glowed with a soft sheen in the candlelight.
The snowlight from outside the window fell on his face. He tilted his head slightly to avoid meeting the Emperor's gaze directly, his manner neither overly deferential nor arrogant, as calm as if he was speaking to an elder.
"Your Majesty, that is exactly this student."
Shi Huai's voice was clear and rich, as if washed clean by mountain spring water, with a quality that made it impossible for anyone who heard it to forget.
The warm pavilion fell quiet for a moment. Everyone held their breath, their eyes darting back and forth between Shi Huai and the Emperor.
The Emperor looked at him in silence for a while, then a slow smile spread across his face, a smile that bore an indefinable, unreadable quality.
"Good. What a fine Shi Huai. You may be seated."
The Emperor waved a hand, picked up his teacup and took a sip, yet his gaze still remained fixed on Shi Huai.
Imperial Consort Shen smiled too, her face lighting up like a peony in full bloom, so radiant that others dared not look directly at her.
Her hand tightened inside her sleeve, her nails digging into the palm of her hand. The faint pain pulled her back from a kind of entrancement, clearing her head.
The poetry gathering officially began.
First, several ministers each presented a poem. All were perfectly conventional works written for the imperial occasion, ornate in phrasing but hollow in content. The Emperor only nodded faintly as he listened, giving no clear sign of approval or disapproval.
Next, it was the turn of the Imperial Academy students.
The first to step forward was a young man Shi Huai did not know, dressed in indigo brocade, his features neat and handsome. He stood in the middle of the warm pavilion and recited his poem in a clear, loud voice.
The poem was well-written, but lacked originality. After hearing it, the Emperor nodded and said only "Passable."
The young man was so overjoyed that his face flushed bright red, and he kowtowed repeatedly to thank the Emperor.
When it was Shen Jinghong's turn, he stood up, straightened his collar, narrowed his peach blossom eyes, and bowed to the Emperor before walking to the center of the warm pavilion.
His voice was not loud, but every word was pronounced crisply, his intonation rising and falling, the rhythm and emphasis perfectly controlled.
His poem employed several rarely used allusions. Its phrasing was ornate but not overblown, its meaning profound yet not obscure. It was like a cup of strong liquor on a winter's day, sharp on the tongue but leaving a long, satisfying aftertaste.
The Emperor fell silent for a moment after listening, then a smile spread across his face, warmer than the one he had worn when listening to the ministers' poems.
He glanced over at Imperial Consort Shen, who gave a small nod back, a look of pride shining in her eyes.
"Jinghong, this poem of yours is very well written. You have improved," the Emperor said, his tone carrying obvious approval.
Shen Jinghong bowed in acknowledgement, a confident, determined smile tugging at his lips.
Yet his gaze did not rest on the Emperor. Instead, it drifted over to Shi Huai, sitting in the corner.
Shi Huai was looking down, sipping his tea, and did not notice Shen Jinghong's gaze. The candlelight fell on his lowered eyelashes, casting a small fan-shaped shadow under his eyes that trembled gently as he lifted his cup to drink.
Shen Jinghong stared at the sight, his heart skipping a beat. His fingers curled tight inside his sleeve, and he turned to walk back to his seat.
Next was Gu Changning.
He stood up from his corner, his dark blue crane cloak bearing faint, deep patterns that glowed in the candlelight. He walked to the center of the warm pavilion and began to speak directly, his voice as deep and resonant as a zither's strings.
The moment he opened his mouth, the entire warm pavilion fell silent. His poetic style was just like himself: cold, crisp, steep, carrying a lofty, distant air that seemed to shut others out.
The Emperor listened in silence for a long time, his fingers tapping lightly on the tabletop, as if savoring a rare, fine vintage wine.
"Excellent. This poem is a true masterpiece," the Emperor finally said, his tone holding a rare degree of high praise.
Gu Changning bowed in acknowledgement, his expression not changing in the slightest, and turned to walk back to his seat in the corner.
His gaze brushed past Shi Huai and paused for a moment. Shi Huai lifted his head and gave him a smile.
That made Gu Changning's step falter for a beat. He lowered his head, quickened his pace back to his seat, pulled the poem that Shi Huai had written out of his book bag, spread it across his knees, and stroked his fingers gently over the surface of the paper.
Last of all, it was Shi Huai's turn.
He stood up and straightened his collar, and his silver-gray fox fur coat slipped off his shoulders. A palace maid at once stepped forward to catch it, stepping back to hold the coat carefully in both hands, her eyes fixed unblinkingly on Shi Huai's retreating back.
Shi Huai walked to the center of the warm pavilion. Outside the window, the winter plums were blooming vibrantly, their golden petals cupping fresh snow. The sharp, clean scent of the blossoms seeped in through the cracks of the window, mingling with the aroma of tea and agalloch eaglewood inside the pavilion, light and refreshing.
Shi Huai stood there, the snowlight from outside falling on his face. His skin was as pale and flawless as the finest suet jade, every line of his features perfectly shaped, his bearing carrying an indescribable, ethereal air.
When he began to speak, his voice was like the first breath of spring wind brushing across frozen ice in the depths of winter, with a clear, rich texture that made every listener's heart tingle:
"The north wind rolls the earth, the bitter grass snaps,
In the eighth month of the Hu sky, snow descends.
As if a spring breeze had blown overnight,
A thousand trees, ten thousand trees, their pear blossoms bloom."
The warm pavilion was so quiet that the crackle of burning candle wicks could be heard. Every person's eyes were drawn to Shi Huai as if caught by a magnet. The Emperor's fingers holding his teacup tightened unconsciously, and he leaned further forward without realizing it.
"The snow seeps through the beaded curtains, dampening the silk drapes,
The fox fur coat gives no warmth, the brocade blanket feels thin.
The general cannot bend his frozen bow,
The guards' cold armor is too hard to wear."
Shen Jinghong leaned back in his chair, his peach blossom eyes half-lidded, his entire field of vision filled with Shi Huai's figure. He realized he had forgotten to breathe, as if the air had been completely emptied from his lungs.
Wang Ren's hands holding his teacup trembled, the tea inside sloshing back and forth in ripples that spilled over onto his fingers, scalding him until he grimaced. But he did not even notice. Two deep dimples showed on his round face, and a dazed, foolish smile hung on his lips.
Gu Changning lifted his head, his sharp, cool phoenix eyes peering over the top edge of the sheet of paper he was holding to land on Shi Huai's face. His fingers tightened abruptly on the paper, crumpling a deep crease into the poem that Shi Huai had written, yet he did not notice it at all.
