The Warm Pavilion remained silent for a full five breaths before the Emperor was the first to applaud.
The applause was neither loud nor enthusiastic, but each measured clap landed heavily on the heart of everyone present.
Imperial Consort Shen joined in, her peach-blossom eyes brimming with laughter. Yet how much of that laughter was genuine and how much was feigned—even she could not say.
The Crown Prince applauded the hardest. He refused to stop even after his palms had turned red, his eyes fixed fiercely on Shi Huai as though he meant to carve that face into his very bones.
Shen Jinghong leaned against the back of his chair without applauding. His peach-blossom eyes narrowed as he watched the Crown Prince’s dazed expression, and a cold curve slowly lifted the corner of his mouth. His fingers clenched inside his sleeves with a faint crackle.
He sneered inwardly.
So what if he was the Crown Prince?
The Emperor lifted his teacup and took a sip. After setting it down, he let his gaze linger on Shi Huai’s face for a moment before turning to the chief eunuch at his side.
“Reward him.”
The chief eunuch answered in his shrill voice and hurried out to make the arrangements. His boots crunched against the snow, the sound unnaturally clear in the quiet Warm Pavilion.
Shi Huai bowed, his voice still composed and unassuming, carrying that reassuring warmth of his.
“Thank you for Your Majesty’s grace.”
He turned and walked back to his seat.
A palace maid took the silver-gray fox-fur cloak and draped it over his shoulders once more. When her fingers brushed against him, they trembled slightly, and her face flushed all the way to the roots of her neck.
Imperial Consort Shen’s gaze followed Shi Huai without pause.
From the center of the Warm Pavilion to his seat, from his seat to the hand that lifted his teacup, and from that hand to his face—it wound after him like a snake flicking its tongue, refusing to let go.
She picked up the teacup before her and took a sip.
It was the finest early-spring Longjing tea, sweet on the tongue with a lingering aftertaste.
Yet she could taste none of it. Her mind was filled entirely with Shi Huai’s face as he recited his poem.
That face had seemed to glow white in the candlelight. His features looked as though Heaven itself had outlined them stroke by delicate stroke with the finest brush, every curve precisely right—not a fraction too much, nor a fraction too little.
She was twenty-eight years old and had spent twelve years in the palace. She had seen more beauties than she had eaten grains of salt.
But never before had her heart felt as though someone had seized it in their fist, leaving her unable to breathe.
Imperial Consort Shen drew a deep breath and set down her teacup. Her fingers tapped lightly against the tabletop twice, as though she were making some sort of decision.
The poetry gathering came to an end, and everyone filed out of the Warm Pavilion in twos and threes.
Snow was still falling, harder than before. Great flakes drifted down from the gray sky, settling on shoulders, hair, and eyelashes.
Shi Huai walked among the crowd with a long string of followers he could not shake.
Classmates, ministers, unfamiliar young officials—everyone wanted to say a few words to him, strike up a conversation, or simply make an impression in his presence.
Wang Ren squeezed to the front. His round face was piled high with smiles, his dimples deep as two little whirlpools. White breath puffed from his mouth in clouds.
“Shi Huai, that poem you recited just now was incredible! It gave me goosebumps!”
Shen Jinghong reached out from behind and pushed Wang Ren’s head aside. His peach-blossom eyes narrowed as he looked at Shi Huai, a lazy smile playing about his lips.
“Don’t mind him. He’s a vulgar man who wouldn’t understand poetry if it bit him.”
Wang Ren’s face flushed with anger, and he was just about to retort when the corner of his eye caught sight of the Crown Prince hurrying up from behind. The words at his lips were swallowed at once.
The Crown Prince wore an apricot-yellow robe embroidered with a python, making him especially conspicuous against the snow.
He covered the distance in three quick strides and reached Shi Huai’s side. His breathing was still somewhat labored, and the python embroidery across his chest rose and fell with each breath.
“Young Master Shi,” the Crown Prince said, his voice slightly strained. His eyes fell upon Shi Huai’s face and refused to move, as though something had pinned them there.
“Are you free? I would like to invite you to the Eastern Palace for a visit. We could discuss poetry together.”
Shi Huai stopped and turned to face the Crown Prince.
Snowflakes landed on his eyelashes and melted almost at once, leaving behind fine beads of water that glittered in the snowy light.
“Your Highness is too kind. This student’s knowledge is shallow and his talents meager. I would not dare display my inadequacies before Your Highness.”
Shi Huai bowed. His tone was courteous yet distant, respectful without being servile.
The Crown Prince found his indifferent manner both maddening and irresistible. He took a step forward, narrowing the distance between them, and lowered his voice.
“I am serious. Your poetry truly is excellent. I wish to learn more from you.”
Shen Jinghong watched the scene from the side, the chill in his peach-blossom eyes thickening until it seemed ready to freeze.
He stepped half a pace forward and positioned himself between Shi Huai and the Crown Prince. A faint smile hung at his lips, but it was as cold as ice in the depths of winter.
“Your Highness, Shi Huai has a heavy workload at the Imperial College. I’m afraid he may not have time to visit the Eastern Palace.”
Shen Jinghong’s voice was neither loud nor soft. His tone was lazy, as though he were commenting on something utterly insignificant.
The Crown Prince frowned and shot Shen Jinghong a displeased look, along with the unmistakable spirit of rivalry understood only among scions of prominent families.
“Shen Jinghong, I was speaking to Shi Huai. Why are you butting in?”
Shen Jinghong’s peach-blossom eyes narrowed slightly. The curve of his lips did not change, but the air around him suddenly turned cold, like a drawn sword—its edge exposed, its chill piercing.
“Your Highness,” Shen Jinghong said, still in that languid tone, though every word seemed coated in poison.
“Shi Huai is a student of the Imperial College, not an official of the Eastern Palace. Whether he has time to go there or not is for him to decide.”
The Crown Prince’s expression darkened. His lips pressed into a thin line, and his fingers clenched inside his sleeves with a faint crackle.
But he did not lose his temper.
Because he noticed Shi Huai frown ever so slightly.
The movement was so subtle that it was almost impossible to detect.
But the Crown Prince caught it. His heart felt as though someone had poured a basin of ice water over it, leaving him cold from the inside out.
He drew a deep breath and held it in his chest for a long while before finally exhaling. When he spoke again, his voice was far gentler than before.
“It was presumptuous of me. Young Master Shi, you may return for now. I will have someone deliver an invitation to the Marquis’s residence another day.”
Shi Huai bowed and turned to continue on his way.
His silver-gray fox-fur cloak flowed across the snow like a drifting cloud, while his black hair lifted gently in the wind.
A few snowflakes clung to the ends of his hair, creating a breathtaking contrast between black and white.
The Crown Prince stood where he was, watching his back recede into the distance. Snowflakes landed on his apricot-yellow python robe and melted almost immediately, leaving patches of dark, dampened fabric. He remained utterly unaware of them.
Shen Jinghong did not leave either. He stood beside the Crown Prince, watching that same figure gradually disappear.
For one silent moment, the gazes of the two young men clashed in the air. Then, at the same time, they looked away.
The snow fell harder and harder. Heaven and earth blurred into a vast expanse of white, and Shi Huai’s figure grew increasingly indistinct within the curtain of snow.
At last, it was like a spot of ink bleeding across rice paper, dissolving into that boundless whiteness.
