The Third Prince’s voice sounded strangely airy.
He turned and walked back to his seat, every step feeling as though he were treading on cotton—soft, yielding, and utterly without support.
The Third Prince sat down, pulled a book from his satchel, and opened it. His eyes fell on the page, but he could not take in a single word.
His mind kept replaying the look on Shi Huai’s face when he had said, “I like it very much.”
Shi Huai’s voice was clear and gentle, every word like a honey-coated knife—sweet enough to break one’s heart.
Shen Jinghong saw all of this.
The brush in his hand spun between his fingers several times before he finally slammed it onto the desk with a sharp crack.
Ink splashed out and soaked a small patch of the desktop. He did not seem to notice. His eyes held nothing but a gloom so thick it seemed impossible to dispel.
Wang Ren crouched in the corner and watched the whole scene unfold. He looked just like a plump dog abandoned by its owner.
For the next half month, the Imperial Academy—and indeed half the capital—was steeped in an indescribable sourness.
It did not waft out of jars of vinegar. It seeped from the hearts of a whole group of scions from noble families.
It was so concentrated that it seemed to solidify in the air. Wherever one went, one could smell it.
Shi Huai remained completely oblivious.
Every day, he continued to study and practice calligraphy as usual. In the garden, he hugged Tangerine and basked in the sun.
From time to time, someone dragged him to the cuju field to run a few laps. His days passed much as they had before.
But the people around him seemed as if someone had wound the springs inside them tighter and tighter. Nothing showed on the surface, yet within, they had long since been twisted into a tangled knot.
The first to lose his composure was Zhao Huan.
During the halftime break of a cuju match, he squatted at the edge of the field and pretended to tie his shoe. Then he grabbed Xie Zhaolin by the sleeve and hauled him into a corner.
“Tell me, what exactly is the relationship between Shi Huai and Princess Jinse?”
Zhao Huan’s voice was very low, but the fire in his eyes crackled fiercely, as if it might set someone ablaze.
Xie Zhaolin lowered his eyes to look at his sleeve, which had been pulled out of shape, then looked up at Zhao Huan’s flushed face.
He pulled the sleeve free from Zhao Huan’s grip and brushed at the nonexistent dust on it.
“What relationship? The relationship between a subject and a princess. What else could it be?”
Zhao Huan was so enraged by his indifferent attitude that he nearly choked. He reached out to grab the sleeve again, but Xie Zhaolin dodged him.
“Don’t pretend you don’t understand! A subject and a princess? What subject writes poetry for a princess? What princess would travel all the way to a subject’s home to study poetry?”
His voice grew louder and louder. By the time he reached the last few words, he nearly lost control of his volume, and Xie Zhaolin clapped a hand over his mouth.
“Keep your voice down. Do you want everyone to hear you?”
Xie Zhaolin glared at him, then lowered his voice. His gaze drifted involuntarily toward the center of the field, where a certain figure was speaking with the Crown Prince.
“Why are you asking me? I’m just as anxious as you are. More anxious, even. But what can I do? Can I charge into the palace, drag the princess out, and ask her what scheme she’s plotting?”
Zhao Huan made a muffled “mmph” beneath his hand before forcefully pulling it away. He took a deep breath. His voice was lower now, but the fire in his eyes had not diminished in the slightest.
“Then what do you suggest we do? Just wait around? What if an imperial edict arranging a marriage is issued one day? By then, we won’t even know where to go to cry.”
Xie Zhaolin fell silent for a long while. His fingers unconsciously traced circles over his knee. Only after drawing several did he speak, his voice slightly hoarse.
“It won’t happen. Shi Huai is only twelve, and the princess is only fourteen. The Emperor won’t arrange a marriage so soon. We still have time.”
“And what good is having time? Do you think having time will make Shi Huai fall for you?”
Zhao Huan’s words were both cruel and precise, like a blade stabbing straight into the softest place in Xie Zhaolin’s heart. His entire body went rigid.
Xie Zhaolin opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but found that his voice was stuck in his throat. Not a single word would come out. All he could do was squeeze his eyes shut.
Seeing him like that, Zhao Huan felt miserable too. He reached over and patted him on the shoulder—not too hard, not too gently—with the helplessness of someone suffering from the same affliction.
“All right, all right. I didn’t mean to twist the knife. I’m just worried. Look at Shen Jinghong. He usually struts around like a peacock, but now he won’t even say a word. He spends all day leaning by the window, staring into space, and he’s stopped reading altogether.”
Xie Zhaolin followed his gaze.
Shen Jinghong was leaning against one of the grandstand’s pillars, a book in his hand. He had not turned a page in ages, his gaze fixed on the center of the field as if his thoughts were somewhere far away.
“He’s only pretending. You think he isn’t anxious? He’s more anxious than any of us. He just refuses to show it.”
Xie Zhaolin looked away, the corners of his mouth pulling into an expression that might have been a bitter smile—or perhaps mockery.
“So what if he’s the Grand Secretary’s grandson? So what if he’s the Noble Consort’s younger brother? In the presence of a princess, none of that is enough.”
Zhao Huan squatted down and picked up a stalk of foxtail grass. He plucked at it repeatedly until bits of the grass littered the ground.
“Do you think Shi Huai knows? Does he know that people watch him wherever he goes now? Does he know what those looks mean?”
Xie Zhaolin watched the young man in the center of the field, laughing and talking with the Crown Prince.
The light of the setting sun fell across his face, lending that pale, almost translucent complexion a warm glow.
“He doesn’t care. There’s no room in his eyes for any of this.”
Those words made Zhao Huan’s nose sting. The foxtail grass in his hand snapped in two, its juice staining his fingers green. A fresh, bitter scent rose into his nose.
“If only there were some way to make him care.”
Xie Zhaolin did not answer. He rose from the ground and dusted off the hem of his robe.
He turned and walked toward the center of the field. After two steps, he stopped and said without looking back, “Stop thinking about it. Come on. It’s time to take the field.”
Zhao Huan remained crouched there, dazed for a while longer, then threw the two pieces of foxtail grass onto the ground.
He stood and dusted the hem of his robe just as Xie Zhaolin had, then strode after him.
Leaning against the pillar, Shen Jinghong turned the pages of his book one after another.
He had read the same page more than a dozen times, yet not a single word had entered his mind. His thoughts were filled with the cat poem Shi Huai had written.
“The sun climbs high, yet still it sleeps;
Its belly round, its paws too short, it takes uncertain steps.
It heeds not worldly troubles and strife;
A quiet corner is its home and life.”
He could recite it backward by now.
He could even imagine what Shi Huai had looked like while writing it: head bowed, the tip of his brush whispering across the paper, a faint smile resting on his lips.
Shen Jinghong closed his eyes and silently recited the poem once more.
When he reached the line, “A quiet corner is its home and life,” his eyes suddenly flew open.
He had remembered something—something that made him feel thoroughly unwell.
