“Miss, are you really not going?” Hongmei set the teacup down beside Lu Yinxi and tested the water with the most careful of voices.
“Girls ought to be modest. I won’t go.” Lu Yinxi drew the needle through the silk, the final stitch completing a tiny peach tree on the scented sachet.
Hongmei and Hongrui exchanged a look. It felt odd hearing the Fourth Miss talk about modesty now—wasn’t she the one who’d once blurted, in front of the master, “Do you like me?” How sudden, that she should be coy at the very moment it suited her.
Lu Yinxi made another stitch. The needle pricked her fingertip; a sharp sting ran through her hand. She jabbed again despite the pain.
“Miss!” Hongmei cried and hurried for the salve.
The room cleared in an instant. The self-proclaimed model of restraint had her composure broken; happiness spilled across her face, the faint catlike curve at the corners of her mouth showing before she could hide it.
He’d really remembered his words. She’d told herself she wouldn’t go see him—and he’d come looking for her. Should she give him the courtesy of meeting him? The thought flooded her chest until she felt as if she might reel.
Left: Should I go?
Right: Should I go?
The question had an answer already, of course, but she asked it aloud to herself as if he stood before her, as if he could answer. She repeated it until her movements stilled.
If she were honest with herself, she wanted to see him. But what if she went now and he thought her too wouldowy—too easy to win? People long for what’s out of reach; if she yielded so quickly, would he learn not to treasure her? Yet to hold back and not go felt worse: like she was playing the part of a cold-hearted woman.
Back and forth they tore at her, until Hongmei returned with ointment and a rumor pressed to her lips.
“Miss, I heard something just now. Do you want to hear it?”
“What?” Lu Yinxi answered without thinking; her mind was still tangled.
Hongmei’s face brightened. “Third Miss has gone to the main hall.”
Lu Yinxi’s eyes went sharp. The main hall—the place where Prince Jing was. Lu Jinran had gone there? What was she doing?
Her daze cleared. She stood and strode to the dressing table with purpose. “Hongmei, help me dress.”
Front hall
Lu Jinran’s sudden appearance had already ruffled brows. Minister Lu’s frown tightened into something almost mountainous. If the servant had not warned him, he would never have believed she’d dared to walk into the reception uninvited. At least the screen stood between them now, saving face.
“What are you doing here? Take your lady back,” Minister Lu snapped, the second half aimed at the maid behind his daughter.
“What are you saying, Father?” Lu Jinran raised her voice deliberately, hoping to draw the prince’s attention. “Prince Jing has come to call. I came to pay respects.”
But Prince Jing did not look up. He stared at the tea cup in his hands as if he could coax a blossom from its surface. He knew Lu Jinran’s designs—enough to be wary, not enough to be moved. His public manners were impeccable; his private regard was different matter.
Lu Jinran watched him, puzzled and angry. Why did he care for Lu Yinxi a thousand times more than for her? She could not bear it.
Ordered back by the servants, shooed by her maid, she waited until the screen separated them from the prince by only a step. Then, teeth biting her lip until the skin reddened, she pushed past the attendants, swept around the screen, and walked out.
“Your servant greets Prince Jing.” She forced a curtsey.
Minister Lu’s face darkened; the rebuke was on his tongue, but someone beat him to it.
“Miss Lu.” Prince Jing inclined his head, the formal bow of a royal household and of respect to Minister Lu. There was a note of regret in it too—he’d hoped to see someone else today, and now that hope narrowed into disappointment.
He rose and excused himself. Minister Lu startled, but dared not stop a visiting royal; he escorted the prince out. From the first bow until he left, Prince Jing hadn’t once spared Lu Jinran a look.
“Forgive my daughter’s impertinence, Your Highness.” Minister Lu offered the apology everyone expected.
“Minister Lu, a small lesson will do,” Prince Jing replied with a curt nod. No warmth, no pleading on Lu Jinran’s behalf; rules were rules.
And then, as if conjured by the thought, Lu Yinxi appeared in the hall.
Prince Jing’s eyes flicked up. For a moment he thought he’d imagined it—she’d only just crossed his mind and there she stood. Meeting her on the way, flanked by the minister, made the moment all the more unlikely, and all the more welcome.
“You’re better?” he asked first, stepping back imperceptibly on instinct—courtesy around Minister Lu required restraint.
Lu Yinxi replied with all the proper composure she could muster. “Thank you, Your Highness. I am much improved.”
He peered her up and down once, as if searching for deception, then allowed himself a small sigh of relief. She smiled; for a second, everything felt right. But a resolution crystallized behind his eyes—he would not allow this gift of hers to be relied upon. The power behind her words, the way they bent things—he could not let her use it often.
With that thought unspoken, he excused himself again. Lu Yinxi watched him go until his figure shrank and vanished.
All the hesitation that had gnawed at her heart moments before fell away. If liking him felt this certain, why hide it?
“Go back,” someone ordered.
“Lu Yinxi!”
The shout came hot and sudden. Lu Jinran was running toward her, nails red with rouge as if she’d been trying to tear herself free. Anger thundered in her eyes; every courtesy had crumbled.
“Why are you calling me?” Lu Yinxi asked, bewildered.
Lu Jinran’s hands closed on her shoulders with a pressure that hurt. Up close, the words that followed were soft but lethal.
“Lu Yinxi, go die.”