Chapter 7 — Under the Lattice Window
I stared at the full rice jar until my pride burned hot enough to cook an egg.
So Teacher Shen wasn’t a fox fairy.
He was worse.
He was the kind of person who made you want to repay him“because if you didn”t, the weight of what you owed would press on your chest until you couldn’t sleep.
That morning, I rolled up my sleeves and lit the stove.
Flour. Water. A handful of scallions I hadn“t bought. Eggs I definitely hadn”t laid.
I cracked two into a bowl and whisked until the yellow turned foamy, then folded in chopped green. The scent rose warm and honest, nothing like the perfumed sweetness of the Lin residence. When the oil hit the pan, it sizzled like a sharp laugh.
By the time the pancakes were done“edges crisp, centers soft”I wrapped them in oil paper and held the bundle against my palm to keep the heat in.
If Shen Yanci wanted to play at midnight generosity, then I would play at daylight repayment.
I tied my hair, grabbed my bundle of pancakes, and walked toward the academy.
The road was narrow, lined with bare branches and sleeping fields. As the academy came into view, the sound reached me first“children”s voices reciting in unison, clean and bright.
I paused outside the courtyard wall, suddenly aware of my own ridiculousness.
Three years ago, I had stood outside an academy like this, shivering under an eave with noodles in my hands, and Lin Jingran’s eyes had made me feel smaller than dirt.
Now I was here again.
Only this time, I wasn’t here for Lin Jingran.
I rose on my toes and peered through a half-open lattice window.
Inside, Shen Yanci stood at the front of the room. His robe was a washed-out blue-green, the fabric worn soft at the edges. He looked tall and thin in the pale light, like a bamboo stalk that had learned to bend without breaking.
He held a book in one hand and guided the children with the other, voice even, calm, steady in a way that made the room settle.
Then I saw it—faint shadows under his eyes.
Last night“s footsteps, last night”s silent labor, had left their mark.
My chest tightened.
The children’s voices rose together, reciting a line I knew too well from overhearing scholars in the Lin residence pretend they were cultured:
“"Guan guan ju jiu, zai he zhi zhou”"
The cadence filled the room.
“"Yao tiao shu n”, jun zi hao qiu“"”
At that line, Shen Yanci paused—just a fraction, the smallest hitch.
As if the words had touched something in him.
His gaze lifted without intention and landed, through the lattice, directly on me.
Our eyes met.
The world went very still.
I should have stepped back. I should have hidden, the way a proper woman was expected to.
Instead, I remained rooted to the ground like an idiot, holding a bundle of pancakes like a confession.
Shen Yanci“s expression didn”t change much“he was too trained for that”but something in his eyes shifted, darkened, warmed, then quickly cooled again like embers covered by ash.
He continued the lesson without missing a beat, guiding the children through the rest of the passage.
Only when the class ended did he move.
He dismissed the children with short instructions to review their books, then walked out briskly, as if he needed to reach me before someone else did.
When he stepped into the courtyard shade, his voice dropped.
“Why are you here?”
The question wasn’t harsh. But it was tight, controlled.
I held out the oil-paper bundle. “I made pancakes.”
His gaze flicked to it. He hesitated.
“I don”t need you to bring food,“ he said. ”The academy has a kitchen. I can cook.
“It”s not only for you,“ I said quickly, because the words ”thank you“ felt too weak to carry what I meant. ”It“s for the rice and greens. I” can“t eat so much alone.”
I saw the moment he understood what I was really saying:
"I know it was you."
His lips pressed together. For a rare second, he looked like a man caught doing something he didn’t want anyone to notice.
He took the bundle anyway.
Not because he wanted it.
Because refusing would embarrass me, and he couldn’t seem to do that even when he tried to keep distance.
We sat beneath a tree outside the academy wall, on a low stone bench. He unwrapped the pancakes and ate a few bites, quick and practical, as if worried the act of eating would become evidence.
When he finished, he pushed the bundle back toward me.
“Enough,” he said quietly. Then, after a pause: “You should go.”
I blinked. “Go” where?
“Home.” His eyes didn“t meet mine. He looked instead at the academy gate, where children still loitered. ”If someone sees you here“ it won”t be good for your name.
A sting shot through my chest, sharp as a needle.
He didn’t want me here.
He didn’t want me in his courtyard, in his life, in his rumors.
He wanted to keep me safe—away from him.
“You should leave quickly,” he added, voice lower. “If people talk” how will you marry in the future?
How will you marry.
The words hit harder than they should have.
Because I already had a contract.
Because I already had a name written in a ledger.
Because I was already standing on the edge of propriety, and he was the one pushing me back.
My fingers tightened around the oil paper until it crinkled.
“I understand,” I said, because “I”m hurt was not a sentence I could afford.
I turned and walked away.
Behind me, his footsteps didn’t follow.
---
Back in the courtyard behind the bamboo fence, I sat before the washbasin and looked at my reflection in the water.
The surface warped my face, but not enough to hide the sharpness of my eyes.
In the Lin residence, Lin Jingran had once laughed and called me a fox-charmer.
A fox. A seductress. A woman who thought only of men.
At the time, I had swallowed the insult like I swallowed everything else.
Now, with Shen Yanci“s words echoing in my ear”"how will you marry in the future?"that old insult crawled back into my throat and lodged there.
Maybe Teacher Shen thought so too.
Maybe he only tolerated me because the contract forced his hand.
Maybe he sneaked back at night to fill the rice jar not out of affection, but out of duty and conscience.
My pride told me to stop thinking about him.
But pride had never been good at feeding me.
So I counted my remaining coins again.
And again.
Still not enough for the ding tax.
And somewhere inside me, a stubborn spark flared.
If I couldn’t buy safety with silence, I would buy it with words.