Chapter 18 — The Price of “Proper”
The candlelight changed my nights.
Not only because my eyes stopped aching so badly, but because I began to understand something deeper:
Shen Yanci did not give lightly.
When he gave, he meant it.
And meaning carried weight.
For two days after the new candles appeared on my table, I wrote until my wrist ached—but my words flowed clean, as if the flame had burned away the fog in my head.
On the third morning, I carried the next installment to the bookshop.
The keeper’s eyes lit up the moment he saw me.
“You”re on time! he crowed, snatching the pages like a hungry man snatching bread. He flipped through, nodding rapidly, lips moving.
When he reached the end, he slapped the stack down and laughed.
“Good! Good!” he said. “The fox fairy”she“s clever. Readers will tear the teahouse stools apart over this.”
He counted coins onto the counter.
This time, more than before.
The clink sounded heavier, richer.
My fingers twitched instinctively, already calculating what could be bought: rice, oil, paper, ink
Then the keeper leaned closer, lowering his voice as if we were about to share a scandal.
“There”s one more thing,“ he said, eyes gleaming. ”A suggestion.
I went still. “What kind of suggestion?”
He tapped the stack of pages.
“Readers like sweetness,” he said. “They also like” heat.
I kept my face blank. “Meaning?”
He chuckled. “Meaning the kind of scenes that make women blush and men pretend not to listen. You understand?”
Heat.
My cheeks warmed despite myself.
I thought of Shen Yanci’s breath by my ear, of the way his restraint sometimes trembled like a bowstring pulled too tight.
I did understand.
But I also understood something else:
In the Lin residence, men used “heat” to shame women. To make desire into dirt.
Here, the market used “heat” as a hook.
“A little,” the keeper continued, misreading my silence as interest, “and the sales double. But you must be careful”tasteful, you know? Not vulgar. Leave enough to the imagination, but not so much that the reader feels cheated.
Tasteful.
Not vulgar.
He had the nerve to talk about propriety while counting profits.
I smiled politely. “I”ll consider it.
He pushed the coin pile toward me. “Good. Consider it quickly.”
I gathered the coins into my pouch and stepped outside.
The city was bright, noisy, indifferent.
As I walked home, the keeper’s words stuck in my mind like burrs.
Tasteful.
Heat.
Proper.
So much of my life had been dictated by what other people called proper.
A proper woman didn’t chase a man.
A proper woman didn’t ask for marriage.
A proper woman didn’t protest when her ding tax rose.
A proper woman didn’t mind being assigned like livestock.
Proper was a cage with a pretty name.
By the time I reached our courtyard, my jaw hurt from clenching.
Shen Yanci was inside, sitting at the stone table beneath the tree, a book open before him. The red silk from our ceremony still hung in places, fading slowly under autumn sun, like a blush that refused to disappear.
He looked up when he heard the gate.
“You”re back, he said.
I sat across from him and set the pouch on the table.
Then, without thinking too much, I said, “The bookshop keeper wants me to write” more “proper” romance.
Shen Yanci“s brows lifted a fraction. ”Proper?
I laughed once, short and sharp. “He said readers like ”heat“.”
The word came out awkward on my tongue, as if I was forcing it into daylight.
Shen Yanci went very still.
His gaze lowered to the book, then lifted again—slowly.
“Did he,” Shen Yanci said, voice even, “use that word?”
I watched his throat move.
I watched the faint redness touch the edge of his ear.
“Yes,” I said.
He was silent for a moment.
Then he closed his book gently, as if concluding a lesson.
“Readers,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “like what they aren”t allowed to have.
A thrum ran through my chest.
I leaned forward slightly. “And what am I allowed to have?”
The question came out smaller than I intended.
Not about stories.
About life.
Shen Yanci’s eyes held mine.
In them, there was no mockery.
No contempt.
Only a quiet seriousness that made my breath catch.
“You”re allowed to have what you choose, he said softly.
My fingers curled around the edge of the table.
“Then,” I said, voice low, “I choose to keep writing. I choose to keep earning. I choose to stop being afraid of what people call ”proper.
A faint smile tugged at his mouth.
“And what about the” heat?“ he asked, voice controlled, but his eyes had gone darker, as if the word had stirred something he didn”t want to show.
I felt my face warm.
I didn’t look away.
“I”ll write it,“ I said. ”But I won“t let it be used to shame me again.”
Shen Yanci’s gaze dropped to my lips for a breathless second, then returned to my eyes.
“Then write it like that,” he murmured.
Not as shame.
As choice.
The candlelight in my room that night felt steadier than ever.
And when I dipped my brush, I didn’t feel like I was crawling to survive.
I felt like I was building a door.
One paragraph at a time.