Chapter 12
Yun-yao returned from visiting her family, her mind a whirl of conflicting emotions.
Seeing her younger siblings had been a joy, but her mother’s subtle interrogation about her marriage had left her drained.
The unspoken questions hung in the air throughout her visit: Is he kind to you?
Has he taken concubines yet? When will there be news of a child?
She stepped into their bedroom, ready to retreat with a pot of osmanthus tea and her thoughts.
But the sight that greeted her stopped her cold.
Zhen-ting, dressed in casual robes, was sprawled comfortably on the couch, a book in hand, his feet propped up on a silk cushion. He looked so at ease, so utterly relaxed, that for a moment, she couldn't reconcile this image with the looming general who had first walked into her life.
Then she saw the cover of the book, and staggered back in disbelief. “What are you doing? Those are—!”
He looked up, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Is this where you learned about inner courtyard schemes?” he asked, holding up the vividly illustrated cover of the latest huaben.
Her cheeks flamed. “But, Zhen-ting! Those are—” she sputtered, glancing at the colorful cover displaying a sword-wielding man with a woman swooning in his arms, “scandalous!”
“Oh, come now!” His smile widened, utterly unashamed. “Liu said these are all the rage among the ladies now.”
She marched over, snatching the book from his hands. “The General’s Secret Bride,” she read, mortification flooding through her. This was the new release everyone had been whispering about, the one she hadn't been able to get her hands on yet.
“You shouldn't be reading such things!”
“Why not?” He sat up, looking genuinely curious. “The plot is quite good. Though I'm still not sure if the second concubine is really poisoning the tea or if it’s the maid trying to frame her.”
Her eyes widened in horror. “You're actually reading them?”
“Of course,” he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Did you get to the part where the general’s wife discovers the secret tunnel yet?”
Despite herself, Yun-yao’s eyes dropped to the book in his hands. She had been wanting to read it ever since her last tea gathering, when someone mentioned rumors that the story’s general was modeled after the Great General himself.
Zhen-ting’s eyes twinkled as he watched her inner struggle play across her face. He gestured grandly to the stack of huabens beside the couch. “Liu was very thorough. He said these are the best and most popular ones.”
Yun-yao’s breath caught. There, on top of the pile, sat The Consort’s Winter Moon–a rumored masterpiece she'd been trying to find for months. And beneath it, Treasure and Treason: The Swordsman’s Love, a famous story she'd only heard described in hushed tones.
“Are those......?” She couldn't even finish the question, her fingers itching to reach for them.
“They're yours,” he said, then paused. “For a fair exchange.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What kind of exchange?”
“Show me your collection,” he said simply. “I want to see what my wife enjoys reading.”
Her face burned hotter. “I don't—”
“Yun-yao,” he interrupted, his voice gentle. “I'm not mocking you. I enjoyed these.” He tapped the book in her hand. “I want to understand what interests you.”
She hesitated, torn between chagrin and the overwhelming desire to dive into those books. No one had ever discovered her secret vice—not her mother, not her friends, not even her siblings. The thought of revealing it, especially to her husband, made her stomach clench with anxiety.
But the way he looked at her made her resolve waver. He seems genuinely interested, not... skeptical, or... judging her... and she really, really wants to read those huabens by his side.
“Fine,” she muttered at last, her voice barely audible. “But you can't tell anyone.”
He mimed locking his lips and throwing away the key. “Our secret.”
She led him to Gentle Breeze Retreat, glancing over her shoulder several times to ensure no servants were watching.
Once inside, she closed the door firmly and approached her dowry chest. Number nineteen.
A number carefully chosen to blend inconspicuously into the sixty-four chests of dowry and the only one in Gentle Breeze Retreat.
Kneeling before it, she removed the top layer of silk wrappings and embroidery supplies. Then, with practiced movements, she pressed a hidden latch at the back corner. A false bottom clicked loose, revealing another compartment beneath.
Zhen-ting’s eyes widened as she began pulling out book after book. Not one or two huabens, but dozens—a carefully curated collection spanning years.
“The Consort’s Revenge,” he read, examining the worn spine of one volume. “Love in the Inner Courtyard. Blossoms in the Snow. The Scholar’s Secret Desire.” He looked up at her, eyes dancing with delight. “The perfect daughter has quite the library.”
She snatched The Scholar’s Secret Desire from his hands, clutching it protectively. “It has historical value,” she mumbled.
“I'm sure it does,” he agreed, his tone serious though his eyes still sparkled. “Especially the illustrated pages.”
“Zhen-ting!” she gasped, shoving his shoulder. Then, realizing what she'd done—the casual touch, the use of his name without titles—she pulled back, flustered.
But he only laughed, the sound warm and rich in the quiet room. “I like it when you say my name,” he said softly.
The moment stretched between them, heavy with something new and fragile. Yun-yao looked down at the books scattered around them, evidence of her secret life, her escape from the perfect daughter she'd always been expected to be.
“You don't think it’s... improper?” she asked, unable to meet his eyes.
“I think,” he said slowly, “I'm honored that you trust me enough to share this.” He picked up The Magistrate’s Daughter and settled comfortably on the floor cushions.
Soon, the garden house became their sanctuary. Each evening after dinner, they’d retreat with tea and books, their voices blending in animated debate.
To Yun-yao’s astonishment, Zhen-ting took the stories completely seriously.
He never mocked the romantic scenes that made her blush, never dismissed the intricate schemes as frivolous women’s nonsense.
Instead, he analyzed the characters' strategies with the same intensity he might bring to a military campaign.
“The first concubine is making a tactical error,” he declared one night, frowning at the page. “She should ally with the cook, not try to bribe the head maid. The cook controls what enters everyone’s mouths.”
Yun-yao couldn't help laughing. “You sound like you're planning a battle.”
“Inner courtyard politics are battles,” he replied, entirely serious. “Just with different weapons.”
She stared at him, struck by the realization that he truly understood—not just the stories themselves, but why she loved them.
In these tales, women weren't just decorative accessories to men’s lives; they were strategists, players in their own right, fighting for love and position and survival with every weapon at their disposal.
One night, as he finished the final chapter of The General’s Secret Bride, Zhen-ting closed the book with unusual solemnity.
“Do you think she made the right choice?” he asked. “Choosing love over duty?”
Yun-yao considered the question, aware of the weight behind it. “In stories, love always triumphs,” she said carefully. “In real life, duty often must come first.”
“And what of you?” His gaze was intent, searching. “If you had to choose?”
She looked down at the book in her hands, at the worn cover that had been her companion through lonely nights. In its pages, heroines defied convention, found passion, claimed happiness on their own terms.
“I never thought I would have the luxury of such a choice,” she admitted softly.
His hand covered hers, warm and calloused. “And now?”
Her heart thundered in her chest. This wasn't a story. This was real. The quiet room, the scattered books, the man whose touch sent heat curling through her veins.
“Now,” she whispered, “I think perhaps duty and love need not always be opposed.”
His smile, slow and tender, was worth every moment of mortification she'd felt at sharing her secret. Because in the space between the pages of these books, they had formed something rare and precious.
And perhaps, Yun-yao thought as Zhen-ting’s fingers intertwined with hers, that was the greatest romance of all.