Chapter 28
Six months later
The autumn breeze carried the sweet, intoxicating scent of osmanthus through the capital’s winding lanes, curling around the eaves of the Shen Residence like an old friend.
The garden pavilion of the Shen estate sagged beneath platters of steaming dishes and golden mooncakes.
Yun-si gazed absently at the silvered moon, lost in thought, while Yun-jia and Yun-hai chased flickering candle flames between paper lanterns.
Warm amber light spilled over the table, illuminating the delicate patterns on the lotus-paste pastries as Yun-yao observed her husband pluck a third pastry from the tray, his brow furrowed as he scrutinized the flaky crust.
“Perhaps we should test them with silver needles first,” Zhen-ting muttered, thumb brushing the pastry’s seam. “In Whispers of the Jade Pavilion, the assassin hid poison inside the red bean paste.”
Lady Shen’s eyebrows raised. “They’re from the imperial kitchens, General. Certified by three tasters.”
A wet retch cut through the conversation.
Yun-yao doubled over, pale fingers clawing at the carved armrest of her chair as mooncake crumbs tumbled from her lips. Zhen-ting lunged across the low table, knocking over a vase of chrysanthemums as he seized her wrist.
“Poison!” His shout sent servants scattering. “Fetch the physician! The antidote! A silver needle!”
“Stop bellowing,” Yun-yao gasped, wiping her mouth with a silk handkerchief. Her jade hairpin swung precariously. “It’s just morning sickness, you—”
The garden fell utterly still.
Across the table, Lady Shen’s composure cracked—a single, tremulous breath escaping before she clapped her palms in a loud crack. “Physician. Now.”
Zhen-ting blinked at the damp stain on Yun-shan’s brocade slippers, looking as dazed as a doe caught in the light. “I'm going to be a father?”
Yun-jia snorted into her sleeve. “Clearly.”
As they awaited the physician, Zhen-ting had Yun-yao half-carried to the inner reception room, piling embroidered cushions behind her back like she was made of porcelain. “Should you be sitting? Lying down? Upright? What if the baby falls out?”
Yun-yao swatted at his flailing hands. “It’s the size of a grain of rice, you oaf.”
“A grain of rice is precious,” he shot back, hovering as she shifted. His fingers twitched toward her waist, then jerked away like he’d been burned. “What if you trip? Or sneeze too hard? Or—”
“Or breathe?” Yun-si piped up from the doorway, palm on forehead. “Eldest Brother-in-law, you’re being ridiculous.”
Zhen-ting ignored her, dropping to one knee to peer at Yun-yao’s face. “You’re too pale. Should I fetch ginger tea? Or—wait, is ginger safe? What about—”
“Zhen-ting.” Yun-yao grabbed his collar, yanking him close enough to whisper. “If you don’t stop fussing, I’ll tell everyone you cried during Love Under the Moon’s tragic third act.”
His mouth snapped shut. The betrayal in his eyes was almost comical. Almost. Because then his hands found hers, squeezing like she was the only solid thing in a world suddenly tilted, and his voice went rough. “You’re sure?”
She smiled. “Very.”
They waited in the soft glow of the lanterns, Zhen-ting’s thumb tracing circles over her knuckles while her family buzzed with barely contained excitement beyond the screen.
When the physician finally arrived, his medicine box clinking softly, Yun-yao felt her heart skip—not from nerves, but from the overwhelming reality of it all.
The physician’s gnarled fingers pressed against Yun-yao’s pulse point as Zhen-ting paced tiger-circles around the consultation screen.
“Two months,” the old man announced, smiling at the way Yun-yao’s cheeks flushed peony-pink. “A strong merid—”
He yelped as Zhen-ting hauled him up by his collar. “Are you certain? What about the vomiting? The dizziness?”
“Husband.” Yun-yao’s voice sliced through his panic. “Release the poor man before you give him an ailment.”
The moment Zhen-ting’s grip loosened, Yun-jia pounced on her sister, nearly toppling them both into the tea table. “I’ll be the favorite aunt! I’ll teach the baby how to steal Father’s seal for candy money!”
Zhen-ting seized the collar of her gown and hauled her clear of Yun-yao, depositing her unceremoniously across the chamber.
“Unlikely,” Yun-si remarked with serene precision. “I shall compose stories especially for her. Naturally, I'll be the cherished aunt.”
Eleven-year-old Yun-hai brandished his wooden practice sword. “I’ll train them in eighteen martial arts before they can walk!”
Yun-shan cleared his throat. All eyes turned to the family’s pillar of propriety. “Naturally, as the eldest uncle, I shall oversee their classical education. Two hours of poetry recitation before dawn, followed by—”
A collective groan drowned him out.
Moonlight spilled through the lattice windows, painting silver stripes across the embroidered cushions as Yun-yao watched her siblings dissolve into chaos.
Only our second Mid-Autumn together. The thought struck her with quiet wonder.
How could so much have unfolded in a single year?
A war that should have taken him. A rescue that nearly broke her.
This love that had crept in like water dripping through stone, creating a mark where none existed.
Her fingers curled into the soft wool of her shawl—then stilled as Zhen-ting’s hand found hers beneath the folds. Rough. Warm. Trembling ever so slightly. Not with fear, she realized, but the terrible, wonderful weight of love.
“What are you thinking?” Zhen-ting murmured, his voice pitched low beneath her siblings' continued debate over who would be the superior aunt or uncle.
She turned to study his profile in the lantern light—this man who'd somehow seen past her porcelain mask to the woman underneath. Who'd chosen her not once but again and again, in moments both grand and quietly ordinary.
“I'm thinking,” she said softly, “that perhaps the stars knew what they were doing after all.”
His answering grin was as radiant as the moon above them. “Didn’t you know? The Imperial Astrologer did say my Seven Killing Stars will be fierce enough to conquer your Baleful Star when our birth stars were matched before marriage.”
“Well,” she poked his shoulder coyly, “you’re lucky to have me then. Any other lady with weaker stars would’ve been crushed by your Killing Stars, General.”
Around them, her family’s voices rose and fell like music, weaving through the autumn air thick with osmanthus and possibility. And for the first time in her carefully orchestrated life, Shen Yun-yao wanted for absolutely nothing at all.
Well. Almost nothing.
She caught sight of Yun-si across the room, her third sister’s gaze fixed on the moon outside with that faraway expression she always wore, present in body, absent in mind.
But tonight, something was different—a tension in her shoulders, a restlessness in the way her fingers drummed against her teacup.
Before Yun-yao could wonder at it, a servant’s breathless voice cut through the celebration.
The servant’s announcement rose above the chaos, bright with excitement. “Master! Lady! Young Master Gu has returned from his travels! He waits in the receiving hall.”
Yun-si’s teacup nearly dropped. Her fingers, usually so precise when turning pages, now fumbled with the porcelain rim. Gu Ting-zhi. Back.
She hadn’t seen him in two years—not since he’d left Shangjing to wander the southern provinces in the tradition of a scholar’s journey.
The last time, he’d still been all sharp elbows and boyish grins, the kind of friend who’d sprawl across her favorite reading bench and argue for hours about whether the places and animals in The Journey Through Mountains and Seas are real or mere myth or whether the sword-wielding ladies in her stories are too skilled to be believable.
But now?
The next thing she knew, her slippers were flying across the corridor tiles, her pulse hammering in her throat. The reception hall doors loomed ahead—she shoved them aside, chest heaving, and there he was.
There he stood.
Taller. Broader in the shoulders. The boyish roundness of his face had sharpened into something more angular, his jawline now defined enough to cast shadows in the candlelight.
His scholar’s robes, though travel-worn, draped elegantly over his frame, the deep indigo fabric embroidered with silver bamboos along the hem—new taste, she noted absently. Expensive taste.
Then he turned.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. His dark eyes—always too knowing, too amused—widened fractionally. Then that familiar, crooked grin split his face, the one that had always made her roll her eyes and threaten to withhold her latest manuscript drafts.
Not the measured smile of a scholar. Not the polite courtesy he’d shown the servants bowing him inside.
This was the grin she remembered—the one that had always meant trouble, the one that had coaxed her into climbing the old plum tree to steal fruit for their midnight reading sessions, the one that had dared her to sneak into the kitchen for honey cakes when Cook wasn’t looking.
“Si-er,” he drawled, and oh, his voice was deeper now, roughened by two years of wind and road-dust.
The endearment made her ears itch. It was different hearing it from the squeaky voice of a boy and the deep bass tone of a man.
The lazy drawl carried on. “The sleepy turtle walk has turned into a sleepy turtle run, I see.”
Yun-si’s face burned. “I—! You—!” She snatched up a porcelain vase from the side table and hurled it at him.
Gu Ting-zhi caught it one-handed, barely glancing at the flying missile.
“Ah, so this is how you greet an old friend after two years apart. How... literary of you.” He set the vase down with deliberate care, then bowed—mockingly—as if she were an imperial princess.
“Should I return the favor? Perhaps with a teapot? Or would you prefer the bronze incense burner? It’s heavier. ”
Chancellor and Lady Shen chose that moment to sweep into the hall.
The rest of the family followed—Yun-yao with Zhen-ting a half-step behind her, his hand resting protectively at the small of her back; Yun-jia’s barely suppressed giggle, Yun-hai’s open-mouthed gawking at the very cool sword strapped to their childhood friend’s waist.
And then they all saw it.
Yun-si’s ears.
Scarlet. Like she’d been steamed in a pot.
Gu Ting-zhi straightened, his expression shifting seamlessly into the polished mask of a scholar paying calls.
Smooth. Courteous. The perfect picture of decorum.
“Chancellor Shen, Lady Shen,” he greeted, bowing deeply.
“It’s an honor to return to your esteemed household.
I trust the years have treated you well. ”
Yun-si glared at the back of his head. Oh, so now he’s the paragon of propriety?
Six years ago, this same man had threatened to put worms in her hair when she’d refused to help him cheat on his calligraphy homework.
Three years ago, he’d called her “little bookworm” and stolen her favorite hairpin just to see if she’d chase him for it (she had).
From young, he has always been with her—her partner in mischief, her fellow dreamer, the one person who’d never treated her like the quiet, forgettable third daughter.
And now?
Now he was standing there, all smooth words and elegant gestures, as if he hadn’t just—just looked at her in that way that made her... made her...want to throw the teapot at him as well.
“Ting-zhi,” Lady Shen said warmly, stepping forward. “It is fortunate you are back on Mid-Autumn. We weren’t expecting you until next month. The roads must have been kind to you.”
“Ah, I pushed the pace.” His smile was easy, charming. The kind of smile that would have the matchmaking mamas of Shangjing reaching for their abacuses. “I couldn’t bear to be away a moment longer than necessary.”
Yun-si’s fingers twitched. Liar.
Yun-shan clapped a hand on Gu Ting-zhi’s shoulder, the kind of camaraderie men reserved for fellow scholars. “Good to have you back. You must tell me all about your travels.”
Gu Ting-zhi laughed, rich and warm, and Yun-si’s traitorous heart did that flip again. “Of course, Brother. As the sages say, reading a thousand books is worth less than walking a thousand miles. I have learnt much in my travels.”
Yun-si made a choking sound. “Yes. learnt much.” She enunciated the word like it was a curse. “Probably about the courtesans in the south.”
A beat of silence.
Gu Ting-zhi’s eyebrows shot up. “Jealous, Si-er?”
“What?” Her voice cracked. “Don’t be ridiculous—”
“Yun-si,” Lady Shen interrupted, her tone the verbal equivalent of a ruler smacking against a desk. “Ting-zhi has only just returned. Perhaps we could manage to uphold a semblance of decorum.”
Yun-si snapped her mouth shut.
Gu Ting-zhi bowed again, all graceful apology. “My humblest apologies, Lady Shen. The fault is mine—I forgot how enthusiastic Yun-si can be when provoked.”
Yun-yao hid her smile behind her fan.
Yun-si wanted to strangle him.
And yet.
When their eyes met—just for a second, just a flicker—there was something in his gaze. Something warm. Something familiar.
The same look he’d given her the night they’d snuck out to watch the fireworks, when she’d tripped over her own skirts and he’d caught her before she face-planted into the fish pond.
The same look he’d given her when she’d confessed, in a whisper, that she wanted to write stories of her own someday, and he’d said, “Then you should.”
The same look she had glimpsed over stolen midnight snacks at the house’s library.
She exhaled, sharp and frustrated, and turned away before he could catch the way her hands trembled.
Stupid Gu Ting-zhi.
Stupid, stupid heart.