Chapter 10
Si-er,
I’ve been patient. But even deities have limits.
Meet me tomorrow at the library.
We have research to discuss.
—Zhi
Ting-zhi had instructed Wen-xin to send the note over to Yun-si with a basket of her favorite black sesame pastries.
The boy had skipped off with the enthusiasm of someone who didn’t understand the existential crisis his master was enduring.
Ting-zhi, meanwhile, spent the intervening hours in a state of carefully controlled panic reciting passages from Zhuangzi.
A month. An entire month since the dragon rod incident at the lake.
30 days of self-imposed distance, of resisting the urge to scale the Shen family walls like some lovesick fool from a third-rate huaben.
Of having restraint and giving her space—those terrible, virtuous concepts he’d read about in philosophy texts and immediately regretted applying to real life.
She knows now.
The thought circled his mind like a persistent mosquito. She knows my desire for her.
He’d replayed the lake scene so many times it had worn grooves into his memory. The warmth and softness of her body clinging to him. the way her eyes had widened when she’d touched him. The sharp intake of breath. The spectacular shade of crimson that had flooded her whole body when she realized.
What if I’ve become the villain in her story? Some lecherous scoundrel from a poorly written huaben?
What if she never slides another draft across the table with that small, secret smile, never lets me tease her about her daydreams again?
And then—this was the fear that made his breath catch—what if I was wrong about everything? What if she just sees me as a trusted friend who grew up with her, but not—not someone she can love as a husband?
The possibility gnawed at him with the persistence of bookworms through precious manuscripts.
He’d tried to throw himself into his studies.
The Imperial Examinations loomed, after all, a perfectly reasonable excuse to bury himself in classical texts and treatises on governance.
But somehow, every passage reminded him of her.
A line about peach blossoms? Her. A philosophical treatise on suppression of base desires in gentlemen? Extremely unhelpful.
He’d written notes. So many notes. Casual ones: “Si-er, I found a bookshop you might enjoy.” Too obvious. Apologetic ones: “About the lake incident—” Mortifying. Poetic ones quoting classical texts? Absolutely not; she’d laugh herself sick.
His floor had become a graveyard of crumpled paper.
In desperation, he’d even tried channeling his overflowing emotions into writing a new huaben. Perhaps if he poured all this yearning onto the page, gave it to some fictional man pining after his oblivious lady, he could excise it from his own chest.
Nothing worked.
The emotions remained, swelling like a river during the flood season, threatening to overflow their banks.
After a month of this exquisite torture, he’d cracked. Grabbed fresh paper with shaking hands, written the note in his neatest calligraphy—because even in crisis, standards mattered—and dispatched it before he could reconsider.
Meet me tomorrow at the library.
Simple. Direct. Gave nothing away.
And now, waiting in the library with snow falling outside the latticed windows, Ting-zhi discovered that anticipation was somehow worse than uncertainty.
He had positioned himself at the far table—the one by the window with the best light, where he could watch the door without appearing to watch the door.
When Yun-si stepped through, snowflakes still caught in her hair, something in his chest unclenched.
Thank the ancestors.
He’d half-convinced himself she wouldn’t come. That the mortifying branch-and-dragon-rod incident had finally driven her away for good. That he’d receive a polite note citing sudden illness or family obligations or literally any excuse to avoid him for the next decade.
Instead, here she was. Cheeks pink from cold, clutching a piece of paper like it contained an antidote to poison.
Ting-zhi turned a page of the book he wasn’t reading. “Si-er. I was beginning to think you’d decided to brave the literary world without further assistance.”
“I—” She paced across the room in small careful steps, and stopped at the edge of his table. “I need to amend my manuscript.”
“Mmm. Naturally.” He gestured to the chair opposite. “Sit.”
She didn’t.
Instead, she gripped the paper tighter, knuckles white. Her gaze fixed somewhere on his left cheek—the classic Yun-si avoidance technique.
“I have a few more research topics,” she managed. “Just a few.”
He leaned back, folding his arms. “Are you planning to share these topics, or shall I divine them through meditative contemplation?”
Her ears flushed pink.
There it is.
“I would like...” She swallowed. “I would like to try being heroically rescued.”
“Heroically rescued,” he repeated slowly. “From what, exactly?”
“Just...” she muttered into her shoes, “...that classic heroine rescue where the hero swoops her up.”
Ting-zhi blinked.
Of all the mortifying, elaborate scenarios he’d braced himself for—another underwater disaster, perhaps, or heavens forbid, a trip to the courtesan house with her—this was almost... wholesome.
Almost.
Ting-zhi glanced toward the latticed windows where morning light filtered through. Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the shelves. “Not here,” he said, lowering his voice. “Someone might come here looking for exam texts.”
Yun-si frowned. “Then where?”
“Bamboo Heart Abode.” He stood, gathering the pages. “We can do it in the private courtyard next to my rooms. No interruptions.”
Her ears heated up. “Your, your rooms?”
“Unless you’d prefer an audience when you start dramatically collapsing.” He tucked her manuscript inside his sleeve. “We can reenact your rescue scene properly there.”
She bit her lower lip and hesitated, but the urge to write something that felt right won. “Fine. But if anyone asks—”
“You’re consulting me on classical poetry references.” He smiled, the gleam of mischief back.
TING-ZHI LED YUN-SI over the stone bridge and away from the clan school’s main courtyard, then turned down a winding stone path through the bamboo forest at the corner of the school. Sunlight filtered through in broken shafts, dappling the stones beneath their feet.
Ahead, a rustic bamboo gate appeared. A wooden sign carved in masterful calligraphy read Bamboo Heart Abode hung above the gate, a constant reminder that a gentleman’s morals should be as straight and unbending as the bamboo. This two-courtyard residence was where he grew up.
The compound sat quiet in the morning light, with only the rustle of bamboo in the wind breaking the silence.
Ting-zhi nudged the gate open, scanning the empty space.
Father should be lecturing at this hour, Wen-xin was having classes.
The servants wouldn’t enter the private quarters until late afternoon to prepare dinner.
Perfect.
He walked her through to the inner courtyard. “My bedroom is still the same one, but the antechamber is now Wen-xin’s room. I’ve moved the study to the bigger room there—” He pointed to a room just beside the private courtyard they were standing in.
Yun-si stood in the center of the little courtyard, blinking at both the familiarity and strangeness. She looked around. “So. How should I—?”
“Twist your ankle,” Ting-zhi supplied. He moved to her side, positioning himself a half-step away. “Stumble forward. I’ll catch you before you fall.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s the foundation.” He gestured. “Try it.”
She took a breath. Stepped forward awkwardly, wobbling on one foot like a newborn deer.
Ting-zhi caught her elbow, steadying her upright. “You look like you’re stepping on hot coals.”
“I’m trying!” She swatted his hand away. “You do it, then.”
“I’m the rescuer, not the damsel.” But he demonstrated anyway—a graceful stumble, weight shifting naturally to one side. “See? Subtle. Believable.”
Yun-si tried again. Better this time. She tipped forward, and Ting-zhi moved fast, arm sliding around her back, pulling her against his chest.
Her breath hitched. His pulse hammered beneath his ribs.
“Like this?” she whispered.
“Mm.” He released her and stepped back, ignoring the warmth creeping up his neck. “Next version. More dramatic.”
She nodded, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
This time, when she stumbled, he swept her up entirely—one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back.
”Ting-zhi!” Yun-si yelped, arms clutching around his neck involuntarily.
“Research,” he reminded her, though his voice came out rougher than intended. Her face was inches away. Too close. Not close enough.
He set her down carefully.
“One more,” she said, breathless. “The hero lunges to stop her fall—catches her mid-collapse.”
Ting-zhi arched an eyebrow and positioned himself. “On three. One—”
Yun-si attempted another stumble, only to lose her balance entirely on the melted frost. She pitched forward, arms flailing. Ting-zhi dived forward in fear, breaking her fall before she could hit the ground.
He hit the courtyard stones first, cushioning her fall as she landed squarely on top of him. Air rushed from his lungs. Her hair spilled across his face, smelling of peach blossoms.
“Oh!” Yun-si braced her hands against his chest, trying to push up. “Are you hurt?”
Their eyes met.
Her weight pressed against him, warm and solid. His hands had landed at her waist, steadying her without thought. One of her knees had wedged between his legs.
“Are you hurt?” he managed.
“No. You?”
“Winded.” He swallowed. “Si-er. You need to move.”
“I’m trying—” She shifted, and the movement sent heat straight through him.
“Get up, Si-er.” The words sounded strangled even to him. “That’s—enough research for today.”
Yun-si sat there, looking adorably confused with mussed hair. “But I didn’t—”
“Cough.”
A discreet cough echoed across the courtyard.
Both of them scrambled upright.
Master Gu stood at the entrance to his study, teacup in hand, expression carefully neutral. His scholar’s robes hung neat and impeccable as usual. He said nothing. Merely sipped his tea.
Yun-si’s face went scarlet. She executed a hasty bow, mumbled something incoherent about needing to return home, and fled through the bamboo gate like a startled rabbit.
Ting-zhi watched her go, jaw tight.
Master Gu waited until the gate clicked shut. “Tea?”
“Father—”
“Tea.” Not a request.
Ting-zhi followed him into the study. The familiar scent of books and sandalwood wrapped around him as he knelt across from his father at the low table. Master Gu poured with careful ceremony, sliding a cup across the polished wood.
They drank in silence.
Finally, Master Gu set down his cup. “The Chancellor is considering marriage alliances for his children.”
Ting-zhi’s fingers tightened around the dark clay cup. “I assumed as much.”
“Political alliances. Advantageous matches.” Master Gu refilled his cup. “Chancellor Shen is pragmatic. He will seek connections that strengthen his position at court—families of high-ranking officials, powerful clans, perhaps even imperial relatives if the opportunity arises.”
“I know.”
“Do you?” His father met his gaze. “Because from where I stood, you looked like a boy playing games. The Chancellor will not give his daughter to a boy.”
Heat crawled up Ting-zhi’s neck. “I’m not—”
“You must score as one of the top three candidates in the imperial examinations.” Master Gu’s voice remained calm, as he poured another cup of tea.
“Top three, Ting-zhi. Not fourth. Not fifth. The Chancellor may weigh his daughters’ happiness in mind when he chooses the marriage alliances, but he will accept nothing less—if he considers you at all. ”
“I understand.”
“I wonder if you do.” Master Gu lifted his cup. “I have no time to waste talking to people who talk about one thing but do another. If you want Shen Yun-si, you must earn that right. With scholarship. With distinction. Not with stolen moments in courtyard shadows.”
Ting-zhi’s throat tightened. “I will.”
“Then prove it.” Master Gu drained his tea. “The examinations are in three months. You have work to do.”