Chapter 22
Yun-si sat hunched over her desk, chewing on the end of her brush. Outside her room, melodious larks sang among sweet-scented flowers. The scene of perfect spring serenity only served to deepen the anxiety within her.
Three crumpled drafts already littered the floor like fallen blossoms. Her brush hovered above the fourth, trembling slightly.
Just right. The letter needed balance—respectful but not fawning, warm but not... improper. Just the right tone for a fan, a gushing reader. Someone Moonlit Brush could relate to.
She dipped her brush again.
I am but a humble reader, yet I wonder if you might consider corresponding with one who so deeply admires your craft. It would be the greatest honor—
Too stiff. She crumpled it.
I don’t know how else to begin except to say: your words have stolen my sleep, my thoughts, my very breath. (Forgive me. I have read too many of your romantic scenes.)—
She winced. Too bold. She was supposed to be building a connection, not confessing secret yearnings.
Breathe. Be strategic. Ting-zhi always said courtiers traded secrets while smiling over tea.
This was not about her. This was about the shop. About survival.
She wrote a third time, carefully, precisely, with just enough flattery and respect.
To the Honorable Moonlit Brush,
Your stories are the talk of every teahouse, the secret delight of every reader who dares to dream. I am one such reader, though I confess, I am not as bold as your heroines.
I have long wished to meet the mind behind such brilliant tales. If you would honor me with a reply, I would be forever grateful.
With the utmost respect,
Your faithful reader Shen
She sealed it swiftly before courage failed, the inked stamp a tiny crimson shield against her thumping heart. This wasn’t deceit, it was survival.
The letter would go to Golden House Books, care of Moonlit Brush. They would forward it. She would start a discreet correspondence with Moonlit Brush, gain his trust, and quietly lure him away from Golden House without them ever suspecting a thing.
THE MAIN FLOOR OF GOLDEN House Books hummed with activity.
There were customers browsing neat rows of identical titles, uniformed clerks restocking bestsellers with practiced efficiency, and the constant rustle of paper and coin.
Unlike the cramped charm of independent shops, everything here gleamed with commercial success.
Ting-zhi navigated through the crowd, manuscript tucked under his arm, and found Manager Liu behind the main counter.
“Ah, Young Master Moonlit Brush.” Liu smiled like a man who saw gold taels walking toward him. “Right on time.”
He led Ting-zhi past the displays into a discreet back office and poured a cup of tea which Ting-zhi left untouched. Liu handed over the usual pouch of royalties, then retrieved a thick bundle tied with red string.
“Your correspondence,” Liu said with a knowing smirk. “More admirers than ever.”
Ting-zhi accepted the letters with practiced indifference. He received them often—breathless praise, requests for advice, the occasional marriage proposal from readers who’d apparently confused him with his romantic heroes. He read them all out of courtesy, but never replied.
“The new manuscript?” Liu prompted, rubbing his hands together.
“This will be the last one,” Ting-zhi warned as he handed over his latest work. “My upcoming responsibilities will prevent further huaben writing.”
The explanation was convenient. Not entirely complete, but convenient. It was easier than explaining that his interests and Golden House’s had gradually diverged.
Back in his study, he idly flipped through the pile of letters. Then one letter made his pulse jump.
The handwriting.
He’ll know it anywhere.
The words unfolded like a confession. Like a hand reaching out in the dark, not knowing who might take it.
Your stories are the talk of every teahouse... I am one such reader... I have long wished to meet the mind behind such brilliant tales...
His hands tightened around the paper until it was a crumpled shadow of its former self. The thought of his Si-er lavishing praise on another man made him insane with jealousy, until he remembered.
It’s me.
Moonlit Brush is me.
She doesn’t know.
She was writing to an author she liked, someone whose books he had gifted her.
And he—her betrothed, her childhood friend, her beloved who was not a nicer brother—was holding her words in his hands, uninvited.
He should tell her.
The rational part of his mind—the part that had guided him through years of careful social navigation and strategic thinking—insisted on it with crystalline clarity. He should end this now, cleanly, before it went any further.
The honorable thing would be to reveal himself immediately. To confess that Moonlit Brush, the author whose words had stirred something in her heart, was simply Gu Ting-zhi wearing another mask.
But then again... he could reply just once, he told himself. Purely to understand her intentions, of course. To know how she sees his work. It was perfectly reasonable research, really.
He reached for a fresh sheet of paper, his pulse already quickening with the familiar thrill of a well-orchestrated scheme, squashing the doubts that whispered at the back of his mind.
One letter, he promised himself, as he deliberately wrote with his left hand. Just one, to see what secrets his Si-er might reveal when she thought she was writing to a stranger.
To Mistress Shen,
Should the honored lady find merit in further discourse regarding the humble writings of this author, I would be pleased—
Too formal. He crumpled it.
Mistress Shen,
Forgive my delay in replying. Your words were... unexpected—
No. Still not right.
This was madness.
He tried one last time.
To the Reader Who Stole My Sleep,
You write with the precision of a scholar and the passion of a dreamer. A dangerous combination.
I would be honored to correspond with one who appreciates my stories so deeply. Tell me, which of my works has left the deepest impression upon you?
Moonlit Brush
He sealed it before he could stop himself.