Chapter 27
The white fog curled around Yun-si’s ankles, cool and insubstantial, like the edges of a half-remembered thought.
She recognized this place, not just by the fog, but by the way the air hummed with quiet, the way the mist swallowed sound until all that remained was the faintest echo of her own breath.
She had been here before, in the worst of the fever, when the world had dissolved into fragments of heat and delirium.
And then again, in fleeting glimpses and half-remembered moments.
A dream, then. Again.
She tilted her head back, letting the weight of her hair brush against her shoulders, and exhaled slowly. At least here, there was quiet and calm to rest the anguish of her soul...
Then he stepped through the mist.
He stood ten paces away, turning his head as he looked around. He wore loose white inner robes, disheveled as though he’d spent the night tossing and turning. His long hair hung loose down his back, slightly tousled.
The usual smirk, that infuriating, knowing curve of his lips, was gone. In its place was an expression of sadness. The sight of him here, in her dream, sent a sharp pain through her chest.
“You,” she hissed, glaring at him.
Ting-zhi exhaled, long and suffering, as if he’d been dragged into this against his will. “Oh. This is going to be one of those dreams.”
Yun-si’s gaze narrowed. “Those dreams?” she asked suspiciously.
He tilted his head, studying her with resignation, as though she were a particularly stubborn plot point he couldn’t quite smooth over.
“Some dreams,” he began, counting off on his fingers, “I am already inside you. Some, you are on top of me. But this kind—” he gestured vaguely between them, “this is the kind where you talk a lot, and I have to seduce you.”
Yun-si’s face burned. “Wha—”
Her protest died in her throat as the implications of his words crashed over her. She stumbled back a step, arms crossing over her chest as if that could shield her from the sheer audacity of him. “This is my dream!”
“Is it?” Ting-zhi took a step closer, his boots making no sound on the fog-dampened ground. The mist swirled around his ankles, clinging to the hem of his robes. “Mmm. Funny.” His voice dropped to a soft murmur that made her stomach flip. “I was just thinking about you.”
She stuttered, “Tha—that doesn’t mean—”
“—doesn’t mean I conjured this?” He spread his hands, palms upturned, as if presenting the endless white around them like evidence. The fog shifted at his movement, coiling and uncoiling like silk between his fingers.
Before she could gather her thoughts, Ting-zhi snapped his fingers.
The mist parted.
And there, where there had been nothing but emptiness, stood a bed.
Not just any bed, but a bed—wide and inviting, draped in red layers of silk and piled high with embroidered pillows that promised impossible softness.
The frame was carved with intricate patterns of mountains and clouds, the kind of craftsmanship that belonged in a noble’s chamber, not in the middle of a dream.
Yun-si stared agape.
Ting-zhi didn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, he closed the distance between them, his hands finding the curve of her waist as if he’d done it a thousand times before. And then he swept her off her feet, lifting her as easily as if she were made of paper, not bone and flesh.
She gasped, her hands flying to his shoulders for balance, her fingers curling into the fabric of his robes. “Gu Ting-zhi!”
He ignored her, striding toward the bed with the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing. The mattress dipped beneath her as he lowered her onto it, the silk cool against her back, the scent of peach blossoms wrapping around them with the drifting mist.
Yun-si’s mind raced, her thoughts tangling like threads pulled too tight. This is a spring dream. The realization hit her with the force of a dropped inkstone. I’m actually having a spring dream.
She didn’t know whether to be mortified or horrified.
But beneath it all, threading through the panic like a stubborn vine, was curiosity.
Spring dreams were lustful dreams, the kind that laid bare one’s hidden desires, the kind that proper young ladies were never supposed to have, let alone admit to.
And by the look of him—by the way Ting-zhi moved, by the knowing glint in his eyes as he loomed over her—he seemed to have plenty of experience with them.
The silk beneath her palms was too real, the weight of him pressing her down too solid.
Yun-si’s breath hitched as Ting-zhi’s fingers slid from her waist to cradle the back of her neck, his thumb brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
His touch sent a shiver down her spine, sharp and electric.
“Stay.” His words were a command wrapped in velvet.
He pressed her firmly onto the mattress, his other hand bracing on her thigh casually, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.
The heat of his palm seeped through the layers of her robe, branding her through the fabric. “Lift your head, Yun-si.”
She lifted her head to give him a piece of her mind but the words froze in her throat when she realized how close he was.
The mist curled around them, dampening the edges of the world until there was nothing but his eyes locked on hers, his breath warm against her lips, the scent of ink and spice wrapping around her like a second skin.
“I am going to kiss you now.”
The words hung between them, heavy with promise. Yun-si’s pulse roared in her ears, her fingers twisting into the embroidered coverlet. She should stop this. She should wake up. But her body refused to listen, her traitorous heart hammering against her ribs as if begging for exactly this.
Ting-zhi leaned in—
—and the world fragmented into pieces.
One moment, his lips were a breath away. The next, the bed vanished. The mist dissolved. The weight of his hand on her neck dissolved into thin air, replaced by the stiff embroidery of her own pillow beneath her cheek.
Yun-si gasped, her eyes flying open.
Morning light slanted through the lattice windows of Peach Blossom Courtyard, painting stripes of gold across her rumpled quilts. The air smelled of damp earth and the light fragrance of the flowers in the courtyard, the usual quiet of her chambers broken only by the distant chatter of servants.
She was awake.
And worse—she was alone.
Yun-si pressed a hand to her chest, as if she could still the frantic rhythm of her heart through sheer will. It didn’t work. Her heart continued its wild pounding, each beat a reminder of the dream’s lingering warmth.
How dare he.
She flopped onto her back, glaring at the ceiling. How dare he invade her dreams like that, all smug confidence and knowing touches, only to vanish before—before—
Her face burned.
Before she could even enjoy her first spring dream.
A groan tore from her throat, muffled against her sleeve. This was ridiculous. It was a dream. Only a dream. A dream that hadn’t even had the decency to finish properly!
She threw the quilts aside and sat up, tangling her feet in the bedsheets and nearly toppling off the bed. She caught herself on the edge of the wooden nightstand, sending a stack of books wobbling.
Yun-si froze, her fingers curling around a copy of A Scholar’s Wicked Proposal. The title mocked her.
With a growl, she yanked the book free and hurled it across the room.
It struck the screen partition with a satisfying thwack, sending a flutter of loose pages skittering across the floor. The sound did nothing to ease the coil of frustration in her chest.
She was not thinking about Ting-zhi.
She was not wondering what his lips would’ve felt like.
She was definitely not imagining the way his voice had dropped, low and dark, when he’d said—
“I am going to kiss you now.”
Yun-si pressed her palms to her scorching cheeks.
She snatched a hairpin from the vanity and stabbed it into the messy twist of her hair, securing the strands with more force than necessary. The sharp prick of pain grounded her, just barely.
She took a steadying breath, smoothing her expression into something resembling composure.
She did not know whether she was more annoyed with herself for dreaming of him that way when she was still angry at him.
Or more annoyed that the dream had ended too soon.
THE BOOKSHOP WAS EXACTLY where Yun-si needed to be—somewhere to pour all the restless energy that was inside her.
The renovation had begun in earnest, and the old shop, usually so quiet and still, felt alive in a way it hadn’t been in years.
The wall between the two shop spaces was gone.
Yun-si ran her fingers along the newly exposed beam, the wood rough under her fingertips. Sunlight spilled through the open doorway, illuminating stacks of unsorted books, rolls of new fabric and half-assembled furniture.
Old Wang hovered near the counter, his arms folded so tightly over his chest that his sleeves threatened to unravel.
His usual air of quiet omniscience had been replaced by something far more volatile.
“Disaster,” he muttered, his long eyebrows twitching like caterpillars in a storm. “Absolute disaster.”
Yun-si almost smiled. Almost.
A contractor shuffled in, bowing. “Maiden Shen, should the shelves be left or right of the window?”
Yun-si turned, squinting at the space. Left would mean the shelves would catch the morning light, soft and diffused. Right would leave them in the afternoon’s harsher glow. “Left,” she decided. “More light for reading.”
The man straightened, nodding once before disappearing back into the fray of workers.”
Old Wang cleared his throat, pulling Yun-si from her thoughts. “So? How goes your grand plan to steal Moonlit Brush from Golden House?”
Yun-si blinked, the question hitting her like a bucket of cold water. Her fingers twitched against her skirt, the fabric suddenly too warm. The spring dream. Ting-zhi’s voice, low and amused, his hands—
She swallowed. “I... haven’t heard back yet.”
Old Wang’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “Haven’t heard back? After that letter you showed me? The one where you practically called him the reincarnation of the Star of Literature?” He snorted, shaking his head.
Yun-si’s chest tightened. She could still see the way Ting-zhi had looked at her in the library, his dark eyes burning with something she hadn’t understood.
Don’t look so sad for another man. His voice had been rough, almost angry, but she had sensed the unhappiness beneath.
And then his mouth on hers, warm and gentle, stealing her breath—
She pressed her palms against her knees, grounding herself. “It’s fine. I’ll—I’ll think of something else.”
Old Wang waved a dismissive hand. “Forget him. You don’t need Moonlit Brush.
We’ll find other authors. New ones. Hungry ones.
” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial rumble.
“There’s a poet in the southern quarter, writes under the name Drunken Plum.
Scandalous stuff, but the ladies eat it up.
And that old historian, the one who keeps sending me those dry-as-dust history chronicles?
I’ll tell him if he wants to sell anything, he’d better add a love story. ”
Yun-si tried her best to smile and almost succeeded.
Old Wang’s expression softened. “Listen to me, Third Maiden. You’ve got the Shen Clan behind you, a sharp mind, and a bookshop that’s about to be the talk of Scholar’s Lane.
You don’t need some famous author’s name to make this work.
” He tapped the counter with a gnarled finger. “We’ll make our own luck.”
Yun-si nodded, but her gaze drifted to the window, where the late afternoon light gilded the edges of the bookshelves. Outside, a street vendor’s cart rattled past, the scent of freshly griddled sweet flatbreads curling through the air.
She could still taste the ghost of Ting-zhi’s kiss. Still hear the way his voice had cracked when he said, I can’t bear it.
Why? Why did he deceive her?
She needed to know why.
Later, when the delivery of cushions for said reading corner arrived in a garish shade of vermillion instead of the serene celadon green she had ordered, Old Wang’s grumbling reached a new peak.
“Blind as a bat, that supplier,” he muttered, snatching the invoice. “This color would frighten the scholars away. They would think they’ve stumbled into an opera house.”
Yun-si ran a hand over the brightly colored fabric. It was wrong. All wrong. But it was a problem with a solution. “Send them back,” she said, her voice firm.
Old Wang sniffed.
Yun-si watched him, a fond, genuine smile touching her lips.
This, she could fix. A misplaced wall, an incorrect cushion.
She could measure it, order its correction, and see the results materialize before her.
It was nothing like the messy, unpredictable geometry of a fractured heart, which offered no clear map for repair.