Page 9

A Broken Mirror Made Whole Again

"Is my beloved there? By the terrace, I have snapped every green willow branch..."

Before she could write the character for willow, before the verse was complete, slender, pale fingers lifted the soft sheet of rice paper from the desk. Her silk skirt brushed the floor, swaying in tempting arcs with the young woman's lotus-like steps.

In her fragrant chamber, incense smoke billowed and her gauzy skirt drifted like clouds. She swayed toward the bedside and lightly patted the shoulder of the man on the bed with a bare white arm.

"Write the last character for me."

The character for willow was also her surname. She wanted him to finish it for her. His calligraphy was so fine that scholars throughout the Capital vied to imitate it, so exquisite that people offered gold to collect even a single character. Yet here she was, asking him to write lewd verses in her boudoir.

The man reclined against the headboard in nothing but a plain white undershirt, its buttons undone. A glimpse of his chest invited the imagination to wander. Strands of long hair spilled across the bedding and spread over the spotless bed, while a lock fell across his eyes, obscuring his view of the alluring woman before him.

"Spare me." His thin lips moved, but his plea was steeped in disdain.

"Why?" The woman tilted her head innocently and blinked her dark, coquettish eyes. The strap of her undergarment slipped naturally from her shoulder; whether the sight was contrived or seductive was hard to say.

He bit his lip, then suddenly reached out, wound his hand in the hair beside her neck, and drew her pretty face close. He stopped just short of her lips and forced the words through clenched teeth. "I can't write it. Because he forbade me."

"...Can't you write it for me, or can't you write the three characters Liu. Rong. Rong?"

He gave no answer. He threw back the covers and got out of bed to dress. She stepped close to help him, but he gently moved her aside.

Left standing there, Liu Rongrong pulled the strap back onto her shoulder. "If you're so afraid of him, why did you come?"

His hands paused on his shirt ties, and he glanced at the woman leaning against the bed rail.

"Because I'd be sad if you didn't come. You feel guilty, so you came to see me?"

Her words made his hands fall to his sides. He walked over with an indifferent expression and, before she could react, seized her hand and pressed her against the bronze mirror. With a swish, he swept aside her waist-length hair, exposing her fair neck. A rouge-red mark left by a forceful kiss was branded there, intimate and unmistakable, like blood on snow. He could not help but mind it. He could not look away.

This was more than evidence. It was a wound. His eyes narrowed as he said coldly, "He left that." It was not a question.

"..."

"And I'm supposed to feel guilty?" He gripped a lock of her hair, his hand trembling.

Liu Rongrong said nothing. She clenched the rice paper in her hand and crumpled it, about to throw it away, but he stopped her and took it.

He spread the sheet on the desk and held it down with the Paperweight. Snatching up a brush, he swept back his sleeve and dipped the tip boldly in ink. An oversized "willow," utterly at odds with the preceding lines, landed on the paper as though flung there. The strokes were forceful and their finish crisp; the slender character seemed to sway like a young woman's graceful figure.

"Are you going to show it to him?"

"..."

"You're taking it to show him, aren't you? The character I wrote for you."

"I didn't mean to. I... couldn't refuse him. I don't want him to hate me, and I can't bear for him to ignore me... Because I..."

"Enough." He did not want to hear her excuses again and again. He left the sheet on the desk, straightened his clothes, and looked back at Liu Rongrong, who stood clutching her shoulders and trembling. Tears were plainly gathering in her eyes. She was trying to use the same old trick to make him yield, but this ought to be the last time. It had to be.

"I have no interest in being your stepping-stone again, or a tool for the two of you to flirt with! If you want to make him care enough to be jealous, find someone else."

He slid back the door bolt and was about to step out when she wrapped her arms around him from behind. She pressed herself against him and refused to budge. Her tears soaked through his thin shirt, and he could not help feeling their warmth.

"You wouldn't lose your temper with me for no reason, would you? Every time you say you're leaving, don't you stay for me anyway? What is it this time? The nomination? Did they strike your name again from the Dongxu Mansion's list of candidates for promotion to the palace? Are you afraid that if he learns you came to see me, I'll ruin your future again?"

"..." He raised a hand to touch the arms encircling his waist and turned his head slightly. Candlelight deepened the shadows across his handsome face, making his expression impossible to read.

"But this is hardly the first time. Haven't you understood it all along? I'm the siren who brings you ruin, aren't I, Young Master Chenjing?"

Yes. It was hardly the first time. Both of them had almost grown used to it: to his yielding, to how every plea from her wore down his resistance until he set aside his pride and principles and came back here. How many more times would he destroy himself for this woman?

"You won't refuse me. You can't. This won't be the last time." Her lightly rouged lips opened and closed in the reflection of his dark eyes.

He shook his head numbly. "It will. Because I don't want worthless trash anymore."

For it was only today that a strange fellow had taught him a truth so simple it was almost boring: ask what love is in this world, and the whole damned lot of it is worthless trash.

That fellow had looked frail and timid, one to bully the weak and cower before the strong, as heartless as a street ruffian. He was wild, reckless, and full of nonsense, even claiming he wanted to deliver a love letter to him. But no one knew how, in the instant he glimpsed those lines that could scarcely be called verse and blurted out a string of curses, his heart had filled with relief, abandon, and the sheer joy of letting his anger loose.

If he was lucky enough to see him again, he would ask him to...

Bang! The boudoir door was knocked open from outside.

"Rumble, rumble..." A round ball of flesh rolled to his feet.

Smack! Meatball struck the leg of the table beside him.