Three paces separated them. Beneath the covered walkway, birds alighted on the edge of the roof tiles and pecked at the water, their faint, scattered sounds filling the space between them.
Su Yao's gaze settled on his face and lingered for two breaths.
She did not bow.
Nor did she speak. Her throat hurt terribly.
Her glance swept over Gu Moran's brow and stopped at his collar before quickly shifting away.
Gu Moran knew what she was looking at.
His collar was fastened neatly. He had left Su Yao very satisfied last night, and his own neck had gained quite a few hickeys.
Su Yao tightened her arms around the books against her chest, turned sideways and walked past him.
Her skirt brushed a walkway pillar, and a cold fragrance drifted past Gu Moran, identical to the scent in Su Yao's hair at night.
She took three steps.
Her pace slowed for half a beat.
She did not look back.
Gu Moran did not follow her, either.
Uncle Fu stood behind him and only spoke in a low voice after a long while.
"Your Highness, aren't you going to say a few words to her?"
Gu Moran watched the figure in pale blue-green turn toward Clear Frost Courtyard. The chill of the well water still lingered in his palm.
"No."
Uncle Fu did not understand.
Gu Moran set off for Tranquil Ink Courtyard.
"More haste, less speed."
Tranquil Ink Courtyard was quieter than Clear Frost Courtyard, and the fragrance of tea drifted from the covered walkway. It was Biluochun.
Xie Wanqing was already waiting for him.
Today, she was once again dressed in a plain long skirt. A draft of the poem lay open on the table, and beside it was another sheet of blank paper with three lines of revisions written on it.
Gu Moran walked over to the table. Instead of taking the seat of honor, he sat opposite her again.
Xie Wanqing pushed the draft toward him.
"Husband, I made another revision."
Gu Moran picked up the paper, read it through and put it back.
"Good. Less confrontational, more assured."
Xie Wanqing's shoulders relaxed a little.
Gu Moran offered no more praise. He turned the draft over, blank side up, and tapped the empty space with a finger.
"The poem is finished. Now let's get down to business. Have you gone over tomorrow's proceedings?"
Xie Wanqing's expression turned serious again.
"I've asked around. The poetry gathering has three rounds. In the first, we choose our own topic; in the second, we compose on the same topic on the spot; and in the third, the topic is unrestricted."
"Which round will Ye Qingyun stake his chances on?"
Xie Wanqing thought for a moment.
"The third. There are no restrictions on the topic. He came to the capital with the reputation of his Three Jizhou Quatrains, so he won't compete with others in the first or second round. Those are merely a sideshow. He wants the finale."
Gu Moran nodded.
She had gained a more thorough understanding of Ye Qingyun's habits than he had expected.
"What about you?"
"I'll make my move in the third round as well."
"No."
Xie Wanqing's fingers stopped on the rim of her cup.
Gu Moran pushed his teacup aside and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"This is what you'll do..."
Xie Wanqing's brows twitched.
Gu Moran pulled a sheet of paper from his sleeve, unfolded it and laid it in front of her.
Six words were listed on it: moon, spring, frontier, return, history and Dao.
"These are the topics most frequently chosen for the Hanlin Academy's impromptu contests over the past three years. Zhou Wenyuan served as a judge five times, and on four of those occasions, he chose 'moon' and 'return.'"
Xie Wanqing fell silent for a few breaths. Her fingers moved an inch along the edge of the table, then drew back.
"Husband, if someone questions whether I wrote this poem tomorrow, right there in front of everyone, what should I say?"
"What do you think?"
"I would answer that a poem may be judged by others, but it cannot be snatched away by them."
Gu Moran looked at her for two breaths.
"You're still missing one line."
Xie Wanqing waited for him to continue.
"If they keep pressing you, add this: 'If you believe Wanqing is unworthy of writing this poem, then by all means, name a topic here and now. Wanqing will take the challenge.'"
Xie Wanqing clenched a hand in her lap.
"But what if they really do name a topic..."
"You're the foremost of the capital's four talented women. Who have you ever lost to in impromptu composition?"
Xie Wanqing did not answer, but her clenched hand slowly relaxed.
Gu Moran stood up, pulled several sheets of paper he had prepared from his sleeve, folded them and placed them beside the draft.
"Read these verses over. They might give you some inspiration."
He walked to the doorway and spoke again.
"Tomorrow, you're not going there to beg for their approval. You carry weight just by standing there."
Xie Wanqing lowered her head and looked at the two sheets of xuan paper covered in verses.
The scents of tea and ink mingled with the faint fragrance of dried flowers beneath the covered walkway. In her mind, she saw her father's furrowed brow when the second prince's retainers had probed him at the Imperial Academy.
"I'll do everything I can."
Gu Moran left Tranquil Ink Courtyard.
Uncle Fu was waiting outside, a short note from the palace now in his hand.
"Your Highness, this came from Hanzhang Hall."
Gu Moran took it and unfolded it.
The note was in Noble Consort Chen's handwriting.
Tomorrow, don't lose too badly.
Gu Moran folded the note and tucked it into his sleeve.
"Mother still has such a way with comforting people."
Uncle Fu held back a laugh.
Gu Moran returned to his study.
The system's red text popped up once again.
[Ye Qingyun's fortune value daily growth rate: 4.5%.] [Countdown to the poetry gathering: one day.]
Gu Moran closed the panel and traced two lines across the tabletop with his fingertip.
When Ye Qingyun arrived at the poetry gathering tomorrow, he would have more wrapped around him than he realized.
He spread out a blank sheet and wrote down the seating arrangements, the proceedings and the possible variables for tomorrow's poetry gathering, item by item. He stopped writing when he reached the seventh.
The panel popped up again.
[Heavenly Dao Correction Force's pull on Su Yao's emotional anchor: twenty-one.] [Changes in beauties' affection:] [Su Yao: +9 (↑30). Source of fluctuation: intimate contact over two consecutive nights has caused physical dependence and an emotional softening, but her rational mind is still suppressing them. "Unwillingness to accept it" and "wavering" coexist.] [Shen Ling'er: +52 (↑2). Source of fluctuation: daily attachment accumulating after her emotional allegiance shifted.] [Xie Wanqing: +32 (↑20). Source of fluctuation: the poem has sparked deep admiration; she believes the host is "hiding his talents."]
Gu Moran looked at the three sets of figures.
Shen Ling'er was steady; a daily increase was enough.
Xie Wanqing was gaining momentum. If tomorrow's poetry gathering went smoothly, that number would shoot up further.
Su Yao had gone from a negative value to positive nine.
So after he had toiled away for two nights, when she had clearly been enjoying herself more than anyone, going "oh-ho-ho," she was only at positive nine?
At that return on his efforts, the corner of Gu Moran's mouth could not help twitching.
Forget it. At least it showed she no longer disliked him, but falling for him was still a hundred and eight thousand li away.
[Host, in the inner household, what is at stake is strength of character and dignity, status and self-respect, not merely an obsession with romance.]
Meanwhile, Ye Qingyun was writing nonstop.
He spread the last sheet of xuan paper flat and held down its corner with his palm.
Six poems lay spread out on the table.
He read through them one by one, the bitterness of last night's cheap wine lingering on his tongue and his throat dry and tight. But by the time he reached the final couplet of the sixth poem, even his voice had risen half an inch from where it had begun.
Good.
These six are enough.
His book attendant, Shuhe, was fast asleep over the corner of the table, his face pressed against a bundle, drool soaking through its wrapping.
Ye Qingyun tapped the tabletop with the shaft of his brush.
"Get up."
Shuhe raised his head in a daze. His brain had yet to wake, but his mouth was already moving.
"Young master, have you finished writing again?"
Ye Qingyun laid out the six sheets and pointed them out to him.
"Which three do you think are best?"
Shuhe rubbed his eyes and leaned in for a long look. All he could make out was that there were many characters and the ink was very black.
"Young master, I can barely read."
Ye Qingyun put down his brush.
"Then which one looks most likely to win?"
Shuhe carefully looked them all over and pointed to the sheet in the middle.
"This one."
"Why?"
"It has the most ink."