SU TANG (素醣)

  Day 22, 4th Month of the Lunar Calendar, 6000th Year of the Yun Dynasty, Taishan Province, Tian’an Sect

  I flicked out the curtains. A cloud of dust billowed up like a summoned ghost, promptly invading my lungs. I waved at it with the dignity of a dying crane before pinching my nose in defeat.

  I had literally cleaned the drapes a day ago. Or was it two? Three? Who was counting? Who cared? Apparently not the dust. It had made a full comeback like an imperial scandal—uninvited and dramatically persistent.

  I sighed. Who was I kidding? No one had cleaned them. No one was even allowed in here without special permission, as if the room contained sacred scripture rather than rotting paperwork and a thoroughly exasperating Crown Prince.

  For the past week, I’d been so busy. So terribly, unforgivably busy. Just so busy dying from my poison.

  I let my head fall back until I was staring at the ceiling. Someone, centuries ago probably, had carved patterns into the marble; it was a shame that their efforts were wasted. No one ever looked up anymore. Except me. Me, the idiot who always looked up.

  Ughhh.

  I pushed up the sleeve of my left arm. The line that once bloomed black beneath my skin had faded to a dull, tired grey. Progress, if you liked your progress slow and sarcastic. It wasn’t branching anymore—not like it had when Qi Qi found me half-slumped on the floor like a wilting narcissus.

  That whole situation had frustrated me.

  Why couldn’t I have held out just a little longer? Suffered a bit more discreetly? Now everyone knew. Especially him.

  The Crown Prince. Ever so shrewd, ever so observant, ever so nosy. No wonder he had kept my books after catching me that night. I knew he had them, which is why I spent that entire morning ‘cleaning’ his bookshelf like some tragic house spirit.

  Admittedly, his collection was state-of-the-art. I wouldn’t have minded being a tragic house spirit if I could gaze on those titles forever.

  It’s just a nuisance that he had to confiscate all my books.

  He probably just wanted to keep those other books. The ones Chun Li had lent me.

  Ah, that poor, deprived man.

  I stacked the Crown Prince’s memorials into a precarious little tower in the corner of his desk and gave the surface a half-hearted swipe with an equally half-hearted cloth. Cleaning was not, by any stretch of the imagination, my preferred method of leisure. But it did give me time to think.

  Besides, no one really used this room. Not even the person it belonged to. The Crown Prince was rarely here, which made this study the perfect hideaway for someone who always attracted social disasters: me.

  Clack!

  One of the memorials skittered off the stack and thudded against the floor with all the grace of a fish flopping out of a bucket.

  He’s going to kill me if the paper’s wrecked.

  I scrambled for it, smoothing the creases out with a thumb that may as well have been an eraser of sins. My eyes halted on a signature halfway down the page: Blossom Chief Ju.

  Ju Ying?

  She wrote to him?

  I unfolded the entire memorial and read it properly this time, scanning the lines carefully. This was definitely Ju Ying’s hand, the unmistakable characters featuring her classic cursive and slanted strokes. The letter contained the usual economic drivel of trades, exports, and imports of Huadu Sect—

  —perhaps not.

  Those figures weren’t right.

  Why is there a sudden spike in monkshood and huǒhuā imports?

  And who in the smouldering heavens was buying that many Wound-Healing Pills in the Mingyun Prefecture? The last time that happened was during—

  “Is it a good read?”

  I flung the memorial like it had grown teeth. It landed on the desk with a slap, and I snapped backward like a puppet whose strings had been yanked. The voice wasn’t sharp, but I knew who it belonged to.

  And that’s what terrified me.

  I whipped around to face them hoping to show a calm exterior.

  Instead, I tripped over my own foot, completed what I was fairly certain was a perfect three-hundred-and-sixty-degree pirouette of shame, and launched myself forward like a collapsing bridge

  Time, ever the dramatic, slowed down.

  In a romance novel, this would be that moment.

  Girl meets the man.

  Girl falls elegantly, adorably, like a stumbling deer.

  The man catches the girl.

  Girl lands against his chest.

  Their eyes lock.

  The world hushes.

  As the sunlight kisses their skin, cherry blossoms would swirl, and violins would sing. Doves would coo harmonies in the background like trained professionals.

  All whilst the girl and the man breathe the same breath.

  A blush. A stammer. A beautiful exit.

  But that type of nonsense doesn’t happen in reality.

  I hit the ground.

  Hard.

  Face-first.

  No strong arms. No warm chest. No cherry blossoms.

  Just the hard, cold floor, and my face planted at the boots of a rather disinterested man. To his credit, he didn’t laugh. Or scowl. Or comment. He just stood there, staring down like he’d found a dead leaf on the floor. It wasn’t like I expected a romantic gesture or anything…but it still hurt that he didn’t catch me.

  Like literally, my whole face hurt.

  I stared into the ground, feeling the beginnings of a bruise blooming on my forehead, before clenching my teeth as I braced for a scolding. Maybe a confiscation of my spine for daring to read his confidential documents.

  Instead, he crouched down until he was in my line of vision.

  And held out his hand.

  I blinked.

  The sunlight poured in from the open study door, haloing him like a painting no one would believe. His hand hovered there, steady and lean-fingered. Surprisingly clean, for a man who spent his time slicing through bureaucracy and war councils.

  I took it.

  He pulled me up. Not too roughly, but none too gently either. Just…efficiently. Like he’d done it a hundred times, and each time he had no opinion about it whatsoever.

  Once upright, I dusted myself off, patting my sleeves with great determination and very little success. My face still stung, but I willed myself not to cry. It would be a special kind of debilitating if after the whole embarrassment of falling over, I had also cried in front of him like a child.

  I managed to speak, “Thank you, Your Highness.” For not laughing. But no thank you for not catching me.

  He raised his hand again, and I eyed it with suspicion. Surely he isn’t going to stroke my face or something like that? Surely, he…

  “Can you give me the memorial, please?” the Crown Prince asked.

  Ah, right. His hand wasn’t aiming for my face—it was extended, palm-up, waiting for the document. Of course. Because reality isn’t a romance novel. Reality is awkward, dusty, mildly humiliating, and has a dull ache forming on your forehead because the Crown Prince let you faceplant like a falling star.

  I passed him the memorial I had been not-reading-but-yes-absolutely-reading earlier and slid into a half-sit, half-hover against the edge of his desk.

  He flicked the memorial open, his brows furrowing just slightly. For the life of me, I still couldn’t interpret his microexpressions. Well, it was just as well. Since he was going to act, I should give him the courtesy of acting too.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  I tilted my head in that innocent way only baby animals do.

  “Your Highness, I didn’t read it. It just…fell, and I was smoothing out the pages. I promise I wasn’t trying to look at any confidential state secrets or suspiciously detailed trade routes or imports of very specific poisons or anything crazy like that.” I offered a bright, strained smile, then added, “But—in the extremely implausible, highly hypothetical event that I did read it—I was just wondering why Your Highness would have access to that kind of information.”

  His eyes lifted. “You’re very nosy.”

  I instinctively shrank back. “Who’s nosy?”

  He didn’t need to answer. He just looked at me like a tutor looks at a student caught cheating with notes written on their palm.

  Pretending to be innocent usually worked. Well, except when I was talking to Ju Ying and Lao Zhe, but that’s because they knew me well. But the thing was, I didn’t know him well. Yet it seemed that this man was already getting too familiar with my mannerisms.

  I need to try something else to get out of here.

  “Do you know what happens to nosy people?”

  Ordinarily, that line would send chills. They could possibly be used as the last words someone hears before disappearing forever. But the way he said it—with his polished, perfectly modulated voice, smooth as lacquered jade—made it worse. It didn’t scare me. It unsettled me, like a painting that watches you wherever you walk.

  I shifted uncomfortably, caught between the desire to disappear and the urge to defend my dying curiosity. He stepped closer—close enough that I could smell the faintest trace of sandalwood and ink.

  Who designed this man’s scent?

  And his eyes—who approved those? Deep, deliberate…almost kind. Those should be illegal in this situation which is clearly his warped way of interrogation.

  It’s like he—

  —he knows how to make me…

  “Well, I—”

  I twisted my hands behind my back. Doesn’t he know what personal space is?

  My mouth opened again, about to make another useless excuse or sarcastic quip, when my eyes drifted past his shoulder.

  At the front of the study, three people stood making a thoroughly inappropriate amount of noise, as if decorum had taken the day off. I ducked my head, silently praising the sudden change of events.

  “Your Highness, it appears that someone is here to meet you.”

  He blinked. Calm. Almost amused. As if he’d predicted it all along.

  As expected of His Highness. I’d be more surprised if he hadn’t.

  It was likely that his whole purpose here was just some calculated act to make me reveal something. If only I had anything worth revealing—other than the pitiful situation of my illness. Which let’s face it, he probably knew about already.

  Still, I had felt uncomfortable.

  The Crown Prince turned and walked toward the woman at the door with that same quiet confidence that made me irrationally annoyed. It’s not because I didn’t like it. I just…

  I bit my lip. There was a strange tightness in my chest. Just a flicker. Barely a shadow of anything really. Just something that made me feel even more uncomfortable than when he had earlier invaded my personal space.

  The young lady stood with that same frosted elegance all court women seemed to perfect; like petals sculpted from glass, beautiful but brittle. Underneath it, of course, was the usual perfume of jealousy, powdered and perfumed just enough to pretend it wasn’t there. I watched as she squabbled with Jiang Feng, her voice a shrill tinkle beneath the winter hush. Her maid, the poor thing, was forced to juggle boxes and fabric bundles like a stagehand hiding backstage while her mistress performed.

  Lady Shuo Qing’s hands were tightly wrapped in one of those elaborate winter mitts shaped like a small bolster—cylindrical, embroidered, and speaking volumes of her privileged upbringing. She clutched it in front of her waist like it was a relic of virtue. The cold had grown worse these days, turning even the air into something sharp and silver. Her face had paled to a ghostly white, the kind that could almost be considered charming in the right lighting, if you ignored the breath fogging from her lips.

  A familiar gleam came over her face as she saw the Crown Prince. And just like that, she threw off the mitten and sprinted toward him like a heroine from some cheap romance opera. The clouds filtered cold sunlight down upon her silks. His tall, lean back framed her like a painting.

  As winter bitten leaves descended onto their stage, she lifted her arms dramatically.

  His arms…stayed still.

  And that was that. The moment she froze, hovering just in front of him, her little theatre fell apart in the wind. Her face flickered, the gears of delayed comprehension slowly grinding to life.

  I would’ve laughed but I had the wisdom to know that that would be unappreciated. I pinched my sleeve to stay quiet.

  The young lady gave a shaky curtsey, lips already curling into that cloying, sing-songy tone that court women thought men liked.

  “Your Highness~”

  I nearly rolled my eyes.

  The Crown Prince merely glanced at Jiang Feng, who responded with a shrug that screamed don’t blame me, I tried. Then finally, His Highness deigned to look at her.

  “Lady Shuo Qing.”

  “Your Highness, I wanted to see you, but your stupid servant kept stopping me from coming in!”

  His Highness didn’t blink. Jiang Feng groaned audibly, stomping his foot as if trying to wake himself up from the madness.

  Sensing that her charms weren’t hitting home, Lady Shuo Qing gave a cough and flicked her finger at her maid, who perked up instantly like a dog awaiting orders.

  “Your Highness, My Lady has prepared many things for you. The weather has turned bitter, and she knew Your Highness’ health is delicate. These are the gifts she has made with her own hands. My Lady spent so many days making these gifts that her hands bled—”

  “Shut up,” Shuo Qing snapped, eyes wide with calculated innocence.

  How noble. How tragic. How rehearsed.

  It was all clearly a ploy. She wanted it said. She just didn’t want to say it herself. But the problem with ploys is that they rarely worked on the Crown Prince. From what I’d seen, melodrama ranked somewhere below moss and mould in his affections.

  “Hey, Su Tang,” Jiang Feng whispered, eyes wide with the kind of youth that made me want to pat his head and then promptly bonk it. “What does that mean, her hands bled?”

  Ah the innocent boy. He looked like a hardworking, dutiful soldier. He probably didn’t have the time to read romance novels, unlike a certain someone: me.

  Every time he lowered his voice like that, as though whispering made the question less ridiculous, I felt the urge to smile. It was only during times like this—which were becoming at least a bidaily, if not tridaily occurrence—that he treated me as a fellow conspirator, rather than just a court-ordained irritation.

  I leaned over, slow and deliberate, and was rewarded with his customary flinch as he cradled his sword like I might bite it. “I don’t know,” I murmured, drawing out the syllables like silk over a blade. “Maybe you should ask An Lingqi~”

  He went scarlet, muttering some completely unconvincing denial about not liking her that way, whilst simultaneously trying to swat me away with his sleeve like I was an insect.

  From the moment I met Jiang Feng, I’d known he was enamoured with my beautiful friend. Having been to her residence and seen the various admirers loitering around her gates like lost dogs, I recognised him immediately. Given, he wasn’t the only one. Still, he was endearing in his own dishevelled, sword-hugging way.

  Since the Crown Prince’s bodyguard had finally relaxed around me— in that he no longer reached for his weapon every time I cleared my throat—teasing Jiang Feng had quickly become my favourite hobby. But I’ll have to save that for later.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to that,” I mumbled to him. “It’s time to bail out our master.”

  I stepped onto their stage.

  “Is that all?”

  The maid squinted at me. “Who are you?”

  “Oh, just a nobody.”

  “Then how dare you speak! My Lady was in the middle of a private conversation—”

  Ah, yes. The old “you’re beneath my lady” script. How original.

  I skimmed her up and down. “Well, I’m more qualified to be here than you.”

  “You—!”

  “What? I’m just telling the truth.” I turned to Lady Shuo Qing, tone smooth as glass. “Your Lady may be welcome here, but who allowed you to start yelling about her bleeding hands in front of the Crown Prince? Who wants to hear about ruined skin and bandages? You’re tarnishing your master’s beauty.”

  Lady Shuo Qing’s hands twitched. Her face flushed, faint pink creeping beneath pale makeup.

  “Who would want to marry a woman whose hands bleed?”

  “I—I…” the maid sputtered.

  Lady Shuo Qing made her grand finale: a grab for the Crown Prince’s sleeve, voice trembling.

  “Your Highness, can’t you see? She’s bullying me!”

  He turned to look at me. No emotion. Just those unreadable eyes.

  ‘The second: do not bring me trouble.’

  I stiffened. And remembered the words he had said. I looked away, berating myself. What in the heavens just came over me? Stupid, that’s what. Don’t go picking fights with every noblewoman who walks like a swan and talks like a child.

  Don’t forget what happened with Zhao Lili.

  Shut your mouth, Su Tang.

  I took a breath, forced my lips into that gentle upward curl, the kind that all ‘good girls’ wore, and curtsied.

  “Lady Shuo Qing, this servant apologises. I will—”

  “Please leave.”

  I froze.

  Not at the words.

  But at who had said them.

  Yun Rongxian.

  The Crown Prince.

  My curtsy remained halfway finished, legs trembling in indecision. To rise would seem insolent. But staying down felt like humiliation. What did the etiquette manuals say to do in a situation like this?

  Luckily, Jiang Feng rescued me. He materialised beside Lady Shuo Qing with a gentle firmness that made her flinch. With all the grace of a practiced actor, he ushered her out of the room, her maid trailing behind like a wilted leaf.

  When he returned, he carried various boxes and miscellaneously shaped goods that Lady Shuo Qing’s maid previously held.

  “Your Highness, what should I do with all this?”

  The Crown Prince glanced briefly at the pile. “Add them to the others. Tomorrow, have the housekeeper return them.”

  I watched as Jiang Feng balanced the offerings atop a table already overflowing with tokens of devotion. Silk scarves, painted scrolls, hand-stitched sachets—all gifts from women hoping to wrap themselves around the Crown Prince like a second winter cloak.

  I scoffed under my breath.

  Fantastic. Just my luck. Don’t talk about me bringing him trouble. This man alone was a walking catastrophe-for-me waiting to happen—what with all the ladies who clambered after him and his obvious political position. He was exactly the kind of magnetic disaster Ju Ying warned me to avoid.

  So, why did I get assigned to him again?

  “Are you jealous?”

  I spun and stared. Are you talking to me? You are, aren’t you? “Jealous? Never. Absolutely not. What a bizarre—” I caught myself.

  He was already seated again, flipping through memorials like I hadn’t just exploded in front of him.

  Keep calm, keep calm, keep calm—

  A ghost of a smile danced across his face.

  —you know what, screw it.

  I stormed over to his desk and leaning in.

  “Your Highness, is something so funny today?” I said, not bothering to conceal my annoyance at his previous question.

  Me, being jealous? No way.

  He lifted his chin and stared directly into my soul. “Jiang Feng.”

  I pulled back instinctively.

  “I’m here, Your Highness,” Jiang Feng called.

  The Crown Prince tapped the edge of a memorial, never breaking eye contact.

  “I went fishing today. The fish took the bait but…” The Crown Prince stood. “It left something sour.”

  And just like that, he strode out of his study.

  Jiang Feng blinked. “Sour? What is sour, Your Highness?”

  I stayed at his desk, fists clenched and mind buzzing with every kind of insult I could possibly say and get away with.

  Sour?

  Sour?!