Chapter 45 — The Uninvited Husband

CHAPTER 45

The Uninvited Husband

“Only one name,” Guo Zhen said, holding the invitation up to the lantern.

The eastern residence had polished floors, flowering trees, and a steward with one main job that evening: keeping Shi Feng away from all of it. Ling Qingzhu wore pale sleeves over a fitted blue robe, her black hair pinned with the silver clasp from her chest. Her white veil stayed firmly tied.

Three men stopped talking when she stepped from the carriage. Only Guo Zhen cared more about the man beside her.

“What an unfortunate mistake,” Ling Qingzhu said. “You surely didn’t mean to leave out my husband. He’s coming.”

She said it without hesitation, and her fingers settled around Shi Feng’s arm.

Guo Zhen’s expression showed no surprise. It showed recognition. He had expected this. A shut gate might still salvage the household’s failed arrangements.

“The arrangements are limited,” Guo Zhen said.

“Then I won’t trouble them,” Shi Feng said, and turned toward the carriage.

Ling Qingzhu understood at once and turned with him.

“…Please enter,” Guo Zhen said, and stepped aside.

Shi Feng walked in without thanking him. Waste of breath, he thought. The man is only a gatekeeper.

Sima Yu waited beneath a carved canopy, the royal dragon dark on his robe, his smile easy, the smile of a man who rarely had to ask twice. Young nobles stood around him with cups in hand. Their laughter started before he finished speaking and died when Ling Qingzhu came near.

“A sudden marriage, Qingzhu,” Sima Yu said, using her given name without permission. “Your friends would have loved to celebrate it with you.”

“We came for Your Highness’s congratulations,” Ling Qingzhu said, her eyes cold above her veil. “So we brought the reason.”

She didn’t apologise. Shi Feng felt a slight pressure from her hand and wondered whether she meant to stop him from speaking, or just needed somewhere to put her fingers. The crown prince’s gaze finally moved to him.

“A man should know what he can provide,” Sima Yu said kindly. “Even beauty needs more than a roof.”

Shi Feng looked up at the expensive canopy.

“Then Your Highness has made a fine start,” Shi Feng said.

Several guests lowered their cups too carefully. Sima Yu smiled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes, and his expression grew cold.

“And you?” Sima Yu asked.

“I brought the wife,” Shi Feng said.

Ling Qingzhu’s fingers tightened on his sleeve. Behind the prince, someone gasped at a bad moment and pretended it was a cough.

They received their congratulations. They also received a table as far from the canopy as the garden allowed, beside a pond where the mosquitoes had never been taught rank.

Shi Feng moved Ling Qingzhu’s chair out of the damp shade and set his own between her and the reeds. An attendant brought tea so pale that the leaves seemed to have run away before reaching the pot.

“Nobody to perform for here,” Ling Qingzhu said softly. “They seated us as far from him as possible. I’m almost impressed.”

“The mosquitoes haven’t noticed,” Shi Feng said.

She looked at his chair, then at his wrist, where one hungry insect was already getting to work on him.

For a while they sat without performing anything. Music drifted over the water. The tea was at least warm. Ling Qingzhu’s shoulders relaxed when she saw he wouldn’t complain about the distance or ask for a better seat.

Then Fan Yucheng arrived, wine cup first.

The Qi Condensation talent had drunk enough to be loud, and too much to notice he was unwelcome.

“Brother Shi!” Fan Yucheng boomed, loud enough for three tables. “Do you know who this young master is? Fan Yucheng, the best sword talent of my house! They say you once had talent too. Once!”

Shi Feng set down his cup.

“Then you’re finished talking about me,” Shi Feng said.

Fan Yucheng’s face went red to the ears. A cripple dared to brush him off in front of the first fairy of Great Liang! He yanked a narrow ceremonial sword from his sash, its silver tassel swinging in the lamplight.

“A friendly exchange of pointers, cripple!” Fan Yucheng declared. “Of course, nobody expects you to circulate qi. This young master will go easy on—”

The nearby tables turned in their seats.

“Fan Yucheng is going to make him dance!”

“Is that kind?”

“…”

Ling Qingzhu half rose from her chair. “Young Master Fan, you’re drunk,” Ling Qingzhu said. “Go and sit down.” Shi Feng touched the edge of the table, a small signal to wait.

“Are you teaching me, or asking me to teach you?” Shi Feng asked.

Fan Yucheng glanced toward the canopy, hoping His Highness had noticed his fine sword. Sima Yu watched with every sign of boredom.

“Teaching you is this young master’s honour!” Fan Yucheng said grandly.

Shi Feng looked at the ornamental blade, then at the young man’s soft silk boots, and thought: an amateur, and a drunk one.

“Your front foot is turned inward,” Shi Feng said. “Draw like that and your tassel will wrap around your wrist. Fix it before you ask an invalid for lessons.”

Fan Yucheng looked down in spite of himself. As he shifted his stance, the tassel swung across his sleeve and wound itself neatly around his wrist.

Shi Feng had neither risen nor touched his blade. He had simply pointed out an ordinary flaw.

“It wrapped! It actually wrapped!”

“He called it before it happened!”

“From a chair!”

“…”

Fan Yucheng jammed the sword into its sheath too fast and trapped two tassel threads under the guard. He tugged once, couldn’t free them.

“You… you!” Fan Yucheng spluttered. “This young master will remember this!” Then he stalked away with the tassel hanging crooked and his ears burning.

Around the pond, the whispers shifted at once. Two young gentlemen at the nearest pavilion quietly stood, cupped their hands toward Shi Feng’s table in genuine respect for his eye, and told an attendant to replace the pond table’s cold teapot with a silver flagon from the upper terrace. For the rest of the banquet, none of the nobles who had laughed at Fan Yucheng’s approach called Fairy Ling’s husband a cripple within earshot.

Ling Qingzhu sat down again.

“You could’ve turned him down more gently,” Ling Qingzhu said. Her eyes brightened above the veil anyway. “He might cry.”

“He came a long way to be corrected,” Shi Feng said.

Her laugh was quiet, but it carried across the pond. Beneath the canopy, Sima Yu set down his cup, and his expression darkened.

Afterward the gifts were displayed: jade cases, rare flowers, a comb carved from a spirit beast’s horn. An attendant offered a gold bracelet to Ling Qingzhu without once looking at Shi Feng.

She didn’t touch it.

“Your Highness has already honoured our marriage,” Ling Qingzhu said clearly. “We can’t accept more.”

Our marriage. The words landed harder than the bracelet would have. The nearby guests were stunned, and not one of them dared to look at the prince.

Shi Feng offered his arm when she stood, and they crossed the garden together, neither hurrying nor slowing down. At the gate, Guo Zhen bowed low enough to hide his face. In the carriage, Ling Qingzhu let go of Shi Feng’s sleeve and rubbed the place where the cloth had pressed her fingers.

“You weren’t scared,” Ling Qingzhu said. “Not even a little? My hands are still shaking.”

“There were six kinds of pastry and no supper,” Shi Feng said. “I was getting impatient.”

She stared at him, then laughed, though her chest was still tight. He let her laugh. She didn’t need to hear his other observations: the guards posted at the side gate, the exits, and the steward with a leather guard on his left wrist, who’d watched Shi Feng’s sword hand all evening.

Beneath the canopy, Sima Yu watched the gate close. Guo Zhen waited until the last nearby guests withdrew.

“The husband?” Guo Zhen asked.

“An ordinary man can have an ordinary accident,” Sima Yu said softly, and lifted his cup again. “Just keep it away from her.”

Guo Zhen bowed. Until tonight the prince had treated the match as household business. Now guests had honoured a nobody at his own banquet, and that nobody had walked away with the woman his courtiers had promised him. Sima Yu could not erase the registry without defying his ancestor's rule. He could remove the man who had made royal favour look cheap.

It was no longer the consort's arrangement. It was His Highness's wounded pride.

In the carriage, Shi Feng rubbed the swelling on his wrist, where the mosquito had won despite all his precautions. Ling Qingzhu saw the movement and silently held out a little pot of cooling balm.

He took it.

So that was royal hospitality. He’d remember it for a long time, mostly for the mosquito.