Chapter 48 — The Steward Who Didn’t Come Home

CHAPTER 48

The Steward Who Didn’t Come Home

Two mornings after the northern-quarter trap, Sima Yu was stopped at the foot of the court steps before the morning recess had even cleared.

Censor Lu Jing of the Directorate of Imperial Clan Affairs stood beside the bronze bell with a formal inquiry tablet in both hands, while half a dozen ministers and the Third Prince’s attendants slowed their steps to listen.

“Your Highness,” Lu Jing said clearly enough for the colonnade to hear, “at dawn the Northern Ward watch recovered the body of Guo Zhen, a registered fourth-rank steward of the Eastern Palace, from an abandoned timber storehouse near North Sluice Lane. His Eastern Palace key was still at his belt, and his chest had been crushed before his own sword ended him. Was Steward Guo acting on an Eastern Palace commission in the northern quarter?”

The surrounding officials went very still. A dead palace steward was a scandal. A royal commission would make it worse.

Sima Yu’s gentle smile did not flicker, though his fingers tightened inside his dragon-stitched sleeve. “Guo Zhen requested two days of private leave to settle a family debt, Censor Lu,” Sima Yu said smoothly. “The Eastern Palace had no business in North Sluice Lane. Still, since he served my residence for ten years, my household will pay the ward’s inquest fee and three hundred stones of bereaved stipend to the registry.”

“I shall record that statement,” Lu Jing said. “The ancestor's restriction binds every royal household. A registered marriage cannot be set aside by palace servants. If this death concerns one, the court must examine it.”

Two officials exchanged a look that made Sima Yu's jaw set.

Back inside the Eastern Palace, the doors had barely shut before Sima Yu swept a porcelain ink-rest off his desk. Two inner guards knelt by the shattered shards, holding up a rusted iron nail and a severed twist of wire pried from the northern storehouse doorframe.

“Guo Zhen hung a throat-wire inside the door to catch someone coming in before dawn, Your Highness,” Ge Fan reported in a low voice. “Whoever walked through cut the wire, broke Guo Zhen’s Foundation Establishment guard with bare hands, and left him with his own blade. The day before, Guo Zhen questioned the Cloud Mist Tea House about Ling Qingzhu’s new husband.”

Sima Yu stared at the cut wire. “A cripple from Qingshi Town didn’t shatter a Foundation Establishment shield with his fist,” Sima Yu said coldly. “Either the Ling household sent an expert behind him, or that marriage is hiding more than a shield. Put two quiet eyes on Qingliu Lane and the Hengyun pass office—and keep the Eastern Palace’s name out of it.”

In crowded shops, Ling Qingzhu’s admirers now kept their distance. Merchants greeted her husband politely and watched his purse.

At the eastern-market cloth shop, Bu Guang brought the expensive silk to the front before they entered.

“Newlyweds deserve a lucky price!” Bu Guang announced, bowing to Ling Qingzhu.

Shi Feng checked the good weave and the absurd price.

“What was the price before we got married?” Shi Feng asked.

Bu Guang’s face turned red.

“Look at him, asking about last year’s price!” a customer whispered from the corner.

“He’s right! That tag grew a zero!”

“…”

Ling Qingzhu’s eyes curved above her veil and fan. How refreshing, she thought. It was becoming a familiar pleasure to watch him say the awkward thing everyone else walked around.

She chose a length of darker cloth for a travel cloak. Bu Guang reached for it.

“My husband is carrying it,” Ling Qingzhu said. “I’m buying it. Look at his arms, Boss Bu. Does he look here to argue?”

“Of course!” Bu Guang said.

Outside, Ling Qingzhu took the parcel from him.

“You could let him win once, you know,” Ling Qingzhu said. “The poor man has a family.”

“He won when you bought the silk,” Shi Feng said. “He doesn’t need to win twice.”

Then Ling Qingzhu saw something past his shoulder, and her eyes turned cold.

Across the street, a royal carriage stood beside a tea house. The curtains were drawn. Two attendants waited by the wheels, and neither made any attempt to buy tea.

“That’s the crown prince’s carriage!” a vegetable seller muttered to his neighbour. “It’s been there since morning.”

Ling Qingzhu shifted the parcel into one arm and took Shi Feng’s hand with the other.

He looked down.

Her fingers were cool. This was no grand entrance, only two people walking side by side. It felt different.

Then he saw the carriage. Shi Feng understood, and his heart gave a short, annoyed twitch.

“An audience,” Shi Feng said quietly.

“An inspection,” Ling Qingzhu said, her voice low. “He dislikes people leaving his banquet with their heads up.”

He let his fingers close around hers.

They walked past without slowing. Ling Qingzhu tilted her veiled face toward him, her eyes warm as she hung on his every word. Shi Feng told her the pastry stall ahead was using yesterday’s oil.

She almost ruined the act by laughing at the wrong moment.

“Shi Feng! Be serious!” Ling Qingzhu whispered. “I’m trying to look in love! You’re talking about oil!”

“He can’t see your smile through the veil,” Shi Feng said.

“Then look at my eyes!” Ling Qingzhu replied.

Shi Feng did. Her fingers tightened around his, and for a moment she forgot the carriage.

“I am,” Shi Feng said. “That oil is really old.”

At the corner, beyond the carriage’s view, she let go. She did it as casually as putting down a fan she didn’t need anymore.

He’d known she would. Knowing didn’t make his suddenly empty hand feel ordinary.

Over the following days, their act turned into habits.

Ling Qingzhu called him “my husband” before people could ask. Shi Feng moved her chair, carried parcels, and refused prices that merchants thought a fairy’s beauty should raise. At the well, one gossip loudly wondered whether a fallen genius could keep such a fine wife happy.

Ling Qingzhu stepped close enough to brush his sleeve before she answered.

“My husband didn’t invite the lane’s judgment,” Ling Qingzhu said. “And I’m very happy. Thanks for asking.”

The gossips went quiet. A bucket rope slid through someone’s fingers and the bucket dropped with a splash. Behind the gate, Ling Qingzhu rubbed the space between her brows.

“Is the whole lane always this nosy?” Ling Qingzhu asked. “I wanted to drop that bucket on someone.”

“They were nosy before,” Shi Feng said. “Now they think the well entitles them to details.”

In private, they stayed careful. One room. She had the bed and he had the floor, and the folding screen stayed up whenever she changed.

He rolled his bedding every morning and waited for her answer before entering at night. Neither questioned the other’s errands.

She stopped moving the medicines on his corner shelf after he explained that two similar roots didn’t belong in the same jar.

One night she came back late from her household and found the kitchen table set for two.

The broth sat off the hottest part of the stove. A bowl was wrapped beside it to keep the rice from drying. The kitchen window was open a finger’s width to let out the steam.

“You didn’t have to wait up,” Ling Qingzhu said. “I said it might run late.”

Shi Feng looked up from the loose seam in his sword belt.

“I had to cook anyway,” Shi Feng said.

She untied her veil and sat. The greens she disliked were already missing from her bowl.

The first mouthful reminded her she hadn’t eaten since morning. The household meeting had dragged on for hours, an argument over which invitation could be refused without offending whom. Nobody asked whether she was hungry. Here, the spoon lay within reach of her right hand.

“You remembered,” Ling Qingzhu said, and tried to make it sound like nothing.

Shi Feng followed her gaze to the bowl.

“They’re easy to leave out,” Shi Feng said.

She ate slowly. With no audience outside, his ordinary care slipped past her guard.

For a moment she wondered if she should thank him some other way. Then she remembered the agreement. They had chosen the terms. He had chosen his price. Maybe this care was just a conscientious man doing what he was paid for.

Ling Qingzhu laid down her spoon.

“You take the arrangement very seriously,” Ling Qingzhu said. “Is the soup in the contract too?”

Shi Feng’s hand stopped above his own bowl. He’d never thought of the broth as an arrangement. She came home tired, so he saved her supper. The gap between those two explanations was small enough to ignore.

He chose to ignore it, for now. Why am I annoyed? he thought. It’s only soup.

“Does it need more salt?” Shi Feng asked.

She shook her head and reached for another spoonful.