Chapter 91 — The Crooked Silver Clasp

CHAPTER 91

The Crooked Silver Clasp

“Don't touch it,” Ling Qingzhu said.

Shi Feng stopped with his hand over the kitchen table. A silver hair clasp lay beside the lamp. Its pin bent sharply near the middle.

“I was moving the bowl,” Shi Feng replied.

“Then move the bowl,” Ling Qingzhu said.

He moved it. She stood in the doorway with her black hair loose around her shoulders. Without the clasp, she'd tied the upper strands with a strip of violet silk. One stubborn lock kept falling across her cheek.

She pushed it behind her ear. Shi Feng’s hand stayed over the bowl.

“Move it, then,” Ling Qingzhu said.

He moved the clasp instead.

“The bowl!” Ling Qingzhu said.

Shi Feng looked down. She turned away, but not quickly enough to hide her smile. Shi Feng looked at the bent pin again.

“Did it offend you?” Shi Feng asked.

“It caught in the screen,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“And you defeated it,” Shi Feng replied.

Ling Qingzhu's expression cooled. The clasp wasn't precious, but she liked its shape. She'd pulled too hard when it snagged and bent the pin herself.

She didn't need him to sound pleased about it.

“I'll buy another,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“Leave this one here,” Shi Feng replied.

“Why?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“I'll have a look after work,” Shi Feng said.

She studied him doubtfully. She knew he made medicines. That didn't mean he could repair ornaments.

“Don't turn it into a hook for drying herbs,” Ling Qingzhu warned.

“I already have hooks,” Shi Feng said.

That didn't reassure her at all.

A strip of soft copper wire and a pair of small pliers rested beside the silver clasp that evening. Shi Feng sat beneath the lamp and checked the bend before applying pressure.

Xu Changhe's notes covered ordinary repairs alongside the care of weapons. The dead elder was a swordsman and sect enforcer, not some legendary crafting grandmaster. Still, he knew how to work a simple piece of metal without ruining it.

That much was enough here.

Shi Feng protected the silver with cloth, eased the pin straight, and checked its movement. The fastening loop had loosened as well. He closed it carefully and polished away a small scratch.

No qi entered the clasp. This wasn't a refined artifact. He didn't need a realm breakthrough to repair a bent hairpin.

Ling Qingzhu came out from behind the folding screen and stopped beside his stool.

“You really fixed it?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“Try it,” Shi Feng said.

She tested the catch twice. It held firmly.

Her surprise pleased him more than it should. Shi Feng leaned back before she could notice.

“It hasn't turned into a herb hook,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“Not yet,” Shi Feng replied.

She put it in her hair and tried to check its position in the small bronze mirror. The lamp stood at the wrong angle. Shi Feng moved it closer before she asked.

Ling Qingzhu's fingers slowed.

“Is it straight?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“A little left,” Shi Feng said.

She adjusted it.

“Now?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“Now it's crooked the other way,” Shi Feng replied.

Ling Qingzhu turned and glared at him. He was smiling.

“You're doing that on purpose!” Ling Qingzhu said.

“It was straight the first time,” Shi Feng admitted.

She hit his shoulder with the folded cloth. He didn't move, and she didn't use strength. For a moment, she stood close enough that the loose edge of her sleeve rested against his wrist.

Shi Feng wanted to reach for her hand again. He remembered how she'd held his sleeve by the gate. He could still feel the coolness of her fingers from the river path.

Before he decided, Ling Qingzhu stepped toward the kitchen.

“I'll make tea,” Ling Qingzhu said.

Shi Feng watched her go. He was disappointed and a little amused with himself. He could face a killing blow without hesitation. A woman standing beside his stool was making him think too much.

The tea arrived darker than usual.

He tasted it. Ling Qingzhu waited with the serious expression of someone awaiting an alchemist's verdict.

“You used too many leaves,” Shi Feng said.

“Then add water,” Ling Qingzhu replied immediately.

He did. She took the other cup and sat opposite him.

Ling Qingzhu glanced at the paper beside his cup. Two collection dates were circled, and another line reminded him to buy charcoal.

“You're going out early tomorrow?” Ling Qingzhu asked.

“Before the streets fill,” Shi Feng replied.

“Wake me first,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“What for?” Shi Feng asked.

“I want breakfast,” Ling Qingzhu replied.

“You can sleep. I'll leave yours covered,” Shi Feng said.

She looked at the paper again and drew it away from the damp edge of his cup. Then she put a dry saucer beneath it.

It was such a small thing that he nearly missed it. She'd never bothered about his work notes before.

The clasp shone faintly above her black hair. Shi Feng looked at it once, then looked at her face.

“Thank you,” Ling Qingzhu said quietly.

He was so surprised by the simple words that he forgot his next teasing reply.

Ling Qingzhu noticed. Her smile grew.

“So you can be quiet,” Ling Qingzhu said.

Shi Feng raised his cup.

“The tea's frightened me,” Shi Feng replied.

Rain woke them before dawn. Water ran through the roof above Shi Feng's bedding. He lifted the wet roll and moved a basin beneath the drip. Ling Qingzhu came out from behind the screen, frowned at the dark patch and took the blanket from him.

“Put it by the kitchen fire,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“Your sleeve will get wet,” Shi Feng said.

“Then stop discussing it,” Ling Qingzhu said.

She hung it herself. When he returned from fetching Jiang Meilan, she had turned the damp side toward the warmth and spread the mat where the water couldn't reach it.

A hired tiler arrived carrying a tile basket and a short ladder. He was a Meridian Opening tiler Jiang Meilan hired for repairs, more interested in the cracked gutter than in either tenant. He climbed up, replaced two broken tiles and poured water over the patch to check it.

Ling Qingzhu tied her veil while he worked. Once the tiler and the grumbling landlady had gone, she removed it and helped Shi Feng clear the wet floor. She held the screen high enough that his broom could pass without soaking the cloth.

“You're sweeping toward my slippers,” Ling Qingzhu said.

“Move one step,” Shi Feng said.

She took the broom instead. Her first stroke sent a line of water against his ankle. He looked down, then at her carefully composed face.

“I moved the water,” Ling Qingzhu said.

He laughed. She turned away, pleased enough that she forgot to hide it. By evening his bedding was dry and the roof held. She checked the middle of the blanket herself before allowing him to roll it again.

Shi Feng laid it in its usual corner, four steps from her bed. Outside the dry eaves, a night runner’s gong sounded down the street—fifteen days remained until the royal tournament’s standing list went up on the capital square, and his final golden bones were nearly ready to close.