After that day, Shen Mian began to make trouble for Shen Qing openly and behind her back. Shen Qing had seen her theatrics enough to not take it seriously, but Shen Mian had a knack for getting under people's skin.
One morning, as Shen Qing prepared to leave for class, Shen Mian blocked her way. “Sister, you’re the marquise—His Majesty personally granted you that first‑rank title. If you parade about all day it reflects badly on the house. Don’t give people the impression that the women of our family are unruly.”
Shen Qing paused at the door and watched her with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Have you mastered etiquette yet? Want me to send two palace maids to help you with your lessons?”
Shen Mian’s forced smile froze; unpleasant memories flickered across her face. “What do you mean by that?”
Shen Qing didn’t answer directly. Instead she told Zhu Xing to take a message to the Three Visits Study and ask for leave on her behalf—say she had something come up and wouldn’t be attending. Only after Zhu Xing had gone did she say, “Come with me. I’ll show you something you should see.”
“What place?”
Shen Mian climbed into the carriage and followed. They went out to a small village not far from the city outskirts. It had rained recently; the paths were slick and muddy, and Shen Mian could not help scowling at the thought of dirty shoes.
“What exactly are you trying to show me?” she demanded.
Shen Qing led her into a humble room and pointed. “There.”
Shen Mian’s eyes narrowed as she saw the man on the bed. “Steward Wu?!” she blurted.
“He was beaten and dumped out here a few days ago,” Shen Qing said calmly. “That same night someone tried to poison him. If my people hadn’t gotten there in time, he’d be dead.”
“You’re lying. Brother Yanchi issued the orders in plain sight; no one would dare poison anyone under my watch.” Shen Mian’s voice was indignant.
Shen Qing’s smile turned into something colder. “Would anyone risk that to silence him? Who would be reckless enough to try?”
Shen Mian froze.
“I don’t care how you fight your battles, but if you dance in front of me, I won’t be the one to be trampled,” Shen Qing said. “Don’t be a pawn.”
Shen Qing couldn’t tell how much of that sank in, but Shen Mian stopped bothering her—then promptly went off to pick on Jiang Chan instead. Shen Qing stood there and thought, not for the first time, how she had managed to come back in a life that apparently kept handing her unexpected advantages. With Shen Mian’s temperament and talents, she probably would have coasted through if fate had been kinder.
Meanwhile Ji Junye had risen before dawn and walked to the Three Visits Study, only to find Shen Qing absent. Ningyang, who had the audacity to answer first, bowed and said, “Your Majesty.”
Ji Junye hummed. “Where is she?”
“My little disciple said something came up—she won’t be coming today.”
The Astronomical Bureau was a quiet post for Ningyang; his father ran the bureau, so he’d nothing much to do and always ran to the study after roll call. He’d already guessed the reason, but still asked, “Your Majesty—did you come looking for Master?”
“No. Passing through.” Ji Junye left it at that and walked away with his usual distant coolness.
Ningyang had to bite back a laugh at such a flimsy answer. Still, someone had to be tight‑lipped about certain things. When his little sister married the emperor, Ningyang thought with a lopsided smile, he’d earned the right to sit at the head table.
Ji Junye hadn’t found her that morning, so that evening he cornered her. “Why didn’t you go to class today?”
“I had something to take care of,” Shen Qing said. “Master asked Zhu Xing to bring my books and assignments home.”
That day’s lesson had been on governance—Shen Qing had no foundation in it and every passage in the textbook left her puzzled and frustrated.
Ji Junye was buried in memorials. Not attending court, he was still swamped: ministers who wanted to prove their zeal sent report after report; leave them unreviewed for two days and they piled up like snowdrifts. He rubbed his forehead, then looked at the frowning Shen Qing and asked, “What are you struggling with?”
She made a face. “There are some parts I don’t understand.”
“Which ones?” he asked, taking the book and beginning to explain. Where she stumbled, he dissected the lines for her, sometimes sentence by sentence. As she listened, Shen Qing realized his approach differed from Old Master Chen’s.
“You teach differently,” she said.
Ji Junye’s arms went around her waist in a steady, easy hold. His voice was calm and warm. “Chen‑lao instructed you in the way of ministers. What I teach you is the way of a ruler.”
Shen Qing’s heart nearly jumped clear out of her seat. The way of a ruler—only a crown prince in training would normally be entrusted with such lessons. Did he mean to groom her for the throne? A dozen wild halfway‑formed thoughts ran through her mind. Heavens help her—her slip was almost literal without his arm there to steady her.
If he could have read those thoughts he would have been equal parts amused and exasperated. He wasn’t thinking of setting her up for the throne; she was his, carrying his child—how could she slip out of his hands? And besides, the state could wait. She mattered more.
The next morning Shen Qing woke to find his side of the bed cold. “Where has His Majesty gone?” she asked.
Zhu Xing said, “There was an urgent dispatch from the border before dawn. His Majesty left for the palace before sunrise and told the ladies not to wake you.”
The life of a tyrant has its burdens, Shen Qing thought. He’d taught her late into the night and then worked through a stack of memorials, rising before dawn—being emperor must be a tiring thing.
It was drizzling outside, and Shen Qing disliked going out in the rain. “There’s nothing pressing today. Let’s wait until later,” she said.
After breakfast she went to the small study next to her chamber to digest what Ji Junye had taught her. His method was plain and incisive; knots of confusion unwound under it. She and Ji Junye each had a desk in the room: his was always buried in papers of state; hers was neater and more casual. When he wasn’t handling affairs, he often used her desk.
He had one annoying habit—if he didn’t want to read a memorial, he’d toss it aside without a second thought. Last night must have been too late for anyone to tidy up, because the desk was a mess.
“All right, in return for your efforts teaching me last night, I suppose I’ll do you the favor of tidying your mountain of papers,” Shen Qing muttered, picking up one memorial after another and stacking them.
Something caught her eye: a memorial wedged under the others, its corner creased and tucked. She fished it out and, intending to smooth the corner, glanced at the first lines. Her face went still.
The paper slipped from her fingers with a soft clatter as the memorial fell to the floor.