Song Yinghuai strode as usual and reached the doorway of the bedchamber in a flash. He halted mid-step and fixed Caiyu with an icy stare.
"Why are you following me?"
Caiyu instinctively pressed the wound on her back with the heel of her hand and looked up, bewildered. "I was hurt yesterday and sent back to the spare room. The prince asked me to come with you to the bedchamber. I was hurt again today, so I… I just followed."
He gave a short, cold laugh. "You followed of your own accord, did you?"
She lowered her eyes. "Nanny taught me this morning—servants must learn to read their master's mind and act according to the situation."
Song inclined his head. "Good. Your ability to connect the dots is impressive."
"Thank you for the compliment, Prince." Her voice was polite but soured; there was nothing of his supposed Buddha-like compassion in his tone.
He stepped into the chamber. "It seems I misjudged Nanny Li. She taught you well. If I had arrived later, after you'd gone back, you would have remembered to put on the ointment I gave you yesterday."
Caiyu followed him in, surprised. "How did you know I didn't put it on?"
Song's face betrayed no emotion. "If you'd applied it, the wound would have crusted over by morning. It wouldn't have been torn open when two maidservants pulled you along the road."
He had seen the whole thing, then—every glance, every stumble. Caiyu muttered inwardly: the man had a small, probing mind. He was only using this as an excuse to teach Nanny Li a lesson for not making her obey him. Still, his attention gave her a sliver of hope. Her mother had once told her: if a man bothers to speak to a woman, whether in favor or suspicion, it means he pays attention. Interest or doubt—either way, it was a crack to pry open.
She puffed up her lips and stuck out her cheeks. "Maitreya Buddha, big belly and all, takes everything in with a happy heart. Lord, you've practiced for six years—surely Maitreya has blessed you long enough that you shouldn't be fretting over a little maid, right?"
Song's eyes remained cool, watching her for a long beat.
Caiyu wasn't afraid. She knew that for a man used to power, the fact he did not fly into a rage when mocked was, in itself, a concession. She swayed slightly, lowered her head, and her voice went soft and coaxing. "It's not that I don't want to follow your orders—it's just the wound is on my back. I can't reach to put it on myself."
Song's expression softened a touch. He had missed that detail: a wound on the back was difficult to dress alone. "There aren't many maids in the Lotus Pavilion, but there are some. Find someone to apply it."
"You're saying it like it's easy," Caiyu said, turning offended. "Who there is friendly with me? If anyone felt kindly toward me, would I have been dragged before Dowager Wang and beaten for nothing yesterday? Would Nanny Li have come at me today like she did, almost tearing my face?"
Song picked another jar of ointment from the shelf and cocked his head. "Feeling wronged?"
Caiyu looked away and pouted. In Song's sight she seemed almost indecently young: lips flushed pink, the mouth a petulant little curve, cheeks puffed like a child, eyes glazed with unshed tears that trembled as if they might fall at any moment. There was something petulant and disarming about her—a mischievous charm he had never seen before.
His temper, which had been so austere of late, softened. He reached out and pinched her cheeks, forcing her face up so she had to meet his gaze.
"Did you put on my meditation robe on purpose?" he asked. "If you'd been trying to get a beating, why did you hurry in the moment you entered the pavilion and drive Spring Joy out like that? Why try to cow the other maids? If you hadn't been seeking trouble, why would they shun you?"
Her eyes narrowed. He knew everything, didn't he—saw her as a clown performing for scraps.
Song read the sudden dark cloud in her expression and let a faint, almost contemptuous tone creep into his voice. "So this is your talent? You can't handle the other girls in Lotus Pavilion, and yet you hope to climb into your mistress's good graces and win her heart?"
Caiyu's teeth itched. She nearly bit down on the fingers pressing her cheeks.
Song tossed the ointment to her. "Figure out a way to apply it."
She turned the jar over in her palms and felt the urge to bite him instead. "I won't put it on."
"What?" Song stared. This time genuine surprise flickered across his face. He had never met a maid bold enough to defy him so plainly.
She lifted her chin and repeated stubbornly, "I said I don't want to put it on."
Song's eyes narrowed; his jaw worked. Since embracing the Buddhist path, he had kept his temper in check, but he had never before been tempted to put his hand on someone's throat. His left wrist, bereft of prayer beads, he rubbed absently—without them, he felt the murderous impulse creep up more readily. "Are you provoking me?" he said, voice low. "I warned you yesterday—"
"I've already played my part," Caiyu cut in, unafraid. "I'm not pretending. I simply couldn't find anyone to help, and I won't stand there and take that lot's scorn. I'd rather have it fester and hurt."
Song took a deep breath and met those stubborn, oddly familiar eyes. A strange weariness crawled up his chest. He kept his voice steady and milder. "The sages say our bodies—our hair and skin—are given by our parents. To harm them is to fail in filial duty. You—"
He stopped mid-sentence. Her long lashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, trapping the tears along their edges. The beads gathered at the tips of her lashes trembled and, one by one, fell like pearls onto her snow-white skin, rolling to the floor.
He had seen women cry before—concubines at the emperor's feet, noblewomen whose petitions were denied, peasant wives mourning lost kin in war—but never had a woman's tears trembled like this, each blink tugging at some nerve. It unsettled him.
"Why are you crying?" he asked, annoyed.
He had meant to be gentle; he had put on the veneer of compassion. Instead, the tears hung heavier and then finally slipped free, striking the floor with soft clacks.
"What filial duty? What parent's gift?" Caiyu choked out through sobs. "I was sold into a household after my parents died. Who can I be filial to? They're gone. If my body's scarred—so what? It doesn't matter."
Song froze. A rare prick of guilt rose behind his stern composure. He had, in fact, been told by Han Fen's inquiries that Caiyu's family had been exiled three years ago. Her parents had perished in the exile from relentless overseers and harsh labor. She had been alone, an only daughter with no living kin. His words about filial piety had struck a raw place in her.
For the first time in a while, Song found himself momentarily at a loss for a retort.
Through the mist on her lashes Caiyu noticed the unusual guilt flit across his face. She thrust the porcelain jar back into his hand.
"I don't even want to live much anymore," she said dully. "I'm just a walking corpse. Let whatever's rotten stay rotten. I won't put it on."
She spun and walked off, more petulant than the grand misses of Yanjing. She counted her small steps inwardly like a charm—one, two, three—
"Come back!" Song's cold voice cut after her, raw with command.