A single poem would be enough to spare her?
For a moment Cai Yu's heart leapt — then memory shoved the joy aside. Not long ago she'd nearly been exposed over a name. Doubt prickled her: was Song Yinghuai testing her again?
She had to do more than talk her way out. She needed a poem that fit her station, wasn’t too clever, and, most important, appealed to Prince Song’s temper. Only then might she bluff her way through.
Seeing the tight knot of worry between her brows, Song Yinghuai didn’t look suspicious; there was no sign of falseness. For the daughter of a caravan guard, composing a verse — even a simple one — was no small feat. He waved a hand to Han Fen. “Light a one-foot stick of incense,” he ordered, then sank back into the round chair, picked up the prayer beads that lay on the table and let them roll slowly through his fingers. His eyes were lowered.
“Once, Cao Zijiang composed seven verses in seven steps,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t expect you to match that. If you can produce one by the time this incense burns down, I’ll consider you done. If not — if the smoke dies out and you still have nothing — then it seems even the Buddha refuses to save you; the other eight lashes will be yours to take.”
He paused, then added, “But if you do manage it, I’ll drop tonight’s punishments for everyone.”
A hush fell across the courtyard. All eyes turned to Cai Yu, hungry and pleading. No one wanted to keep kneeling, soaked in humiliation and bracing for the prince’s wrath. They silently urged her on, willing her to succeed so they could go home.
Pressure pressed in like a fist. Her chest tightened; her thoughts churned into mush. She could hardly breathe.
She stole a look and saw Song Yinghuai with his eyes shut, the beads sliding between his fingers like a man in meditation. Zhu Xiao, beside her, couldn’t hold back a comment. “Girl, don’t just stare at the prince. That incense may be long, but it’ll burn out. Think of a poem… if you’re stuck, I’ll lend you the first couplet.”
Cai Yu gave a discreet cough — no thanks.
She fixed her gaze on Song’s fingers and let the rhythmic turning of the beads slow her frantic thoughts. Gradually clarity returned. She had heard something like this before, years ago at Huayan Temple, a small novice singing a plain chant. If she could graft that memory into verse, it would do.
She bowed her head and said, “Thank you, General Zhu. I’ll try my best.”
Then she followed the prince’s example — eyes inward, breath even — and concentrated.
Outside, autumn wind lifted with a sigh, stirring withered leaves across the courtyard. The osmanthus flowers had browned; green leaves still clung stubbornly to the branches. Silence lengthened. Han Fen ladled a pot of "Jade Leaf Evergreen" tea; Zhu Xiao began to drink it down in hurried gulps. Han Fen clucked in dismay — such good tea shouldn’t be chugged — but Zhu only drank harder, tilting the spout to his mouth like a man drowning his nerves.
At last the last grain of incense ash dropped. Song’s ear flicked; he opened his eyes. “The incense has finished. Speak.”
Cai Yu’s knees had gone numb from kneeling; her palms throbbed. She had thought the prince would be more merciful — after all, she wasn’t a deity in the temple and he had given her a full stick of incense to buy time. Irritation burned in her throat, but she steadied herself and rose.
“Prince, I’ve thought of a poem,” she said. “It may be crude, unfit for elegant halls. I beg your pardon in advance if it offends.”
“Recite it,” Song said.
Cai Yu cleared her throat. Her voice was like a mountain spring, small but steady.
“Life’s a play — meetings come by fate, and fate can be rare. To stand together till we’re old is hard; all the more reason to cherish what we share. For little things, why blow up and storm? Look back, and anger seems a waste. When others rage, I will not — anger breeds sickness, and no one can stand for you. If I die from ire, who will gain? It wears the spirit and it saps the strength. When people curse, I feign deafness; I raise my voice to heaven and lower it to earth. There was Zhou Gongjin in the Three Kingdoms — anger left him a pawn of men’s designs. Maitreya, the laughing monk, bares his chest and belly and endures. Not angry, not angry — I won’t be angry; living to a hundred is nothing to marvel at!”
Zhu Xiao snorted and spat a mouthful of tea across the stones. “Ha! I think the girl’s poem is fine — plain and clear and easy to remember.”
Han Fen leaned toward Song with the teapot’s spout at Zhu’s lips. “General Zhu, drink.” he urged.
Song Yinghuai’s expression was as cold as winter ice; his eyes were thin slits. “Are you saying I fly into a rage over trifles?”
Cai Yu scrambled to apologize. “No, Your Highness, I would never. I’m ignorant and my skill is poor. I only had the time of a long incense to scrape together a few rhyming lines. If I have overstepped, I beg Your Highness’ mercy.”
“Enough,” Zhu Xiao said quickly. “Don’t hold this young girl to such strict standards. Given her background, producing any poem is an achievement. Do you expect her to recite the latest works of the famed poets to satisfy you?”
Song said nothing.
Though simple, Cai Yu’s verses carried the tone of Buddhist teachings she’d absorbed in childhood — an appearance of wise simplicity that made clever display unnecessary. It was the sort of humble wisdom that often unsettled the proud.
Song tossed the beads into a brocade box with the rest of his knickknacks. “Fine,” he said at last. “Tonight has been long. Pretend you managed it. Dismissed. Go to your own rooms and reflect.”
The crowd reacted like a condemned house granted reprieve. Heads bowed and they beat the ground with a flurry of ritual bows. “We obey, servant takes leave!”
That night left Lotus Sound Pavilion with a clear lesson: their master was not one to be deceived. Song Yinghuai was a tiger on the mountain bed — usually you could pluck his whiskers and he would let you live. But when the tiger rose, his wrath came down like thunder; no one could bear it.
When Cai Yu finally made it back to the side hall, exhaustion and pain had settled into her joints. Her knees and palms felt like they belonged to someone else. By the pillow she fumbled for the salve Song had once gifted her and smoothed a little over her hands. The pale green ointment cooled, easing the sting.
Song had not returned to his bed; where he had gone in the dark, no one knew. For once she was glad of his absence — no one would shove her back into the servant’s room. She needed time to nurse her aching body before facing him again.
She slept until dawn. Waking, dizziness hit her like a blow. A sharp ache bloomed in her abdomen. Reflexively she put a hand to her belly — and the palm pressed into a sudden, bright pain that made her bite back a cry.
She had forgotten her palms were wounded. Worse, her monthly time had come.
As if the roof weren’t already leaking, the rain had found a second hole. She dragged her aching legs toward the kitchen. What she wanted most was a pot of pepper, red date, and ginger broth to ease the cramps.
The pavilion had many serving maids, but after last night they’d all been staring at her with narrowed eyes and shared resentment. She dared not trust any of them with her food. So she moved gingerly, swollen hands fumbling as she stirred and ladled, nearly overturning the scalding pot.
A voice startled her. Someone stepped out of the shadows and steadied the tray she almost dropped.
“Madam Yu?” Cai Yu turned. It was Nanny Yu — the woman who had brought her into the Yan Prince’s household and who, secretly, served as a courier for the prince’s intelligence network.
Nanny Yu took the tray and, seeing no one else around, dropped her voice to a whisper. “I’ve come with a letter. Master’s promise stands — each month Young Master Lan will write to you. I collected his letter yesterday.”
“Where is it?” Cai Yu’s breath caught. The name Lan Guifan — her little brother — made her entire body ache with longing. He had been hidden away as a bargaining piece when their family was deported; Prince Song had gone to great lengths to switch them out. Seeing a letter from him felt like a miracle.
Nanny Yu’s face was stern but soft. She drew out the folded paper and handed it to Cai Yu.