“I always thought you were nothing but a pretty face,” Song Yinghuai said, glancing at her with a look that mixed surprise and scorn. “Never pictured you as someone who could appreciate tea.”
His words were barbed—half mockery, half insult. The implication was clear: Caiyu existed for seduction and ornament, a pretty pillow with nothing inside.
Anger kindled hot and quiet behind her ribs. If she wanted to ensnare this man, mere looks would never be enough. Men like him valued talent and inner refinement, not just beauty. She forced a smile that felt like a sword and answered lightly, “Your Highness, you forget—I was sold off to Yangzhou for three years. I learned more than tea tasting. Poetry, music, the zither, dancing… is there anything I didn’t learn?”
“Oh?” Song Yinghuai arched a brow, smirking. “I heard your poems yesterday—passable, I suppose, tidy enough to rhyme. And your handwriting—childish, like that of a six‑year‑old. I suspect the madam in Yangzhou was no great teacher; otherwise she wouldn’t have produced you, a mere half‑learner.”
The words nearly choked her. She wanted to tear his mouth open. “I only studied for three years. Some skills take years of practice—I only scratched the surface. But I have things I can do well. I just… haven’t had the chance to show Your Highness.”
Song Yinghuai seemed in good humor and, unexpectedly, pressed on. “What else can you do?”
Caiyu shifted tactics. “I cook well,” she said suddenly. Her mind flipped through strategies—catch a man’s appetite, and you catch his heart. He’d sworn to cultivate himself, to renounce worldly things, but she could chip away at those strictures. If she could get him to break small vows repeatedly, his defenses would erode.
Her answer loosened a fraction of his wariness. In the six years he'd lived among temptresses, the only thing he’d seen was sex used as bait. Someone claiming to be a good cook was new. He inclined his head with interest. “Very well. You’ll cook for me tomorrow. Show me these so‑called skills.”
“Your Highness—” relief spread through her like light. “I will obey.”
After tea, Song Yinghuai went to bathe at the Quiet Spring as usual. Caiyu had decided to stop playing the spider at the cave—no more brazen groping and whispered enticements. Her hands still hurt from yesterday; staying too long in the steamy mist would aggravate them. So she brought soapberries and his meditation robe, intended to hand them to him and then wait respectfully behind the screen.
“Stop.” He turned in the pool, watching her with a wary eye. “Where are you going?”
Rubbing her belly, which had begun to bruise and ache again, she answered, “I’ll wait outside, Your Highness. Anything else you require?”
He studied her face—too pale, he thought, like a ghost rather than someone who’d come in from a beating. Perhaps that was reason enough for her to avoid back‑rubbing. He nodded. “No need to stand outside. Stay here and wait.”
She knelt by the pool edge. He didn’t press her further and settled again into his meditation posture in the water, perfectly composed. Ripples shimmered over his back; the sight of his shoulders, taut and wet, pricked a familiar ache in her chest. She’d seen him often enough to know the lines of his body, but there was nothing gentle about that body—its tension and surety made something coil and ache low in her. A warm rush rose where she hadn’t expected it; her abdomen spasmed with a sudden, painful heat.
Damn this traitorous nature of mine, she thought. I mustn’t look—mustn’t.
She closed her eyes and tried to mirror his calm. The cleansing mantra he often murmured to still his mind came to her lips; she had learned it by listening. “Avalokiteśvara Bodhisattva, practicing deep prajñāpāramitā, clearly saw that the five skandhas are empty and thus relieved all suffering…”
Her little prayer did calm her on the inside, but her quiet chanting drifted across the water and into his ears. At first he ignored it; then her voice grew more spirited, and irritation—then impatience—began to prick him.
Song Yinghuai opened his eyes and rose from the water to fetch his robe. The sound made Caiyu jolt upright and blink. “Your Highness, you’re done—” she stopped. She’d been trying to keep her gaze dignified, but now she was caught, like a deer in headlights.
The sight of him naked and magnificent stopped her breath. He stood there, proud and unashamed, every line of him like a wild thing’s. Her knees loosened and her face went ashen. This was what a man really looked like—so raw and complete that it was terrifying. If he turned hungry now, could her fragile body survive him?
He had been about to put on his inner garment; ordinarily she would have turned away to give him privacy. “Turn around,” he ordered, low and urgent—anger edged with a barely controlled embarrassment.
Startled, she tried to obey. Kneeling so long with the weakness from the herbal wash, she grew dizzy as she twisted—and the world tilted. Black spots swam at the edges of her vision and then the next moment she pitched headlong forward toward the pool.
No—this wasn’t how she wanted to fall.
Her arms cut through the air, flailing for purchase. “My lord—help—” she cried, panic loud and raw.
Song Yinghuai watched her. For a heartbeat he was incredulous: had she truly reformed, or was this some ploy? Did she mean to soften him and then strike? He snorted and deliberately turned his body away.
Plop. She hit the water.
Caiyu sank two quick kicks to the bottom. She knew how to swim and didn’t fear drowning, but the abdominal cramps and the shock of the fall left her scrambling and unsteady. She splashed, hands chopping at the surface.
He remained seated in the pool, arms folded, watching with cool contempt. He intended to see what trick she would play next. Then, something in his face shifted—surprise, almost disbelief. He bent, peering down at his reflection in the water, staring at himself as if seeing it for the first time.
And then a voice rang out across the Quiet Spring—sharp, incredulous, full of fury and alarm:
“Lan Caiyu!”