No sooner had she arrived than the room filled with low murmurs of approval and critique. Today’s guests were the capital’s literati and connoisseurs—men who prided themselves on distinguishing the finest brushwork. Master Mingxi was their idol; every compliment for the displayed piece seemed endless. The moment Cheng Simian opened her mouth, she cut through the flattery like a cool breeze.
“Miss Cheng is young and already well known in the capital. The Crown Prince shows her favor, and she’s grown more arrogant for it,” someone muttered.
Lu Siming glanced at the speaker and smiled, warm and disarming. “Sir, perhaps that’s premature. Why don’t we hear Miss Cheng’s view first? I’ve been lucky enough to see a painting or two of hers. Her technique and mood are no less than Master Mingxi’s.”
He looked toward Cheng Simian with an expression that, for an instant, betrayed admiration and hopeful expectation.
The Crown Prince’s arm drooped; his hand, wrapped in the long sleeve, clenched just a little too tightly. The more Lu Siming praised Cheng Simian, the more the prince’s temper tightened.
The whispers and side comments didn’t reach Cheng Simian’s ears. She smiled faintly, then lifted her head to look at the prince with an earnestness that asked, unspoken, whether she should say something.
He returned to studying the painting—“Early Spring in the Capital Countryside.” At first glance it dazzled; the brushwork was experienced, the composition delicate, the ink washes handled with care. Yet compared to the two pieces Cheng Simian had once given him—“Rivers and Mountains for Ten Thousand Miles” and “Peach Blossoms Aglow”—this work felt lacking. He couldn’t quite name where it fell short.
“I think this painting does have some subtle flaws,” the Crown Prince said at last. “But I am no connoisseur. I would be grateful, Mianmian, if you would help me understand.”
A spring breeze seemed to pass through Cheng Simian’s heart.
The prince did not defend her against the jibes. Instead he voiced his own doubt plainly, and that single act closed many mouths. When the highest-ranking person present expresses reservation, no one wants to appear to be contradicting him by mindlessly praising the same work.
He didn’t use his rank to silence them for her sake; he simply spoke his own thought. In doing so, he denied her the chance to gain enemies and quieted the rumor that he coddled her without reason. Everyone could feel his affection for Cheng Simian—measured, sensible, the kind a future emperor would show the woman he favored.
Cheng Simian faced the painting with composed calm.
“This painting does capture the stirrings of early spring,” she said. “The artist used pale ink everywhere—houses, trees, distant hills, the spring in the foreground. But the washes are overdone. Each element is deliberately emphasized, and nothing is allowed to recede. There’s no hierarchy; the composition is crowded and the overall beauty is lost. It can hardly be called a masterpiece.”
Her words had barely fallen when a chorus of enlightened “ohs” rose from the crowd.
One painter nodded vigorously. “Miss Cheng has put my doubts into words. I felt the same—each mountain, each stream, each tree is lovely by itself, but together they refuse to harmonize. Now I see: the artist lost the focal point.”
A fashionable young noblewoman who dabbled in painting agreed. “It’s like a woman dressing—if her robe, shoes, hairpin, and jewelry all try to outshine the others, she looks overloaded rather than elegant. It doesn’t add to her aura; it feels forced.”
Others skilled in brushwork added their remarks. Conversation thawed; the hostile tone toward Cheng Simian evaporated. She had, like a seasoned instructor, pointed out a few truths and cleared the fog for them all.
Qin Ziqi, who was used to being flattered wherever he went, tried to contribute as well, but each time he spoke a strange silence followed. People pretended not to hear. Without the glitter of novelty around him—thanks to Cheng Simian’s clear, confident voice—he became a transparent man, ignored and irked. His face burned red with both embarrassment and fury.
Qin Xuanyan’s color darkened even more. She had no real understanding of painting; she only knew that those who claimed to know letters and art favored Master Mingxi, so she followed the crowd’s taste. Listening to the others, the most she could manage was “It’s pretty.” Unable to shine, she faded into the background and seethed. Her mother had forbidden her to dress up today, so she had no beauty to compel the prince’s attention. Cheng Simian had become the thorn in her side.
Cheng Simian felt the hostility in Qin Xuanyan’s gaze but paid it no mind. Her eyes drifted back to the painting as if she were slightly absent.
“What are you thinking about?” the Crown Prince bent close and murmured, his voice only for her. As if by accident, his lips brushed the soft curve of her earlobe.
A faint, private tickle spread across her skin. Cheng Simian’s mouth curved. Such measured affection—never indulgent to the point of smothering, always exactly intimate—was not something she found unpleasant.
She sighed softly, keeping her gaze on the canvas. “I was thinking Master Mingxi must have been distracted when she painted this. There’s a restlessness in it—she couldn’t settle her heart, so the work lost its standard. If she knew that something painted in haste would be hung up and applauded, she would be ashamed. She might become more guarded, paint less freely. Then the world would have fewer of her works to admire.”
No one in the room had guessed at Master Mingxi’s inner state. They had debated composition, brushwork, palette—yet none had reached into the artist’s mind. In two or three sentences, Cheng Simian held up a mirror to Mingxi’s thoughts.
The prince smiled, pleased. “Mianmian sees through things. If Master Mingxi knew you, she would be glad to call you a kindred spirit.”
Cheng Simian returned the smile, demure and gentle, and said nothing more.
The prince’s smile dropped, and for a moment a shadow crossed his eyes.
Does Mianmian see my heart? Does she truly not understand? Or is she pretending? He had thought that when she gifted him “Peach Blossoms Aglow,” she had understood the depth of his affection. Now he wondered—was she simply being thoughtful, playing along with his little theatre? He had never meant it as a performance.
She didn’t answer him back—was she playing dumb, or did she refuse to meet him halfway? She didn’t care for opulent palace rooms; her mind wandered back to the rivers and hills of Jiangnan. If only Master Mingxi were here…
The prince’s eyes flicked back to the painting and something else struck him. Master Mingxi’s work depicted the outskirts of the capital, and it was set in the first month of the lunar year. That meant she had been in the city two months ago.
They had sent messengers south to find Master Mingxi in Jiangnan, tracking little but that she had traveled north. The north was vast—finding one person there was like finding a needle in the ocean. Yet this painting gleamed like a clue in the prince’s mind: Master Mingxi is in the capital.
If so, she could be found—not with difficulty, but with determination. He tucked that detail away as something urgent to pursue.
The room moved on to other pictures. Each had merit, but none compared to Master Mingxi’s work in subtlety. Lu Siming’s gaze lingered on Cheng Simian a moment longer, then he sighed with regret.
“I wonder when we’ll see a new piece from Master Mingxi again. Since she left Jiangnan, her poems and paintings have steadily decreased. I fear the days of our gatherings will become fewer still.”
A witty voice teased, “No matter. Miss Cheng paints with a fine hand as well. Who knows—may we one day be fortunate enough to admire her work?”
Lu Siming’s eyes lit with expectation as he looked toward the prince, putting on the humble air of someone pleading on behalf of the company.
The prince felt, faintly, as though a treasure of his—someone he cherished—was being eyed by others.
At that moment a servant hurried in. “Your Highness, the Second Prince is here, and the Empress Dowager and Consort Lan have arrived with the imperial sedan.”
Qin Xuanyan, listless until then, straightened with a small start and lifted her chin. The show was about to begin.
Qin Ziqi frowned. They had only invited Consort Lan, hadn’t they? Why had the Empress come as well?
He shot a quick look at Lu Siming. Lu’s face gave nothing away; he showed no signs of panic. Qin Ziqi relaxed and, despite himself, felt a prick of anticipation.