Liu Jinyan clenched and unclenched the hand hidden in his sleeve. After a long moment he forced out a compromise. “Madam Shen…today’s incident is my sister’s doing. Please allow this junior to return home and inform our parents and kin.” His Adam’s apple bobbed; his voice came out rough. “The Liu family will send Liu Ruyan to a farmhouse beyond the capital for three months’ confinement. She will fast each day and recite sutras for Miss Shen’s blessings…to atone for her crime.”
“Brother?!” Liu Ruyan collapsed onto the cold stone floor as if struck. Disbelief painted her face raw.
After Liu Huanqing’s death she had finally become the Liu family’s only legitimate daughter. Lately, the whispered title of “the Mysterious Maiden Descended” had opened doors for her in the capital—her rise had seemed inevitable. And now the Liu household would exile her to some remote farm for a full three months? The city’s fortunes changed by the hour—who would remember her after a season? All the careful work she’d done to build a name and future would be wrecked.
To a lady of the capital, house arrest was already severe punishment. Madam Zou merely curved her lips, a smile that never reached her eyes.
“Oh? I heard the old Liu villa out by the outskirts is dilapidated—perhaps hardly fit for anyone to live in. Years ago the emperor gifted the Shen family an out-house; a branch manages it now. If Miss Liu truly repents, why not…go stay there to reflect?”
Madam Zou had run the Shen household for years. She had no trouble reading Liu Jinyan’s intent. If Liu Ruyan were sent to her family’s farm, she would still be cosseted and clothed in finery—no one would notice if she were spirited back out in secret. But sent to the Shen estate, she would be properly confined, punished, and seen to be so.
At those words Liu Jinyan went rigid. He avoided looking at his sister.
Liu Ruyan’s fingers found the bracelet at her wrist by instinct. A flicker of icy hatred flashed in her eyes and was immediately tamped down. There was no choice now but to yield—any further resistance would only make her fall harder.
Under everyone’s gaze she bowed her head. Hair tumbled over most of her face, hiding her expression; only a hoarse, muffled voice was heard. “Ruyan…is willing to be punished.”
There was no dignity left for the two Lius to stay in the Shen house. They rose and hurried for the exit—but a voice called behind them.
“Hey, stop. Who said you could leave?”
The siblings froze. Liu Jinyan’s temple veins throbbed. “Does Master Shen have more to say?”
“I won’t presume to lecture you,” Shen Muan said, striding forward and blocking the path, his tone firm and immovable. “But you forgot one thing. In front of everyone here—have your sister apologize to my sister.”
Liu Jinyan drew a long, exhausted breath. He had collided with a ghost that morning and now this entire affair on top of it had drained him. He only wanted to end it. He looked at Liu Ruyan; his eyes urged her on without a word.
She bit her lip and stepped toward Shen Cuiyu. Her eyes were rimmed red; she forced a weak, faltering smile. “Sister Shen…this is all my fault. I was a fool, led astray, and I harmed you. I apologize…please be magnanimous and forgive your elder sister, will you?”
Shen Cuiyu watched the tear-streaked, wounded expression on the woman before her and inwardly sneered. No one knew Liu Ruyan’s face like she did. In the life before, after a dozen betrayals and kicks when she was down, Liu Ruyan would always make that same face: an apparent surrender that tugged at her family’s pity, a ploy to stir guilt and protect herself.
Cuiyu’s gaze was clear as black and white porcelain. Standing under that scrutiny, Ruyan’s performance seemed to wobble; she felt, absurdly, that Cuiyu could see through every layer of the mask and was merely humoring a cat-and-mouse game.
Ruyan’s smile was on the verge of cracking when Cuiyu spoke—soft and distinct—and, for everyone’s astonishment, repeated word for word the very line Ruyan had once spat at her before she was pushed from the eaves.
“You stupid little bitch—don’t even be fit to wipe my shoes. Get as far away from me as you can!”
The words landed like a clap. Faces went slack, then twisted into suppressed laughter. The entire assembly blinked in disbelief: could the Shen miss really be so dim as people said?
Apparently not.
She had learned the simplest, sharpest method—returning insult for insult. Even Pei Yu, who had lounged there all along with an air of bored amusement, lifted an eyebrow. A clear, surprised light flashed across his hawk-like eyes before interest took over. He regarded Shen Cuiyu with an intensity he had not bothered to give before; the rumored foolishness of the second Miss Shen suddenly seemed a cover for something more intriguing.
Shen Muan burst into laughter and clapped, unabashed admiration in his face. “That’s my sister! I yield—completely.”
Shen Canghai and Madam Zou exchanged glances and could not help the satisfied smiles that rose. They had feared Cuiyu might be prey to scorn and mockery; now, with whatever had returned to her—her wits, her temper—she was sharp, alert, and capable of protecting herself. They could breathe easier.
The steward caught Madam Zou’s meaning and made a polite beckoning gesture. “Go back and tell Master Liu at once. The Shen carriage will fetch them later.”
When Liu Ruyan heard the mocking words, her face had already drained to paper-white. She gave up any pretense of decorum, seized Liu Jinyan’s sleeve, and they fled, disappearing beyond the Shen gates.
The farce was over for now.
As the Shen household turned to seeing off guests and offering customary thanks, the crowd thinned. Cuiyu’s gaze flicked almost automatically to where Prince Pei Yu stood a short distance away, deep in conversation with Shen Canghai.
She had heard of the young prince before—how could she not? He was the emperor’s fourth son, a legitimate prince born of the empress, reared with indulgence in the palace. Though the throne’s succession remained unsettled, Pei Yu had been granted his title young, his status unmatched among the capital’s young nobles.
Once, he had been the epitome of soft elegance—a figure people vied to court. But at fifteen an illness had nearly taken him. He survived, but not unchanged. Since then his temperament had turned eccentric and unpredictable. Three winters ago, when the emperor and empress presented a list of highborn maidens for him to consider, he dismissed every match with the same curt excuse: “I don’t like them.”
From where she stood, Cuiyu watched him now, an idle curiosity—and perhaps, for the first time in many years, the capital took notice of a different sort of mind behind her gentle, unassuming face.