In the third month of spring, peach blossoms in the capital were in full bloom, and the wind was soft and languid.
That softness carried the dampness of mist rising from the thawing moat after winter, mixed with the faintly sweet scent of freshly turned earth. It drifted from the base of the city walls all the way to the bluestone path of Jinyuan in the western outskirts.
Gu Jinzhao lifted the carriage curtain, and a gust happened to sweep through the alley, brushing stray strands of hair against her lips. She reached up and tucked them aside, her fingertips grazing her cheek.
The carriage came to a stop. Qing Pu extended a hand to help her down. That hand was steady, with a faint callus on the palm—formed from years of holding a short blade.
Gu Jinzhao took her wrist and stepped onto the stool. Her pomegranate-red mamian skirt fell over the edge like crushed pomegranate juice spilling across the stone pavement.
She stood still. The first thing she heard was not voices, but wind.
The wind in Jinyuan was thicker than in the city, carrying the fragrance of peach blossoms into her collar. The scent was sweet, with a faint astringency of green leaves.
The bluestone underfoot had been warmed slightly by the afternoon sun. Through her embroidered shoes, that warmth reached her soles—comforting, steady, reassuring.
Amid the pink, white, and jade-green of the garden, her moon-white, gold-embroidered high-collared short jacket and pomegranate-red skirt were strikingly vivid.
But Gu Jinzhao did not care.
This was her first banquet since returning to the capital.
She tilted her face slightly, letting sunlight filter through the peach blossoms and fall across her skin. The dappled light carried warmth, like someone gently pressing a warm fingertip against her brow bone.
“Whose young lady is that?”
“I don’t recognize her. Judging by her attire, she must be some noble family’s Legitimate Eldest Miss.”
“Tsk… that appearance…”
Gu Jinzhao heard it. The words drifted into her left ear, circled once in her mind, and were dismissed before they could reach the right.
She did not slow her steps and continued toward the waterside pavilion. Qing Pu followed silently behind her. The girl had come with her from Jiangnan and had shared life and death with her for years; their tacit understanding no longer required words.
Passing a begonia tree, Gu Jinzhao paused. She thought of her maternal grandmother’s courtyard, where begonias bloomed recklessly every March.
Her grandmother always said, Little Zhao is more beautiful than the flowers.
Just then, laughter sounded ahead.
It was sharp and deliberately raised, like someone scattering shards of porcelain onto the ground.
A group of young ladies emerged from the moon gate. Leading them was a girl in pale yellow robes, wearing a gold-and-pearl step shake hairpin that swayed with every laugh, dazzling under the sunlight.
She was Zhou Yun, the cousin by marriage of the Northern Pacifying Marquis Mansion.
Gu Jinzhao recognized her.
She had recognized her in her past life as well. Back then, when she had just returned to the capital and was unfamiliar with everything, this woman had openly and covertly called her a “country girl” for half a year. Later, when Gu Jinzhao found an opportunity to humiliate her in public, she finally restrained herself.
Zhou Yun also saw her now. She looked her up and down before breaking into a perfectly practiced smile—one that appeared harmless on the surface but required long training to master.
“And who might this be?” she tilted her head as if thinking. “Ah—so you’re the eldest miss newly brought back by the Gu family. What was your name again… Gu something?”
“Elder sister, the capital is not like outside. There are rules everywhere. If you don’t understand anything, feel free to ask me. After all, some habits can’t be changed overnight.”
The young ladies behind her laughed softly. The sound was light, but in the quiet garden it was piercing.
Gu Jinzhao did not respond immediately. She first noticed Zhou Yun’s scent—too strong. It was Western Ocean dragon musk, overused to the point of cloying, overwhelming the garden’s natural fragrance and irritating the nose.
Then she smiled.
Her eyes curved gently, lips slightly pressed together, but her words were not sweet.
“Lady Zhou, you truly have a forgetful memory. No wonder,” Gu Jinzhao said crisply, her tone carrying a chill at the end. “Gu Jinzhao. Remember it.”
Her gaze swept lightly over Zhou Yun’s carefully maintained smile, then drifted lazily to the giggling girls behind her.
“You’ve lived in the marquis residence for so long that you’ve forgotten the rules? Or do you think that because you’ve been a guest for so long, you can casually fabricate words about the Gu family?”
Zhou Yun’s smile stiffened almost imperceptibly.
But Gu Jinzhao pretended not to notice.
“I must also say, Lady Zhou, your dragon musk is too heavy. Perhaps it has been worn too long and clouded your judgment. I should send you some cooling fragrance pills to clear your mind. Next time we meet, do try not to speak so carelessly—it would disgrace the marquis residence.”
She smiled at Zhou Yun.
To others, that smile resembled peach blossoms at their peak in March—vivid, petals curling slightly backward, revealing pale stamens, full of unruly vitality and provocation.
Zhou Yun’s expression stiffened for a moment before she quickly regained composure. Her tone remained soft, though now tinged with embarrassment.
“Younger Sister Jinzhao is joking. How could I possibly speak ill of you? I was merely momentarily distracted by the blossoms and failed to recognize you. It’s not that I forgot your name.”
She tilted her head again, feigning innocence. “I’ve lived in the marquis residence for too long, and my temperament has always been straightforward. Not like you, who were raised so properly in Jiangnan—it makes me seem lacking in etiquette instead.”
Gu Jinzhao only nodded slightly and did not engage further.
“I have matters to attend to, so I won’t keep you company.”
With that, she turned and left, her skirt brushing across the bluestone path. She did not spare Zhou Yun another glance.
Not long after she left, she heard Zhou Yun muttering something through gritted teeth, followed by receding footsteps.
Qing Pu caught up silently.
Before they reached the waterside pavilion, they heard the sound of water.
The pavilion was built over an artificial lake, fed by mountain springs and drained through hidden channels. The water flowed endlessly, murmuring like a quiet stream.
The wind over the lake was colder than elsewhere, carrying moisture that brushed against the face like a thin veil.
Gu Jinzhao stepped onto the winding bridge and looked down at her reflection in the water. Her pomegranate-red figure was broken apart by ripples, like a painting on silk being gently shaken.
While she was lost in thought, she suddenly heard footsteps ahead.
Not one person.
The first set was heavy and urgent. The second steady and composed. The third nearly silent, like a cat stepping over roof tiles.
Gu Jinzhao instinctively looked up.
At the far end of the bridge, three figures were approaching.
The one in front wore a moon-white robe with crane patterns, holding a gold-inlaid folding fan. He stopped when he saw her and gestured back while speaking.
The second wore a dark blue robe with cloud patterns, tall and broad-shouldered, smiling as he spoke casually.
But Gu Jinzhao’s gaze passed over them and landed on the last person.
The wind suddenly seemed to stop.
Only the tinkling of wind chimes under the pavilion eaves remained.
All she could hear was her own heartbeat—heavy, dull, like someone knocking on a door from inside her chest.
The young man wore a jade bamboo hairpin and a deep blue brocade robe woven with gold patterns. The blue was so bright it looked like a clear sky after rain had been woven into silk.
He was slender yet upright, like a carefully honed sword—light in form but carrying immense force. Or like bamboo standing through frost: calm, sharp, unmoving as wind stirred the forest.
Yet his face was exquisitely striking—narrow, upturned eyes with faint red at the corners, lips red and teeth white, skin like jade.
Such a face, paired with such a frame, created a contradictory aura—both refined and faintly dangerous, like a painting that had stepped out of its frame.
But his eyes were not gentle like a painting.
When those phoenix eyes looked at her, Gu Jinzhao felt something lightly scrape across her spine, like an unexpected shard of ice slipping under her collar on a midsummer day.
She froze for a moment.
And beneath that gaze, she sensed something else.
It was not the scrutiny of a stranger meeting another stranger.
It was too deep, too certain—something she could not understand.
His expression did not change, but something within those eyes churned silently, like an undercurrent beneath ice—restrained, yet burning hot.
He looked at her as if he already knew her.
Gu Jinzhao was momentarily stunned.
She did not remember where she had seen those eyes before.
The certainty in his gaze was unsettlingly absolute, as if she should recognize him, yet had forgotten something crucial without even realizing it.
Then she suddenly remembered—she had seen this man in her past life.
But that encounter had been too late. So late that the emotions in his eyes had already been worn down by time, so late that she no longer had the right to recognize what they had once meant.
And now, he stood in the peach blossom wind of March.
Everything had not yet happened. Everything was still in time.
……
“Xian-ge, what are you looking at?” the young man in moon-white robes followed his gaze and smiled. “Oh, isn’t that the Gu family’s newly returned young lady? We just saw her earlier arguing with someone in the garden.”
The man in dark blue also glanced over, his smile deepening as he studied Gu Jinzhao for a moment before looking back at Ye Xian with interest.
Ye Xian did not respond. He simply withdrew his gaze and said calmly, “Say less.”
His voice was not loud, but carried clearly through the wind and into Gu Jinzhao’s ears.
It was clean and clear, with a slightly hoarse undertone at the end—casual, like the edge of thin paper brushing against skin.
For some reason, it made her feel like crying.
This was the first time in her life that she had heard his voice again.
Gu Jinzhao stood on the bridge as the three passed her.
When Ye Xian walked past, she caught a faint scent—like the coldness of bamboo after rain, mixed with ink. As if he had just finished writing and had not yet washed his hands.
It was very light, yet inexplicably tightened something in her chest.
As if somewhere long ago, she had smelled this same scent before.
She lowered her eyes and bowed slightly. “Greetings, Heir Apparent Ye.”
It lasted only a moment. So brief that she could not tell whether it had been real.
But she distinctly heard his robe pause mid-motion, like a string being pressed and released.
He did not answer.
Only the sound of his robes brushing the bridge railing, and his unhurried footsteps—one step, then another, then a pause.
Just a pause.
And then he was gone.
Gu Jinzhao stood there for a moment before slowly turning back. In the distance, the young man was laughing while patting Ye Xian’s shoulder, only to have his hand brushed away.
“Does Miss Gu know him?” Qing Pu asked.
“No,” Gu Jinzhao said.
After a pause, she corrected herself.
“Now I do.”
The banquet in the waterside pavilion had already begun.
Gu Jinzhao was seated toward the back on the west side, alongside two unfamiliar young ladies who kept stealing glances at her and exchanging whispers.
She ignored them, eating a few bites of honey-glazed pork and sipping tea when thirsty.
The tea was Mingqian Longjing—slightly bitter. She frowned faintly and set it down.
Not that the tea was bad.
It was excellent quality. She simply did not like bitterness.
At her maternal grandmother’s home, she was used to Junshan Yinzhen—smooth and mellow, like clouds dissolving on the tongue. Compared to that, this bitterness felt sharp.
She did not touch the tea again.
At the head seat sat Zhao Jin, the young heir of the Northern Pacifying Marquis Mansion. He was in his early twenties, dressed in a dark green robe, smiling in a way that looked carefully practiced—pleasant, but false.
He raised his glass and made polite speeches, urging everyone to drink.
Gu Jinzhao also raised hers. The wine was sweet with osmanthus fragrance—again, not her taste.
She set it down and glanced toward the corner.
In the deepest shadow sat Ye Xian.
His face was half-hidden by darkness. The dishes before him were barely touched. He drank alone, occasionally tilting his head as he swallowed, the light outlining his jaw and neck.
The hall was lively with laughter and conversation.
Zhao Jin, slightly drunk now, raised his voice. “Heir Apparent Ye, I heard you went south on official business. Any interesting stories? Do share some with us.”
The tone was not truly respectful. It was more like throwing a stone into still water, knowing it would not make a sound, but wanting to see anyway.
Everyone turned toward the corner.
Gu Jinzhao set down her chopsticks.
Ye Xian slowly lifted his eyes from the shadows. When those phoenix eyes emerged, they locked directly onto Zhao Jin.
A chill rose in Zhao Jin’s bones.
But emboldened by his role as host and the alcohol, he forced himself to hold the gaze and even laughed. “Don’t misunderstand, I just mean well. It’s dull sitting here. Since you’ve traveled widely, why not share something from the south?”
Ye Xian took a sip of wine and said without looking at him, “Nothing.”
Two words. Not even polite dismissal.
The pavilion fell silent.
Everyone understood what this meant, yet no one dared speak.
Zhao Jin’s smile stiffened. After a moment, he forced a laugh and changed the subject.
But Ye Xian suddenly said, “Zhao Jin.”
The voice was not loud, but it cut through the noise.
He did not stand, nor look up, only rotated his wine cup lazily.
“Several dishes here are from the south,” he said.
Everyone froze.
“That honey-glazed pork follows a Suzhou recipe. The sugar was overcaramelized by three degrees. The heat was too high.”
He finally lifted his eyes.
“You asked for southern stories,” he said lightly.
“This is one.”
Silence fell across the pavilion.
Ye Xian stood, adjusted his sleeves, and said, “Let’s go.”
From beginning to end, he did not look at Gu Jinzhao.
Yet everyone understood—his interruption of Zhao Jin, and his casual remarks about the dish, were not about food.
It was a warning.
Zhao Jin’s face turned pale and stiff. After a moment, he forced out a laugh and called for music to resume.
But the atmosphere never recovered.
After the banquet ended, Gu Jinzhao lingered behind and walked slowly along the lakeside path. The evening wind had softened, leaving only a faint chill.
At the end of the path, a tall figure stood among bamboo shadows.
Ye Xian held a peach branch in his hand, stripped of most of its blossoms, turning it slowly between his fingers.
“Miss Gu.”
She stepped closer. “Heir Apparent Ye, why are you still here?”
“I am not your elder,” he said. “No need for that address.”
“Were you waiting for me?” she teased.
He did not answer, only tossed the peach branch aside. It landed at her feet.
“Why did you speak for me earlier?” he asked.
Gu Jinzhao blinked innocently. “Speak for you? I don’t recall that. I only said the banquet was wasteful.”
He watched her for a long moment.
Then he said, “The Gu family raises daughters well.”
“Thank you,” she smiled.
Then he asked, almost casually, “How was the tea earlier?”
“Bitter,” she replied.
He nodded slightly. “Go home. It gets cold after dark in the peach grove.”
She walked past him.
He stood there until her figure disappeared beyond the gate.
That night, in the Gu residence, she sat at her vanity while Qing Pu removed her earrings. In the mirror, her eyes still shone brightly.
“Miss seems happy today,” Qing Pu said.
Gu Jinzhao did not answer.
She only smiled faintly at her reflection.