Xiaodie felt a sting in her heart after hearing those words.
“So the flower spirit cried not because she was moved,” she said softly, “but because she knew… she couldn’t keep him.”
The room fell silent.
Xiaodie stood where she was, looking at Fu Yunyang, who had already closed her eyes. Her nose burned with unshed tears. She bit her lip hard and forced the bitterness back down.
Squatting beside the bed, she gently pulled the blanket higher, covering Fu Yunyang’s shoulders.
“Miss,” she whispered, her voice so soft it was as if she feared waking her, “you aren’t a flower spirit at all.”
Fu Yunyang did not respond.
Xiaodie turned down the flame of the glass lamp. The room grew dim, with only a circle of warm yellow light hanging above the bedside.
She stood there a while longer. After making sure her mistress had fallen asleep, she tiptoed out of the room.
At the doorway, she glanced back one last time.
Fu Yunyang lay bathed in the warm golden glow. Her jet-black hair was spread across the pillow.
Quiet. Beautiful. Fragile.
Xiaodie gently closed the door and leaned against the frame. Finally unable to hold it back any longer, tears began to fall one after another.
She wiped them away with the back of her hand, sniffed hard, and muttered under her breath:
“Shen Jinghong, you bastard.”
Meanwhile, at the Shen residence.
Shen Jinghong lay in bed, tossing and turning, unable to sleep.
He stared at the canopy overhead. It was dark blue-gray, embroidered with subtle cloud patterns. It had looked quite handsome during the day, but now it only felt stifling.
He kicked the blanket aside and turned toward the wall.
There was nothing on it a completely bare white wall.
After staring at it for a long while, he rolled over again.
A lamp still burned on the table. He had forgotten to blow it out before bed.
Its dim yellow light cast wavering shadows throughout the room.
Shen Jinghong turned over yet again, patted his pillow twice, lay down properly, and closed his eyes.
Three breaths later, he opened them and sat upright.
“Damn it.”
He cursed softly and reached beneath his pillow, pulling out something hidden there.
It was the peach blossom.
The petals had completely wilted. Their edges had curled, and the fresh pink color had faded into a dull, withered shade.
Holding it in his palm, he stared at it for a long time.
“What the hell is wrong with me?”
He muttered, stuffed the flower back beneath the pillow, and lay down again.
He closed his eyes.
That face appeared once more.
Shen Jinghong abruptly opened his eyes.
“…Damn it… Shen Jinghong, are you seriously sick in the head?”
He said it to himself.
Rolling over, he pulled the blanket over his head.
Three breaths later, he threw it off again.
Too stuffy.
Lying flat on his back, he stared blankly at the canopy for a long, long time.
Then he reached beneath the pillow once more and took out the flower.
Holding it up before his eyes, he murmured:
“Flower spirit…”
A snort of laughter escaped him.
The curve at the corner of his lips was tiny, carrying the uniquely foolish sweetness of a young man in love.
“A flower spirit, then.”
He tucked the blossom back beneath the pillow, rolled over, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and closed his eyes.
In Hengwu Pavilion, Fu Yunyang reclined on a couch by the window.
A book rested in her hands a newly acquired collection of supernatural tales filled with stories of mountain spirits, water sprites, and other strange creatures.
She was completely absorbed in it, a faint smile lingering on her lips.
Over the past month, her health had improved somewhat.
As spring warmed the air, her recurring chills had not returned. Even the physician, after taking her pulse, had nodded in rare approval and said,
“You’ve been recovering quite well.”
Liu Yunshuang had sent gifts several times.
Sometimes they were nourishing tonics, sometimes pastries from famous shops in the capital, and sometimes a pot of orchids in full bloom.
Each time, the messenger would bring the same message:
“Madam Shen often thinks of Miss Fu and asks after her well-being.”
Every time, Fu Yunyang accepted the gifts politely and returned courtesy gifts with equal politeness.
Her manners were impeccable, leaving no fault for anyone to find.
Yet over the course of that month, she had heard Shen Jinghong’s name many times.
Not because she wanted to.
The gossip of the capital had grown legs of its own and seemed perfectly capable of running straight to her ears.