The uproar over the Thousand Gold Pavilion murder spread far and wide—even whispers reached the palace.
In Mingxin Hall, Qin Fei slumped at her desk with her little book bag, listening half-heartedly as Qin Jin chatted idly with others.
“I saw the pavilion master not long ago. Who would’ve thought he’d die so soon?”
Someone chimed in: “Exactly. And I heard it was a brutal death.”
Qin Jin sighed. “He finally made a name for himself in middle age, only to be killed by an enemy.”
Qin Fei glanced back at him. “You *know* it was an enemy?”
Qin Jin raised a brow. “Who else? The pavilion master handled big contracts, had the court’s favor, and stole business from others in the capital. Of course, he had plenty of enemies.”
Qin Fei didn’t bother to argue. For her, saying too much was dangerous—if Cen Hejue caught wind of it, who knew what he might do to her.
“I heard early this morning that his death even led to another case,” someone added.
Qin Fei froze, listening as another voice explained: “My father said the pavilion’s business wasn’t as clean as it looked.”
Dirty dealings at the Thousand Gold Pavilion?
Qin Fei had never understood why Cen Hejue killed the pavilion master. The original novel never mentioned it. She hadn’t even seen the words *Thousand Gold Pavilion* before. Even Cen Hejue’s connection with Qi Siluo—she only discovered it by accident that day. The Qi family… what was their tie to Cen Hejue?
“Could it be about the pavilion’s business…” she murmured unconsciously.
Qin Jin smacked her back. “What are you muttering about, all sneaky?”
“Ah!” Qin Fei jumped, springing up from her seat.
Qin Jin laughed. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you won’t fear ghosts knocking at midnight. What guilty secret are you hiding?”
Qin Fei rolled her eyes.
Qin Jin crossed his arms, teasing: “What, did *you* kill the pavilion master?”
Qin Fei opened her mouth to retort—but suddenly a chill brushed the back of her neck. Her sixth sense made her turn, only to meet Cen Hejue’s unreadable black eyes.
“Did Your Highness commit murder?”
Her heart lurched. She pointed at Qin Jin. “No, I didn’t! He was just talking nonsense.”
Qin Jin snorted. “Always tattling. Why not tell Father Emperor too?”
“Class is starting. Does Your Highness plan to stand through it?” Cen Hejue’s gaze stayed fixed on her.
Qin Fei shrank her neck and quickly sat down. “Please begin the lesson.”
The entire morning passed in a daze. Once, she could admire the handsome man with ease. Now, she didn’t even dare look at him.
“Eighth Princess.”
“Your Highness.”
Two knocks landed on her desk. Qin Fei blinked back to awareness, only to see Song Jinglan smiling at her with his usual refined charm.
It was his moment to shine again.
“Just the other day, I noticed Your Highness enjoys pastries. Jinglan worried those sold outside might not be clean, so I learned to make some myself. Please, try them.”
In truth, Song Jinglan had only seen Gu Nian deliver pastries to Qin Fei and seized the chance to step in.
Class was not yet over—it was only the break. Cen Hejue sat at the lectern, head bent over a book.
And Qin Fei’s seat was directly below. Every word exchanged could be heard clearly by Cen Hejue.
“…”
The food box was pushed onto her desk. Song Jinglan fixed his gaze on Qin Fei, watching for her reaction. In recent days, he had realized she wasn’t as bad as he had once thought.
That time at the Gu residence, he had been present too and saw Qin Fei help Gu Nian. His impression of her had improved. Such a Qin Fei was indeed worth marrying. Her close bond with Gu Nian also meant he needn’t worry about discord in the household.
“…”
Qin Fei glanced at the box, then noticed faint cuts on Song Jinglan’s hand—obviously from making the pastries. He made sure she saw them, then quickly tucked his hand into his sleeve, half-hiding, desperate that she not miss his “wounds for love.”
“Your hand…” Qin Fei frowned.
Song Jinglan shook his head at once. “Your Highness needn’t worry. This… this injury is nothing. Please don’t let it trouble you.”
Qin Fei’s lips twitched. “Nothing serious? Give it two more hours and it’ll be completely healed.”
From above came a low chuckle—Cen Hejue, reading at the lectern, had laughed. No one knew what he found amusing in his book, but he laughed nonetheless.
“Your Highness, won’t you taste it?” Song Jinglan pressed on, undeterred by her teasing. His eyes lowered, rimmed faintly red. “I stayed up all night making these pastries.” Then he added quickly, “Of course, I don’t mean to force Your Highness, nor to make you feel guilty. If you truly don’t wish to eat them, just throw them away.”
Qin Fei looked around.
Gu Nian wasn’t there.
Qin Xiu wasn’t there.
Well then. He had chosen this moment—when her two little favorites were absent—to flatter her.
“Young Master Song, is your memory failing?” Qin Fei gave a false smile. “I’m already betrothed. Isn’t it improper for me to eat pastries you made?”
Song Jinglan’s eyes reddened further, his fists clenching. “Your Highness…”
“Won’t Her Highness eat?” Cen Hejue had stopped reading at some point, resting his head on his hand, watching their exchange with keen interest.
“These are pastries Young Master Song spent the whole night making. Such painstaking effort.” He deliberately emphasized the words, his eyes brimming with mockery, ready to spill over.
Qin Fei sighed inwardly, rose, and opened the food box. Under Song Jinglan’s expectant gaze, she picked up a piece of pastry with her own fingers—and then— Held it up to Cen Hejue’s lips.
“Ah—” Like coaxing a child, Qin Fei spoke softly: “Open your mouth, taste it, see if it’s any good.”
Cen Hejue froze, staring at her in disbelief. “…”
Song Jinglan’s voice trembled. “Your Highness, I worked so hard to make those pastries, and you’re just giving them to someone else?”
“How is he someone else?” Qin Fei touched Cen Hejue’s face with her other hand. “A teacher for a day is a father for life. Even if you don’t call him father, he’s still your elder. Isn’t it petty to begrudge him a single pastry?”
Song Jinglan stammered, “I… that’s not…”
“Besides, since you gave the pastries to me, isn’t it perfectly fine for me to pass them on to my betrothed?”
Smiling sweetly, Qin Fei leaned closer. “Hejue, take a bite. The child made it himself—at least give him some face.”
Her words completely cast Song Jinglan in the role of “son.” And after a pause, Cen Hejue actually opened his mouth, bit half the pastry, chewed slowly, and then lazily remarked: “Average.”
Qin Fei frowned, popped the remaining half into her own mouth. “Let me try… Mm… yes, it’s pretty bad.”
Song Jinglan’s face darkened. He flicked his sleeve and returned to his seat.
The whole exchange had played out under everyone’s eyes. Even Qin Jin was astonished, whispering to Qin Fei: “Since when does Perceptor Cen listen to you like that?”
Qin Fei straightened her chest proudly. “He’s my husband-to-be. Naturally, he listens to me.”
When class ended, Qin Fei had planned to slip away first—but Cen Hejue summoned her to a side hall.
Still, they were in the palace. No matter how bold he was, Cen Hejue wouldn’t dare do anything to her here. Qin Fei mustered her courage and entered. The man sat at the desk, seemingly writing memorials.
“Perceptor Cen.”
“You wanted to see me?” He raised his eyes at her voice, casually pointing with his brush. “Sit.”
Qin Fei suddenly felt like a student called into the teacher’s office, and obediently sat down.
Then he asked, “Do you know what I’ve been busy with lately?”
Qin Fei thought for a moment, recalling what Er Ya had told her—that the Emperor had entrusted Cen Hejue with organizing the lantern festival.
“Is it the lantern festival?” Qin Fei asked.
“Mm.” Cen Hejue set his brush back on the rack. “There’s something I’d like Your Highness to help me with.”
So polite—it made Qin Fei uneasy. “What kind of help? Speak plainly. If I can do it, I will.”
“I’d like a few words. This year’s Shangyuan Lantern Festival is highly valued by His Majesty. On that day, I want to use words written by Your Highness to make a lantern myself, and release it together with you.” His tone was calm. “It will also serve to announce our marriage as a union destined by heaven.”
The phrase *a union destined by heaven* made Qin Fei’s skin crawl. “This favor…”
“Your Highness doesn’t wish to help?” Cen Hejue raised a brow.
“No.”
Qin Fei gave a strained smile. “It’s not that I don’t want to. It’s just… my handwriting is terrible. I’m afraid it would be shameful to display it before the crowd.”
“No matter. It doesn’t need to be perfect. As long as the sentiment is there, the people will understand your sincerity,” Cen Hejue replied.
“Mm…”
“Are you certain?”
Qin Fei’s calligraphy was poor to begin with, and brushwork in this era was even harder. Cen Hejue clearly hadn’t seen her writing before. He picked up the wolf-hair brush and, with a single stroke, produced a fine character.
“…”
He studied it for a moment. “Better that I teach Your Highness.”
Qin Fei had already guessed this outcome. She dragged her chair to sit beside him.
“Hold the brush so the tip moves along the center of the ink line. Use the central stroke. It may be slower, but for Your Highness, the result will be much better.” He demonstrated, writing the four characters *Peace and Prosperity for the Nation*. The strokes were bold and vigorous, flowing like dragons and phoenixes. Even Qin Fei, a novice, could see his skill was profound.
“Your Highness, try.”
Qin Fei forced herself to attempt again.
Cen Hejue frowned deeply. Clearly, aside from food, calligraphy was his second most serious concern. “Your Highness must balance the structure of the characters. Writing should express a person’s spirit. Iron strokes and silver hooks, strong bones and full flesh—that is the essence.”
Qin Fei listened, but her hands betrayed her.
“How about…” she ventured, “we have someone else prepare the characters in advance. Then, in front of the crowd, I’ll pretend to write, and we’ll display the prepared ones instead.”
“Your Highness wants to treat everyone like fools?” Cen Hejue countered.
“…”
Qin Fei drooped her hands. “Then… I’ll try again?”
Cen Hejue gave a curt hum, his face stern, and moved aside to brew tea. His patience was thin, and her handwriting was truly atrocious—he had no desire to watch.
“…”
Qin Fei practiced for quite a while, staring at the paper until her eyes nearly burned through it. Yet compared to Cen Hejue’s earlier demonstration, her characters looked like a child’s scribbles beside a master’s.
“Damn it.”
“What?” His voice came from behind.
“Nothing, nothing.” Qin Fei forced a laugh. “I just meant my writing is so ugly, even a corpse three days dead would be more lively than this.”
“…”
The man chuckled softly, his meaning unreadable.
Qin Fei took a deep breath, bracing herself to try again. Suddenly, knuckles tapped lightly against her back. Through her thin clothing, she could feel the warmth of his fingertips.
“Your posture is wrong. Straighten your back, relax your shoulders and wrist. It will help your breathing.” His voice was low and rich. Qin Fei, caught off guard, froze for a moment. Sensing her distraction, he tapped her back again. Then her wrist cooled—his tall frame leaned over, his hand closing around hers, guiding the brush upright.
“Writing requires subtle changes and skill—lift, press, pause, restrain. You must master these.” He moved her hand, and the brush that had defied her suddenly obeyed, like a soldier before its general.
“Look closely. Calligraphy must carry mood and emotion. Only when you pour your feelings into the strokes will the words move hearts.”
Qin Fei’s gaze fell on the characters forming on the paper— “Tall and noble, within the city walls. One day apart feels like three months.”
She had memorized this poem in her studies. It spoke of lovers, inseparable, longing for each other.
Now, with Cen Hejue’s hand guiding hers, writing such lines, Qin Fei was stunned. She no longer saw the words—only felt the warmth of his chest behind her, the faint sandalwood scent of his robes. She turned slightly. Cen Hejue’s face was lowered, eyes fixed on the brush tip, not on her. His gaze was cold, detached, as though he had always been an unfeeling man.
“…”
“…”
Perhaps the silence was too heavy. Even Cen Hejue sensed something amiss. He turned to meet her dazed eyes and instinctively drew back a little.
“Your Highness, I am teaching you calligraphy.”
Qin Fei made a sound, still not fully recovered.
His eyes darkened with displeasure. “Since you know I am teaching you, why aren’t you watching the words? Why are you staring at me instead?”
Qin Fei swallowed, her heartbeat quickening, and admitted honestly: “Perceptor Cen, you look better than the words.”
Cen Hejue froze, as though hearing something absurd, then gave a short, incredulous laugh. “What did you say?”
Qin Fei, emboldened by her own desire, repeated: “You look good.”