The Cold Palace Bloom

The first frost came with a visitor: Master Guo, a silk merchant from Hangzhou, his cart piled with bolts of iridescent damask. He was an unremarkable man with a belly softened by wealth and a shrewd gleam in his eye. Lady Wang, ever the diligent stepmother, paraded Mei and Lan before him, their cheeks painted peach-blossom pink, their silk sleeves fluttering like the wings of caged birds. Their giggles were carefully rehearsed, their demure glances practiced. 

But Master Guo's gaze lingered elsewhere. 

In the corner of the courtyard, Lian knelt, her fingers deftly mending a torn robe. The thread wove in and out of the fabric, the needle flashing briefly in the pale winter light. She did not look up, but she felt his scrutiny like a stain seeping into her skin. 

"A quiet one," he remarked, fingering a jade pendant at his throat. His voice was oily, smooth in a way that coiled unease in her stomach. "My son needs a wife who can manage accounts. Silent hands, silent tongue."

Lady Wang's smile sharpened like a blade slipping from its sheath. "Fifteen silver taels."

Lian's breath hitched. A price had been set. The deal was not yet struck, but she knew Lady Wang—once she caught the scent of profit, she was relentless. Lian's fingers tightened around the fabric, but she said nothing. Words only gave Lady Wang more fuel. 

That night, she packed what little she had: a threadbare cloak, a book of poetry, a handful of copper coins stolen from Lady Wang's vanity over the years. The house lay silent, save for the wind rattling the wooden screens. She stepped lightly, avoiding creaking floorboards, moving like a ghost through the corridors. 

Her only thought: escape. 

The Serpentine River shimmered in the moonlight, lanterns floating like fireflies on the water. The night market hummed with life, vendors hawking roasted chestnuts and spiced wine. She wove through the crowd, heart hammering, breath pluming in the cold air. If she could reach the city gates before dawn, she might— 

She collided with a figure, sudden and solid. Scrolls clattered to the ground. 

"Careful!" The voice was warm, laced with laughter. A pair of hands steadied her. "Are you running from bandits?"

Lian looked up into the face of Chen Wen. 

He was no scholar-prince. His robe was patched at the elbows, boots caked with mud—a clerk from her father's ministry, lowly and meagerly paid. But his eyes held a spark she'd never seen in the pale-faced nobles: something alive, something dangerous. 

She had spoken to him only once before, when he'd delivered documents to her father's study. She remembered how he'd lingered, fingers hesitating over the scrolls as if searching for unspoken words. 

Now, here he stood in the moonlight, arms laden with bamboo scrolls. 

Lian swallowed hard. "Worse. A marriage proposal."

His grin faded. He glanced at the bundle in her arms—the cloak, the book, the coins—and understanding flickered in his gaze. As he bent to gather his fallen scrolls, he spoke softly. 

"I've read your mother's poems."

Lian froze. 

"Copied them from the ministry archives before they were destroyed."

Her mouth went dry. "You're lying."

Chen Wen straightened, pulling a scroll from his sleeve. The parchment was creased, ink smudged, but the characters were unmistakable—delicate yet bold, each stroke defiant. Lian traced the words with her eyes: 

The nightingale sings behind golden bars, 

A melody sweet, yet bound by sorrow. 

What use is a voice if it cannot fly? 

What use is a song that no one hears?* 

A sharp knot formed in her throat. She'd never seen this poem. How many had been lost? How many words turned to ash because men like her father feared them? 

Chen Wen studied her. "She wrote about freedom, Zhang Lian. And they silenced her for it."

Her fingers curled around the scroll, crumpling its edges. The market's clamor faded as she met his gaze—the boy with ink-stained hands and fire in his eyes. 

"What do I do?" Her whisper trembled. 

Chen Wen exhaled. "Come with me."

The words hung between them, impossible yet tantalizing. A life unchained from her father's name or Lady Wang's cruelty. She could vanish into Chang'an's thrumming veins, become someone else. No expectations. No shackles. 

But she was not her mother. 

Lian inhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I can't."

Chen Wen flinched but nodded, sadness and understanding mingling in his expression. "Then go. But if the world tightens its grip—I'll be there. I swear it."

She memorized the lantern light dancing in his eyes, the slight tremor in his fingers as he tucked the scroll away. Then she turned, cloak pulled tight, and disappeared into the night. 

The first frost had come, bringing with it the taste of choices yet to be made.