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That dish was essentially salted and fermented fish, shaped into peony-like forms, turning a slight red when cooked. It was a common dish in Qiantang. Fang Xianting took a bite, the strong salty flavor making him cough repeatedly. This time, no matter how earnestly he praised it as “delicious,” it wouldn’t be believable.
Song Shuyan laughed again, perhaps genuinely happy that day, feeling less need to maintain her formal demeanor around him. Still under sixteen, she retained some childlike innocence, her bright eyes shimmering as she gazed at him. She poured him more wine, and while he drank, she replaced the peony fish with sliced lamb, more suited to Central Plains tastes. They continued their meal, the atmosphere subtly sweet.
As dusk fell and the sun disappeared, lanterns began to light up. Song Shuyan slowly set down her chopsticks, thinking her brother must have finished with Zhui’er and they should meet him at the stone bridge. Yet, stealing another glance at Fang Xianting, she felt reluctant to part. She realized she had become greedy, still unsatisfied despite receiving his jade combs.
Her subtle glance, though imperceptible, was clear to him. Perhaps not only because he noticed her every move but also because he too… was reluctant to let her go.
“Shall we take a boat ride after dinner?”
He asked considerately, his voice carrying the warmth that captivated her. Her heart fluttered, but she hesitated, “But my second brother…”
“I’ll send someone to inform him,” he quickly replied, his deep eyes fixed on her. “I’ll say… I’ve already escorted you back.”
This flirtatious suggestion contrasted sharply with his usual solemn demeanor, yet it made her heart race faster. Her brief silence wasn’t hesitation but rather the reserve of a well-bred lady masking her emotions.
“This… might not be appropriate…”
Her words sounded troubled, though inwardly she feared he might retreat. Fortunately, he saw through her pretense, rising slowly to approach her, bending low to whisper like a lover.
“I won’t hurt you…” he was almost consoling her. “…And there are things I need to clarify.”
Surrounded by mountains on three sides, Shihuan Lake was divided by several embankments, with small islands dotting its center. Busy during the day, it became quieter at night, especially with today’s festival drawing crowds ashore, leaving the lake serene.
The boatman delivered them to an island, where a lush plum grove awaited. In February, it was the last bloom, soon to fade, yet it bloomed fervently, crimson clouds against snow-like blossoms, fragrant under moonlight, resembling an earthly paradise.
Walking among the flowers, Song Shuyan found her earlier unease had dissipated. Her heart was calm and light, prompting her to engage him in conversation.
“Third Brother, do you know my name comes from a poem about plums?”
She asked softly.
He glanced at her, the lanterns illuminating her beautiful face, indescribably stunning.
“Is it ‘Small Plum in the Mountain Garden’?”
He answered with a question.
She nodded, unsurprised he guessed correctly, given his previous insights. Yet, there were things he didn’t know. She smiled, walking lightly beside him.
“I also have a nickname...”
She boasted playfully, seemingly tipsy without drinking.
“...You definitely don’t know this.”
“Third Brother” became “you,” her intimacy evident. He noticed, ensuring she didn’t trip as he asked, “Oh... what is it?”
He surely smiled, though the darkness hid it. His deep voice intoxicated her further as she flitted among the flowers.
“...It’s ‘Yingying.’“
“Yingying?”
He repeated, confirming, yet calling her privately. She shyly covered her blushing cheeks.
“Why ‘Yingying’?”
He asked again, his voice close, the plum scent dizzying. She responded dreamily.
“My mother named me... She disliked ‘Shuyan,’ finding it too aloof. ‘Yingying’ is lively and vibrant...”
He hummed, perhaps agreeing, then said, “It suits you.”
Overwhelmed by simple affirmation, she stumbled over roots, falling into his arms. His embrace was hotter than ever.
“...Watch your step.”
His tone was both reproachful and affectionate. The sweetness seemed endless, layer upon layer. She was addicted, lost in his tender gaze. He carried her, sitting her gently under a tree, still clinging to him.
“Rest for a while...”
He slowly released her, kneeling before her. A cool breeze scattered snowy petals; one landed in his hair, reminding her of that snowy night.
The distance between them had vanished. Her heart raced as her hand reached for him unconsciously. He let her brush away the petal, both envisioning eternity with each other.
“And you?”
She slurred, fingers lingering near his temple.
“What?”
He rarely misunderstood, perhaps finally feeling the wine’s effect.
“Your name...” She giggled, leaning against the tree, appearing intoxicatingly alluring. “...What does it mean?”
His name?
Fang Xianting.
Fang Yizhi.
“My father named me...”
His voice grew deeper, matching the night.
“In the second year of Pingxiao, I was born in Chang’an. My father fought the Turks in Longyou, achieving victory at Manggu Pass. On Mang Mountain stands ‘Wangdong Pavilion,’ built by ancient generals. To celebrate, he named me ‘Xianting,’ offering triumph to the Emperor.”
The gentle night breeze carried distant laughter. Amidst the dazzling lanterns, she fell silent.
“Xianting...”
“...Yizhi.”
She had wondered why he differed from his brothers’ “Yun” generation. Now she understood the weight behind it—his life burdened with expectations.
“Offering” means dedication.
“Yi” means gift.
His father devoted his life to the nation, and he inherited such a mission... The Fang family was revered, yet she...
The earlier passion faded. She no longer saw snow but heard tides, picturing him bloodied on the ship, ready to depart.
“I’m sorry...”
Her voice lowered, heavy with sorrow.
“I...”
He shook his head, stopping her apology. The once distant man now gazed at her tenderly. Despite his destined sacrifices, beneath layers of necessity lay a carefully guarded sincere heart.
“Shuyan...”
He called her intimately, more so than “Fourth Miss” or “Fourth Sister,” yet more proper than “Yingying.” Those two syllables melted her bones. She knew she’d never forget his voice at that moment.
“I know it’s too soon, our acquaintance brief, and marriage no trivial matter...”
“But...”
“Matters in the Central Plains are pressing. I may return to Chang’an soon. Recently, I’ve feared delaying our clarity might cost us this chance, so...”
He paused, breath uneven—a man who faced tigers unflinchingly now flustered. She couldn’t decide if she loved his steadiness or his awkwardness more, certain his turmoil paled compared to hers.
“My father passed just a year ago, and I’m still in mourning...”
“But I can’t help these feelings for you... If...”
He stopped again, his deep eyes nearing hers. She’d never seen his beauty mark so clearly nor felt his warm breath so vividly. The plum blossoms bloomed fully overnight. “Qing Frost Jade Tower” was irrelevant now; henceforth, he’d be her unique snowstorm, irresistibly captivating.
“If you feel even a fraction for me...”
He nearly kissed her petal-like lips.
“...Could you allow me to marry you in two years?”
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