Page 20 of The Scholar's Improper Wife

Qing-he’s eyes had already begun to droop, her earlier alertness giving way to exhaustion. Yun-si felt a pang of guilt for not noticing sooner.

“I’ll return with what you need,” she promised, reluctantly gathering her writing materials. To her brother, she added, “Does she need medicine?”

“I’ve made arrangements,” Yun-shan answered, his gaze lingering on Qing-he with an expression Yun-si couldn’t quite place. “But the... other items you discussed would be appreciated.”

Yun-si nodded, stealing one last glance at the swordswoman before ducking out of the room.

As she walked the garden path back to her courtyard, a spring entered her step that had been absent for weeks. A real swordswoman! Not the idealized heroines of her imagination, but flesh and blood with practical knowledge of blade techniquesand survival skills. What incredible authenticity this would bring to her writing!

Her mind raced with story possibilities. Perhaps a tale of a noble lady who shelters a wounded swordsman. Or a swordswoman pursued by mysterious enemies, forced to don civilian disguise. She could ask about the weight of real weapons, the sound steel makes cutting through air, the aftermath of actual combat.

The maiden found him collapsed in her garden at midnight, blood staining the frost-white peonies. A swordsman—tall, dangerous, with eyes like winter steel. He should have frightened her. Instead, she hid him in her chambers, tended his wounds with trembling hands while he watched her through a haze of fever. “Why?” he rasped. “Why save me?” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Because you needed saving.” And when dawn came and he tried to leave, she blocked the door. “Stay.” Something shifted in his eyes...

Yun-si hugged her notebook to her chest, nearly stumbling on a rock on the way to her rooms in excitement, ready to set ink to paper.

Gu Ting-zhi. You are not my only research partner now!

Chapter 8

It was yet another morning after her obligatory lessons with Lady Shen. Yun-si slipped through the garden like a shadow, darting through Clear Mountain Lodge’s gates, then between the potted orchids and the scholar’s rock to Yun-shan’s study.

It had been two weeks since Qing-he had arrived, wounded and wary, and in that time, Yun-si had become something of a fixture in Clear Mountain Lodge. Or at least, as much of a fixture as one could be when sneaking in like a thief.

Yun-si had absolutely no excuse to be here during the day when her brother was away. But after that first frosty evening visit, she’d realized he disapproved of her lingering. Perhaps he feared his maiden sister might be corrupted by the pugilistic world, or perhaps it was simply improper. Whatever the reason, she’d taken to these covert daytime visits while he was occupied at the Ministry.

The first few visits had been awkward. Qing-he remained guarded, her fingers twitching toward the sword hilt even when Yun-si was only pouring tea. But slowly, like coaxing a stray cat with bits of fish, Yun-si wore her down. A shared pot of red date tea and pastries here, some interesting huabens there, and before long, they were laughing together like long-lost sisters.

Qing-he was a puzzle, and Yun-si loved puzzles.

She was the same age as Yun-si, but carried herself with the weight of someone who had seen far more of the world’s sharp edges. There was a sadness in her eyes, the kind that lingeredlike ink stains on paper, no matter how hard you tried to blot it out.

Yet at the same time, she had this earnestness, this childlike directness that made her silk-draped world of cultivated smiles feel false by comparison. Qing-he didn’t hold back words or emotions. She didn’t hide behind fans or fake smiles. If she read something sad, she cried, and if she liked the way Yun-si described the autumn leaves, she’d asked to hear it again, her bright eyes fixed on Yun-si’s face like she was memorizing the words.

It was refreshing. Like cracking open a window in a stuffy room and letting in a gust of wind that smelled of fresh rain and grass.

Yun-si pushed open the door to the inner courtyard, the hinges whispering in protest. Qing-he was already there, dressed in Yun-shan’s old clothing again. A sword—no, a saber, she knew the difference now—lay across her knees, its blade catching the sunlight as she wiped it down with slow, methodical strokes.

“You’re late,” Qing-he said without looking up. “I was starting to think you’d given up after falling on your face yesterday.”

“It was the hem!” Yun-si protested, but she was laughing at the memory of her own clumsiness. “You’re the one who insisted on teaching me that side kick. I’m a writer, not a warrior!”

“You’re a terrible writer if you can’t even describe a fight scene properly,” Qing-he shot back, but there was no real heat in it. She set the saber aside and stretched her arms overhead, wincing slightly as her shoulder pulled. “Come on. Let’s try again. Slowly this time. Unless you’d rather I read your manuscript and point out all the places your heroine’s swordplay is physically impossibleagain.”

It was on the fifth day of these secret lessons that Yun-shan found them.

Yun-si heard the gate creak first and her blood turned to ice. Qing-he stiffened beside her, her hand already reaching for the blade propped against the tree. But it was too late. Yun-shan stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, his robes still immaculate despite what must have been a long morning at the ministry. The late afternoon sun haloed him, gliding him in gold. His expression made her stomach drop.

Yun-shan’s gaze flicked between them, both looking as guilty as children caught with their hands in the candy jar.

“Yun-si,” he said, his voice dangerously calm, “this is not a training ground.”

She swallowed. “I—I was just—”

“You may take your leave now.”

Yun-si gathered her skirts and threw Qing-he a desperate look—I’m sorry, I tried—before fleeing. She closed the gate carefully behind her, then tiptoed to the side of the gate, pressing her ear against the wall, listening. Praying her brother wouldn’t throw Qing-he out for corrupting his little sister.

“Qing-he,” she heard Yun-shan say, his voice gentler now, almost weary. “Your wounds reopened and you werebleedingagain last night.”