chapter 1

Chapter 1

For as long as I could remember, Mother had loved sighing at her reflection.

She lamented that there were too few good men in the world and even fewer supplements fit for consumption.

I was only seven or eight then, sitting beside her dressing table while she penciled her brows and lazily appraised the newest guard in our courtyard.

“His shoulders aren’t broad enough.”

“His back isn’t straight enough.”

“And that dull look in his eyes—hardly nourishing.”

I did not understand. “Mother, what does it mean for a man to be nourishing?”

She looked back at me and dissolved into laughter.

She was already thirty-five that year, yet laughter left not a single crease at the corners of her eyes. Her skin was as pale and smooth as a peeled lychee.

“Silly girl. The most important thing a woman can learn is how to nourish herself.”

I eagerly drew the obvious conclusion.

“Then we should eat more ginseng and deer antler.”

She shook her head. “Those are dead things. What truly nourishes a woman is a man.”

I nodded, only half understanding.

From then on, I knew that the men in our residence were no different from the bird’s nest in the kitchen or the jewels in the treasury.

They existed for women’s pleasure.

As soon as I began learning my characters, Mother taught me to read account books.

“Keep the money in your own hands, and the men will behave.”

Only after that did she teach me how to judge a man.

“Men are like medicine. You must inspect their quality—and find out whether they’re poisonous.”

When I was fifteen, I gave aid to a handsome, impoverished scholar.

He was slender and fine-featured, and his ears turned red whenever he saw me. Amused, I rewarded him with a silver ingot. He cradled it in both hands, his eyes wet with gratitude.

Mother saw us from a distance and laughed.

“That one won’t do.”

I objected. “Why not? He’s handsome.”

“Too bitter,” she said. “Bitter men carry resentment in their hearts. Today he’ll be grateful; tomorrow he’ll decide your silver was meant to trample a scholar’s pride.”

“Keep him for amusement if you like, but don’t give him your heart.”

She was proven right.

The scholar took my silver, then wrote a sour poem at his next literary gathering. It accused wealthy daughters of knowing nothing of ordinary suffering and using money to crush the dignity of learned men.

I was livid.

Mother laughed until she doubled over. Then she had the poem mounted and hung in my room.

“Do you see now? Men bite, too.”

By eighteen, I had finally awakened to her teachings.

A refined scholar, a cold-faced general, a pretty actor, a gentle musician—if a man pleased my eye, I rewarded him with banknotes, fine clothes, and endless luxury.

I thought I had mastered everything Mother had taught me.

Then I met Shen Zhaoye.

I found him at a royal hunt.

Everyone else was chasing deer. I alone noticed a man lying deep in the woods, his lower body drenched in blood and a broken blade clenched in his hand.

I used my riding crop to sweep the tangled hair from his face.

Beneath it was a pair of cool, distant eyes.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

He said nothing.

“Who hurt you?”

Still nothing.

I laughed. “Such a stubborn mouth. Aren’t you afraid I’ll leave you here for the wolves?”

He closed his eyes. “As you wish, my lady.”

But I did not do as I wished.

I had seen countless men beg for my pity and a mouthful of food. Never had I met one who refused to bow even with death breathing down his neck.

I brought him home, hired the finest physician, and bought the costliest medicines.

Yet the first thing he tried to do upon waking was leave.

My maid blocked him in alarm, but he refused to listen. Supporting himself against the bedframe, he slowly dragged himself forward.

His wounds split open. Blood streamed down his snow-white underrobe.

Still, he said, “I will repay you for saving my life.”

I found that entertaining. “With what?”

“A man too frightened to give me his name expects me to believe he’ll repay a debt?”

After a long silence, he spoke three words.

“Shen Zhaoye.”

“A fine name. You don’t sound like a man raised in an ordinary family.”

I stepped closer and lifted his chin.

“How did the son of a great household fall so low?”

He refused to answer. Those cold eyes merely watched me, as though I mattered no more to him than all the gold and jade in the room.

That made me want to keep him even more.

I had seen plenty of men with respectable backgrounds. This was my first man made entirely of secrets.

I smiled.

“If you won’t tell me, then stay. You may leave when you’re ready to speak.”

That was how Shen Zhaoye came to live in my courtyard.

Apart from his name, I could learn nothing about his past. Everyone in the residence urged me to be cautious.

Mother only laughed. “A man whose history is too spotless is no fun at all.”

I agreed wholeheartedly.

Every man in my courtyard knew my temperament and would have crowded around me three times a day if they could.

Shen Zhaoye alone was different.

When I gave him fine clothes, he chose the plainest robe. When I sent him a jade pendant, he locked it in a box and never wore it.

The ingrate.

And yet that very ingratitude felt fresh.

Sometimes I deliberately crossed his path. Any other man would have hurried forward to ask whether I was cold or tired.

Shen Zhaoye merely said, “Lady Li.”

Then he returned to whatever he had been doing.

Those two words scratched at my heart more insistently than another man’s entire book of endearments.