NOVEL NEXT Chapter 319: Wet Ink
The last stroke broke. Ink feathered outward like frost. Zhao Hengyuan stared at it, the ruined line, the mess he had made in his need to control the page.
"Leave it," Mingyu instructed. "We value accuracy."
Zhao Meiling, suddenly very young under the powder, took a breath that shuddered.
"Your Majesty," she tried again—this time to Mingyu, because Xinying had denied her the shortcut—"I don't want to be a problem. If you send me home, I will go home. If you send me to a temple, I will count bells. I will do whatever eases the hall." Her eyes flicked at last toward Xinying. "I wanted to hate you. I… can't. Like my father, I am a servant of Daiyu, do with me what you will."
Something in Xinying's face shifted for a single moment before she shook her head and took another sip of her tea. "That princess voice and words might fool a lot of people, but they don't fool me. Your father didn't have to drag you all that much to show up here. You've wanted the throne long before I returned to the capital."
Zhao Hengyuan recoiled as if slapped. "Ungrateful—"
Mingyu lifted two fingers.
The words died between Zhao Hengyuan's teeth.
When Mingyu spoke again, any mercy that had been in him went into storage. "Enough. Minister Zhao, you will present this memorial in open council tomorrow at third bell. You will own each line with your mouth as well as your brush. Then Rites will log it. Censor will review it. And War, Revenue, and the Secretariat will witness your argument that the Empress's authority over the inner court should be curtailed and that your family's line should be given precedence over my son."
Zhao Hengyuan swayed and caught himself on pride. "You would humiliate—"
"I would clarify," Mingyu returned. "If your case is strong, the hall will hold it. If it is weak, you will learn it somewhere besides my wife's floor."
Deming's shoulders lowered a finger-width; he approved of the line. Yizhen's mouth ticked. Longzi watched Zhao without heat, a guard measuring a man for the difficulty of escorting him out.
Zhao Meiling looked at her father and finally saw that the future he was trying to buy with her was slipping through her fingers. The little breath she let out wasn't loud, but Mingyu heard it where he stood.
"Clerk," Mingyu went on, already folding the moment into process, "take the slips. Dry them. Copy them three times. One to Rites. One to Censor. One for my study."
The clerk moved as if reprieved from death. He bowed to Xinying, then to Mingyu, then fled with the memorials like contraband.
Zhao Hengyuan's chin jutted. "You would make a spectacle of my house."
"You brought it here," Xinying returned, finally looking at him full. "Next time, bring breakfast instead of problems."
Yaozu opened the screen with his fingertip. It made no noise. He glanced to Mingyu. The question lived there: remove, or leave to stew?
"Escort Minister Zhao and Lady Meiling to the west cloister," Mingyu directed, tone administrative now, as if they were two more entries in a ledger. "Hot water. Paper. If either chooses to write something sensible, accept it. If either chooses to shout, close the window."
Zhao Hengyuan drew breath for one last lunge. "I have served three reigns."
"Then retire with a medal," Yizhen offered cheerfully, before anyone else bothered. "They're pretty. Lots of ribbon."
Zhao Meiling touched her father's sleeve. "Please," she whispered. It was unclear as to what she was pleading for, but Zhao Hengyuan nodded jerkily.
They went, because the room had declared it so. Guards didn't touch them; the pressure of consequence ushered them out.
When the screen settled, the chamber exhaled what it had been holding.
Mingyu did not relax. He turned to Xinying and found her looking at him with that small, private half-smile she reserved for victories that didn't require blood.
"You made him write it," she observed.
"Paper cuts deeper than rumor," he returned.
Deming angled his head. "Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Mingyu confirmed. "He'll either swallow his pride and withdraw in writing, or he'll walk the council into seeing exactly how far he intends to reach."
"Do you want an accident between here and dawn?" Yaozu inquired, too mild to be a joke.
"Not yet," Mingyu answered. "He hasn't finished telling on himself."
Longzi's attention flicked to the corridor and back. "I'll watch the posts on his route. No pages with loose tongues. No 'concerned cousins.'"
"Good," Mingyu nodded.
Yizhen reopened his fan and fanned once, a little flourish returning now that the hard part had passed. "Shall I place wagers on whether he arrives tomorrow with a memorial or an apology? It would be useful to know whether they prefer repentance or theater."
"Place neither," Xinying instructed. "Let him decide which rope fits his neck."
Mingyu fought down the flicker of a smile. He had used the same word earlier; it sounded better in her mouth.
A runner skidded on the lintel, stopped by reflex before he scuffed a mat, and bowed so low the top of his head found the floor. "Report—message from the Secretariat," he blurted. "A private meeting of ministers has been requested at dusk by Left Prime Minister Zhao—subject: succession."
There it was—the next brick laid on the road Zhao thought would carry him.
"Accept," Mingyu said at once, before anyone else could speak. "Location?"
"Hall of Winter Accounts, Majesty."
"Perfect," Mingyu decided. "I'll arrive by the rear door at the final bell and listen to exactly how far he thinks he can stretch a title."
Deming's jaw tightened. "You shouldn't walk their shadows without a wall."
"I have one," Mingyu returned, glance sliding to Longzi. "And three more besides."
Xinying reached for her tea again and found the bowl empty. Mingyu took it from her fingers without ceremony and passed it to Yaozu, who already had another one moving in from the side table. It arrived warm and sweet.
"Breakfast," she reminded him under her breath.
"After we finish this piece," he answered, never taking his eyes off the door Zhao had used. He could already feel the shape of tomorrow's council rising like a tide under the floorboards.
"Your Majesty," the runner squeaked from the mat, still folded in half, "the clerk asks if he should sand the ink."
"Leave it wet," Mingyu replied. "Let it stain."
He turned back to the room. "We all have work. Deming—drills. Yizhen—ears in the corridor outside Winter Accounts, but with clean hands. Longzi—shadow me until the bell. Yaozu—if any letter flies from Zhao's house before dusk, I want it in my palm before it reaches an address."
Assignments accepted with nods and the particular quiet that meant this family understood how to divide a day.
Xinying leaned back on her palm and looked up at him, that almost-smile still there. "You enjoy this," she accused, affectionate as a bruise you press to make sure it's real.
"I enjoy order," he corrected. "And watching a man decide which cliff is his."
"Breakfast," she repeated, firmer now.
He yielded then, not because he had to—because he liked to. "Breakfast," he agreed.
They moved toward the inner rooms. From the nursery, a small voice did not call out, which was its own kind of blessing. Shadow thumped his tail. The day bent its spine in the direction Mingyu chose.
Behind them, the wet ink dried—slow, dark, irreversible. Tomorrow it would be read aloud.