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The wind was being dramatic tonight.
Shen Yuhan curled her legs beneath the heavy cloak and leaned against the window frame, the cold seeping through the wood but not quite reaching her. She took a sip of the ginger soup Ah Zhu had left for her earlier. It was lukewarm now.
"Ten days," she murmured, lips brushing the rim of the porcelain bowl. "And they finally brought in a monk."
The laughter nearly slipped out, but she pressed it back down, let it fizz in her chest instead. Laughter would be too much. Too soon.
The garden below was still. No lanterns lit Orchid Courtyard anymore—Shen Yulan had ordered them all snuffed out yesterday. Something about shadows creeping in when the light flickered.
Shen Yuhan tilted her head. "Isn't it the dark that's supposed to be scary?" she asked softly, half to herself, half to the ghost bride story tucked under her pillow.
Not that the ghost was real, of course. No, she was the ghost. Or at least, she played one well enough.
A gust of wind rattled the window. She glanced at it lazily.
The incense had worked better than expected. That apothecary's old recipe—blended just right with the crushed night jasmine and dried sandalwood. That was an useful recipe, she had learnt in her assassin's life to make her targets confused and hallucinate. It was a smell, not caught easily by ordinary physicians. However, if one had enough knowledge about the apothecary and Chinese incense, it was not difficult to catch the fault.
Ten days of creaking floorboards, red silk soaked in cold tea, shadow puppets on window screens, and the slow, slow rot of doubt. Shen Yulan's nerves were as delicate as silk thread now—one more tug, and the whole thing might unravel.
But not yet.
No. Tonight was for savoring.
She dipped the spoon into the soup, gave it a lazy swirl, then stopped and watched the steam twist upward like smoke from a burnt offering.
"Do you think they lit incense after the monk left?" she asked aloud, glancing at Ming'er, who was fast asleep in the corner. No answer, of course.
"Maybe a little more sandalwood. Maybe some dried peony for courage."
Another laugh threatened to bubble up. She smothered it with a bite of soup.
Su Wanning must've felt humiliated. That proud, polished snake, bringing a monk into her daughter's courtyard, only to discover—what? No spirits. No curses. Just a shrieking girl afraid of her own reflection.
And the monk hadn't stayed long either.
"Must've gotten bored," Shen Yuhan muttered, propping her chin on her hand. "Or maybe even he was just disappointed after not getting wiff of any real ghost or spirit. Haha.." She snickered to herself.
But it was time to end it. The rumors had ripened just enough. Any longer, and things might sour. And with a physician coming tomorrow—sent by Su Qingren, no less—Shen Yuhan could already imagine the diagnosis.
Not ghosts. Not curses.
Just frailty. Hysteria. Perhaps a touch of madness.
"A shame," she whispered, smile curling. "All that powder and rouge, and still she couldn't keep her sanity together."
She looked up at the black sky.
Su Wanning would come for her. That much was certain. They both knew now who had pulled the strings.
She rose and walked to the edge of the window, resting her hand on the frosted wooden frame. Snow had started to fall, soft and silent, blanketing the world in pale shadows.
"But it's better this way," she murmured. "Let them recover their pride now, so they can sharpen their knives in peace. Let them feel clever again. It's better to end this farce before Father returns from his mission."
Thinking about that Shen yuhan let out a chuckle. Well its good that this farce ended early. Otherwise it would become annoying once Shen Zhirui return from his mission.
She set the empty bowl of ginger soup back on the low table with a quiet clink, then padded across the room to her study desk, the soft rustle of her robes echoing in the silence. The large map of the Shen residence lay unrolled on the surface—inked paths, halls, and courtyards spread before her like a game board.
While the household buzzed with tales of ghosts and possession, and servants whispered behind their sleeves about cursed courtyards and ancestral spirits, Shen Yuhan hadn't forgotten her primary goal, she had set when she took over this body.
She traced her finger along the eastern wing, tapping once—lightly—where the treasury was marked.
They probably thought she'd forgotten. That in her madness, her delusions, she wouldn't notice something as small as a jeweled hairpin.
Fools.
While she tangled Su Wanning and Shen Yulan in shadows and rumors, and slowly trained her soft and frail body into a sharp and deadly blade, she had already started to look for the phoenix hairpin left by her mother.
And yet…
Her eyes narrowed.
Despite the chaos she'd unleashed in the past ten days, the guards outside the treasury hadn't decreased. If anything, Su Wanning had tightened her grip. Two more guards now patrolled the entrance, their shifts changed irregularly, their eyes sharper than before.
For a woman supposedly spooked by ghosts, Su Wanning had shown remarkable clarity when it came to protecting her wealth.
Shen Yuhan smirked.
She leaned over the desk, her sleeve brushing the edge of the map, fingers steepling lightly in thought.
She didn't blame Su Wanning, instead she let out a soft breath. "Such diligence," she murmured, half admiring. "Makes me wonder what else you're hiding in there, Madam Su."
Shen Yuhan's hand curled slowly into a fist as her eyes narrowed in distance.
A low rustle broke the stillness. Ming'er stirred in the corner, murmuring something in her sleep. Probably dreaming about food again.
Outside the lattice window, the snow continued to fall. Silent. Steady. The perfect night for buried things to be unearthed.
Shen Yuhan blew out the candle beside her map, leaving only the moonlight to cast pale silver across the inked lines.
The ghost may have vanished, but the real revenge hadn't even started yet.