---
Ming'er bit back a grin but then sobered slightly. "Miss, but what if Su Wanning goes to Master?"
Shen Yuhan raised an eyebrow, the porcelain teacup pausing midair. "She won't. Not yet."
"But why?" Ming'er pressed, genuinely curious. "If Madam Su is really convinced you're behind this, wouldn't it make sense to accuse you directly?"
"She would… if she had proof," Shen Yuhan replied, her tone cool, deliberate. "But the moment she drags Father into this, she opens a door she can't close. Think about it—what could she say? That I frightened her daughter with ghost stories? That the legitimate eldest daughter of the household is haunting the concubine-born child in her dreams?"
Ah Zhu folded her arms, adding, "That would only make her look foolish."
"Exactly," Shen Yuhan said, taking another sip. "Su Wanning is a master at twisting truth to her favor, but she values control more than anything. If she complains to Father now and it sounds like nonsense, she loses credibility. No, she'll keep this close to her chest. She'll try to deal with me quietly."
Ming'er nodded slowly. "So, what will she do?"
"She'll test the waters. Investigate. Set traps. Maybe even try to isolate me—cut off my access to people or information. She might even fake another haunting to make it seem like I really am the one possessed."
"Should we prepare for that?" Ah Zhu asked. "Set countermeasures?"
"Already in motion," Shen Yuhan replied lightly, setting her chopsticks down. "Granny Zhang's stories have more uses yet, and I've asked someone to spread whispers in the eastern wing—stories about haunted mirrors and reflection spirits. The servants will think it's everywhere, and when the monk fails to 'cure' Yulan, panic will spread."
Ah Zhu smiled. "A storm inside the walls."
"And storms," Shen Yuhan murmured, rising from her seat, "are best used to wash away the filth."
She walked to the window, pushing aside the gauze curtain. Morning light had fully broken through the clouds now, casting pale warmth over the Osmanthus trees in the courtyard. The breeze carried the faintest hint of blooming petals and incense smoke—likely from Su Wanning's quarters.
She watched the smoke rise, curling like serpents in the air.
"Let her burn sandalwood all she likes," Shen Yuhan said quietly. "Even the purest incense can't mask rot."
"Miss," Ming'er said softly, "do you think she'll send someone to spy on us?"
"She already has." Shen Yuhan didn't even turn around. "Xiao Yue's cousin works in the laundry yard. They've been reporting back since last week. But don't worry—I let them hear exactly what I wanted."
Ah Zhu gave a low chuckle. "Poor madam. Playing chess against a shadow she can't even hold."
---
Meanwhile inside the Orchid Pavilion…
The scent of sandalwood hung heavy in the air, thick enough to suffocate rational thought. Smoke curled upward from six bronze censers placed in a precise hexagram on the floor. Candles flickered from all corners of the room, casting long, undulating shadows on the silk-draped walls. Shen Yulan sat stiffly in the center, her knees tucked beneath her, back painfully straight as though being haunted required good posture.
Su Wanning stood behind her, arms crossed, jaw clenched. Her eyes were red from lack of sleep, and her temples throbbed from a mixture of incense and irritation.
The monk—a thin man draped in layers of saffron robes, with a face so serene it was borderline smug—circled Shen Yulan with a string of black prayer beads in hand, muttering mantras that sounded suspiciously like variations of "om" and "hmm." He paused occasionally to throw a handful of rice in seemingly random directions. One landed in Su Wanning's slipper. Another hit a screen and bounced into a nearby brazier.
He didn't notice. Or didn't care.
Madam Su's eldest brother, Lord Su Qingren, stood in the corner watching this entire spectacle with the air of a man deeply regretting answering his sister's urgent summons. His official robes were immaculate, his expression unreadable—though the slight twitch in the corner of his mouth betrayed his growing internal struggle not to burst into laughter.
The monk chanted louder.
Then stopped. Abruptly.
He turned toward Su Wanning, his face grave.
"This young lady," he intoned, pointing to Shen Yulan, who was now sweating and trembling slightly, "has been touched by Yin qi."
Su Wanning tensed. "And? Is it a ghost?"
"No," the monk replied, voice slow and profound. "It is… inner fear."
There was a pause. A silence heavy enough to drop a porcelain teacup through.
"Fear?" Su Wanning repeated slowly.
The monk nodded solemnly. "Indeed. Her spirit is not haunted. Her mind is simply… very creative."
Su Qingren coughed into his sleeve.
Shen Yulan blinked. "But—but the red veil—"
"Dreams, Lady Shen," the monk interrupted gently. "Dreams shaped by stories. Tales absorbed in youth. Repressed anxiety. Perhaps even… a guilty conscience?"
Shen Yulan's mouth opened, then closed again.
Lord Su Qingren finally stepped forward, folding his hands behind his back like a scholar preparing to speak on Confucian virtue.
"Sister," he said mildly, "I fear your daughter may have read one too many ghost tales by candlelight and frightened herself half to death."
"She doesn't read ghost tales," Su Wanning snapped reflexively.
The monk raised a brow. "Yet she described things from one very precisely. A tale I believe is called The Ghost Bride. Quite popular. I've seen copies sold at the market."
Su Wanning's face froze.
That wretched book.
Su Qingren allowed himself a chuckle. "I recall my own daughter sobbing over that story for three nights. Claimed her mirror was talking back."
The monk looked at Shen Yulan kindly, as though she were a child who had simply lost her way. "Lady Shen is not cursed. Nor possessed. She is, however, extremely suggestible. She should avoid incense, red veils, and mirrors for a while. Also sleep. Plenty of it."
Su Wanning stared at the monk, eyes narrowed as if she could pierce the serenity right off his face. "Are you saying all this was… imagination?"