The summons came with the ninth-bell frost still clinging to the eaves. Court attendants shuffled like cranes across the jade, and even the scribes' brushes seemed to hold their breath as the Emperor took his place above the Hall of Vermilion Echoes. He wore winter plainly: black silk at the hem, white at the collar, a thin line of dragon-thread at the cuff. He did not speak for some time.
Li Wenxu, Minister of Education, stepped forward and bowed, composed as a scripture stone. Li Ziyan stood three ranks back, where the light from the high lattice fell thin and cold across her sleeve. Prince Ning stood to the Emperor's left, expression carved from patience.
"The southern academies," the Emperor said at last, "report a surplus of stipends with no scholars attached. The northern prefectures report scholars with no stipends. Where did the ink go, Minister Li?"
Wenxu inclined his head. "To negligence, Your Majesty. My office opened its hand too far to provincial clerks. I have moved to correct it."
"Names," the Emperor said.
Wenxu's answer was ready. A deputy from the southern files; a registrar from the river prefectures; three copyists who had died conveniently last autumn. The list was a sacrifice laid neatly on a lacquer tray. Ziyan watched the blades land and knew each name would bleed in silence by dusk.
"And the gap between ritual allocations and academy repairs?" Prince Ning asked mildly, as if he were tasting tea.
"A misbinding in the annual ledgers," Wenxu replied. "Crossed seals between Rites and Education. An audit will put them right."
A murmur moved like a draft through the hall. Ziyan kept her face still. The words were smooth enough to skate on, and just rough enough to bruise.
"Then an audit," the Emperor said. His gaze slid to Ziyan without softening. "Vice Minister Li of Rites will conduct it with the Censorate. Reports will bear Prince Ning's countersignature and the Minister of Education's review. Ink should not fear daylight."
Ziyan bowed. The leash tightened; the path lengthened.
After court, winter sun flashed on the bronze basins as servants emptied the old water. News ran ahead of her like a fox. By the time she passed the Li estate gates, lanterns already swung under the covered walk and servants were setting out plum wine as if hospitality were a blade they sharpened daily.
Li Zichen, her elder brother, met her on the veranda steps, smile wide, eyes colder than the tiles beneath their feet. "Our phoenix returns with scrolls," he said. "How fortunate. Father's work and yours—so close now, they might as well share a brush."
"Brushes are not lungs," Ziyan said. "They do not breathe for one another."
"Always with the sharp answers," came another voice, honey wrapped around flint. Madame Li Ruyin, her aunt by marriage, drifted forward in a wash of pale silk, face powdered into serenity. "We worry, Ziyan. The palace looks at you as if you were a lantern hung too high. It is beautiful until the wind comes."
"Then we should build better eaves," Ziyan said, stepping past her.
Inside, Lady Xu, the grandmother, sat beneath a painted plum screen, her thin hands pressed on the head of a cane carved like a serpent's spine. Her eyes were as bright and pitiless as a winter star.
"Granddaughter," the old woman said. "You kneel like a minister and forget to rise like a daughter. Remember the order of things."
Ziyan knelt and rose as told. Order was a word that meant many different knives.
A young man hurried in with an ink-stained sleeve and the eager gait of someone who had not yet learned how heavy favors could become. Li Cheng, cousin—fresh from some county school where obedience was still called virtue.
"Cousin," he said, bowing too deeply. "I have copied the family registry for the auditors—if you need help aligning the seals to Your Excellency's… ah, your father's pattern, I can—"
Zichen's fingers brushed Cheng's shoulder as if pushing a chess piece. "Cheng will assist you at the Bureau," he said smoothly. "It is proper that family closes ranks when storms gather."
"A storm that family called," Ziyan said pleasantly.
They ate. Or pretended to, mouths full of compliments that tasted like ashes. In this house, the way chopsticks lifted was measured; the way tea cooled became evidence; the way a glance wandered could be used to nail a rumor to a person's back. Ziyan endured the small performances, answered what she had to, allowed praise to float past her like ash that would not stick.
After, Wenxu summoned her to his study. Cedar oil, clean ink, order stacked until it suffocated. He poured tea he did not intend her to drink.
"You will give me your audit drafts before Ning," he said, voice calm, as if arranging supply of brush hair. "You will give him conclusions. I will decide what road your steps travel between."
"You are asking for what Ning forbade me to send you," Ziyan said.
"I am asking you to be a daughter," Wenxu replied. "We both serve the throne. I have served it longer."
He let silence stand between them until it grew a second skin. "Ink should not fear daylight, the Emperor said," he added softly. "He did not say which daylight. There are kinds of sun that burn the eyes out of the face."
"And which sun do you offer?" Ziyan asked.
"The one that allows you to live long enough to learn when to look away."
He held out a roll of blank bamboo slips. "Write from this. When you hand Ning your audit, your hand will be steady. When you hand me your draft, your hand will be wise."
"Wise," Ziyan said, "or obedient?"
He smiled, and nothing warm entered the room. "In a good house, those words are brothers."
She left him with the undrunk tea still steaming.