Snow thinned to needles by noon, the sort that pricked skin without melting. Rumors pricked sharper. The court spoke of two ledgers and one minister who would not drown. By afternoon, the rumor had changed shape: the Education Ministry would "attend to housekeeping," and the Li clan had summoned their wayward phoenix home.
Ziyan arrived at the Li estate as bells marked the dog hour. Lanterns burned higher than usual, as if brightness could pass for goodness. The ancestral hall doors yawned open, lacquer black as a sealed mouth. Inside, the family waited like officials in a private court that owed Heaven no report.
Madam Chen sat in the place of the household mistress, powdered too white for winter, lips the color of old blood. On her right perched two daughters—Li Mei with a smile like a knife's reflection and Li Rou with eyes that never softened. Second Aunt Qin-shi fanned herself hard enough to stir incense, whispering to Third Aunt Pei-shi between every breath. Eldest Uncle Li Shide, gone soft from wine and indulgence, squeezed prayer beads as if numbers could make virtue. Second Uncle Li Shuang watched with a hunter's stillness, thin-lipped and satisfied. At the foot of the dais knelt Li Cheng, Ziyan's cousin—face swollen, sleeve torn, the lacquered case from last night set before him like a confession turned into furniture.
Her father had not come yet.
Ziyan crossed the threshold without bowing to anyone but the tablets. "Grandfather. Ancestors." She let her forehead touch the cool wood once, and only once.
Madam Chen's voice cut the air. "So the Vice Minister of Rites bows when it suits her."
Second Aunt clucked. "When did a girl who shamed the court learn to shame her house less?"
Li Rou's smile was thin. "Sister should kneel on bamboo to remember."
"Bring the poles," Madam Chen said sweetly.
"No." Ziyan did not raise her voice. She did not need to. "If anyone kneels on bamboo today, it will be the one who carried a stolen case through a noble's gate and mistook ambition for filial duty."
All eyes slid to Li Cheng. His mouth trembled. "I—I did it for the house—"
"For which house?" Ziyan asked, and let the question sit long enough to frost.
The beaded curtain parted. Li Wenxu entered as if he were walking into a classroom he had built himself. He wore winter brown, unadorned, the minister who needed no color to prove rank. Silence tightened around the room like a clever knot.
"Enough chatter," he said mildly. "We will finish this before the oil runs low."
Madam Chen dipped her head, relief and triumph braided together. "Husband."
Li Wenxu did not look at her. His gaze fell on Ziyan, measured and distant, then moved to the lacquer case. "Cheng," he said, "tell your cousin what you told me."
Li Cheng gulped. "Uncle—I only—Lord Gao's steward came by the alley and said—said the court needs order, that Cousin is young and… and I could help. I thought—"
"You thought," Second Uncle Li Shuang said, "you could earn a place in the Ministry proper. A clerkship with a cushion."
"I did!" Li Cheng blurted, then flinched. "I mean—no—I—"
"Be quiet," Madam Chen snapped. To Ziyan, honeyed again: "Your father will correct the boy. Our house disciplines its own. You will apologize to Lord Gao and close this matter."
"Close it how?" Ziyan asked. "With a lie so neat it can be taught as copybook?"
Second Aunt tsked. "She speaks like a man."
"Worse," Li Rou murmured. "She speaks like she thinks."
Li Wenxu lifted one hand and the room obeyed. "Daughter," he said without warmth, "you made a show at court and tangled a Bureau head's beard. Now you will untangle it without plucking his chin. We will say the boy took what he did not understand. We will return a corrected ledger to Gao. You will write an apology to the clan elders for causing gossip."
Ziyan smiled without humor. "And what will Father write?"
Second Uncle's eyes glittered. "Mind your tongue."
Li Shide cleared his throat. "The Ministry's honor—"
"—is a robe," Ziyan finished softly. "You have worn it so long you think cloth is skin."
Madam Chen's fan snapped shut. "If you were my blood, I would strip you of rank and lock you in the women's quarters until winter forgot your name."
"I am not your blood," Ziyan said. "Only your trouble."
Li Mei tittered. "Aren't they the same?"
Li Wenxu's gaze did not change, but something cold narrowed inside it. He gestured. Two servants dragged a bamboo mat forward, set a bundle of poles beside it. "Cheng will kneel," he said. "Twenty strokes. Then we will decide which of you writes what."
They forced the boy down. The first strike cracked like dry ice. Cheng's breath bounced off the tiles. He looked up once, not at Ziyan but at Wenxu, and found nothing there to hold to. Ziyan's hand twitched toward him—then stilled. Mercy, given too soon, is often used as proof of guilt.