Page 67 of The Scholar's Improper Wife

Outside, a crow cawed. A bad omen. Fitting.

Chapter 30

The bamboo beads chimed as Ting-zhi pushed through them, the sound too bright for the heaviness in his chest. His father did not look up from his treatise, but the brush in his hand stilled mid-stroke.

“You’ve been standing there for seventeen breaths,” Master Gu said, not glancing up. “Either enter or leave. You are blocking my light.”

Ting-zhi exhaled, a sound that was almost a laugh. He stepped fully into the room, the beads settling behind him with a final, decisiveclink. “Chancellor Shen offered me a position.”

His father’s brush paused. “The Ministry of Finance.” Not a question.

Ting-zhi dragged a stool forward and sat, his robes pooling around him like spilled ink. “I—I want to refuse it.”

The brush hit the desk. Ink splattered.

Master Gu finally looked up. His expression was unreadable, he lifted his right hand and gave a few taps in the air as if to gather his thoughts. “You ranked third in the empire,” he said carefully. “The Ministry of Finance is a good position to start for a man of your talents. You would be in the capital. You would have influence.”

“I want the traveling inspector role.”

Silence. The kind that pressed against the eardrums.

Master Gu leaned back, steepling his fingers. “The position that requires you to ride muddy roads for months at a time,sleeping in flea-ridden inns, writing reports on magistrates and villages that will get you into trouble?”

Ting-zhi mouth twitched. “Your description makes it soundcharming.”

“It is not.” His father’s voice was flat. “It is a post for men who cannot secure better. Or for men who have something to prove.”

Ting-zhi’s fingers stilled on the jade pendant at his waist “Or for men who have nothing to prove to anyone but themselves.”

Master Gu studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached for the teapot at the corner of his desk. He poured two cups. The steam curled between them like unspoken words.

“This is about her.”

Ting-zhi did not pretend to misunderstand. He accepted the tea silently, the simple brown teacup warm against his palms.

“Mmm.” His father sipped. “And yet, you have not spoken to Shen Yun-si in two weeks.”

The cup trembled slightly in Ting-zhi’s grip. He steadied it. “A temporary... misunderstanding.”

“About the fact that you are Moonlit Brush.”

Ting-zhi’s throat went dry. He had not told his father. He had toldno one. But of course Master Gu knew. Master Gu always knew.

“She does not—”

“She does notyet,” his father corrected. “But she will.” He set his cup down. “There is no middle path with this decision, Ting-zhi. You are choosing not between posts, but betweenlives.”

Ting-zhi stared into his tea. It was simplelongjing, the kind his father preferred. Good, but unpretentious.

“I know what the capital offers,” he said quietly. “Power. Prestige. A desk that does not move, a house with walls that do not creak in the wind. But I also know whatshewants.” His fingers tightened around the cup. “She writes about bandits and poets and women who disguise themselves as men to seethe world. Shedreams, Father. And I—” His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. “I want to give her those dreams. Not in ink. Inlife.”

Master Gu was silent for so long that Ting-zhi risked a glance up. His father was not looking at him. He was looking past him, at the scroll hanging on the wall—a landscape of misty mountains and a lone boat on a river. A poem was inscribed beside it, in his own hand:

If you are not afraid of power

And have no desire for wealth

Your movement and life are as free