Chapter 8 — The Tigress Who Craved Mantou

It is you! It has always been you! If not for your interference, the Prince Consort would have favored me, and the Pei family would have come seeking an alliance. You have ruined me!

Madame Xie hurried forward to cradle her, whispering, “Yen, please, you must not speak such nonsense.”

But Xie Hamyen shoved her away, her face twisted with hysteria. “I am not speaking nonsense! What right does she have? She is a coarse creature who knows nothing but stuffing her face with steamed buns, a sickly wretch mocked by the entire capital—how does she deserve to triumph over me?”

I paused, considering her words, before replying coolly, “It is because I ride better than you.”

“Shut your mouth!” Hamyen screamed, her composure shattered. “You are merely blessed by fate, born to a general for a father who acts as your shield!”

Before I could retort, my father let out a sharp, cynical laugh. “Blessed by fate?”

He stepped forward, his voice chilling the room to a deathly silence. “At three, she began practicing with a bow until her palms were raw and shredded, yet she never shed a tear. At six, she entered the barracks; when the grizzled veterans mocked her or she tumbled into a mud pit, she climbed out on her own without a word. At nine, she encountered Northern barbarian scouts and carried a wounded soldier three miles to safety. While you were in the capital learning the art of weeping gracefully, she was in the desolate frontier, gathering firewood in the biting snow just to stay warm.”

The great hall fell into a profound hush. I stared at my father, stunned. I had nearly forgotten those trials, yet he had held every detail close to his heart. Xie Hamyen’s lips trembled, her throat constricted, unable to utter a sound. Xie Thaihan arrived then; standing in the doorway, she heard the final words and let out a soft, mocking laugh. She walked forward and knelt before the royal official from the Prince’s estate.

“I have a report to make,” Thaihan announced. “The poetic talent for which Xie Hamyen is so revered—the majority of it was stolen from another.”

Madame Xie’s complexion drained to a deathly pale. “Silence, you wretch!”

Thaihan ignored her, pulling an aged, worn volume from her sleeve. “This is the poetry collection my late mother left behind. The verses on plum blossoms and snowfall that brought Hamyen such early fame are all transcribed within these pages. After my mother passed, the Madam seized the manuscripts, and they were promptly rebranded as Hamyen’s own genius.”

The royal official accepted the book and began to leaf through it. As the other ladies gathered to look, the expressions on their faces shifted from curiosity to sharp distaste. Xie Hamyen collapsed entirely, sliding to the floor as the Xie estate descended into absolute chaos. Madame Xie wept, Hamyen shrieked, and Thaihan watched with eyes as cold as ice. The men sent by the Pei family to return the betrothal tokens arrived at that very moment, witnessing a spectacle so delightfully absurd that I nearly forgot my own hunger.

In the aftermath, the royal official returned to report to the Prince’s consort. Three days later, the decree came down. Xie Hamyen, deemed of low moral character, was barred from all future literary gatherings, polo matches, and banquets in the capital. To salvage the family’s reputation, the Xie clan sent her away to a secluded ancestral temple in the countryside.

As for me, when the spring hunt was rescheduled, the Prince’s consort allowed me to play the matches I had missed. I ate my fill, finally letting go of all restraint. That entire afternoon, I scored seven goals in a row. The Prince’s consort laughed until she was breathless, bestowing upon me a set of exquisite jewelry on the spot. From that day on, the threshold of the General’s estate was nearly worn down by the constant stream of matchmakers. My mother, who had once fretted that I would never find a husband, began to worry about a different problem.

“Among all these suitors,” she fretted, “are any of them sturdy enough to withstand a single punch from you?”

I was busy gnawing on a chicken leg, pondering the question with deep gravity. “Perhaps I should have them line up and test them one by one?”

Mother nearly choked on her tea. Father, however, nodded his approval. “That could work.”

Mother threw up her hands. “What do you mean, it could work! Can’t the two of you ever think like normal, civilized people?”

My father and I exchanged a glance, then quietly bowed our heads to continue our meal. In time, a new nursery rhyme began to circulate through the streets of the capital, singing of the Lin girl who possessed the strength to uproot a willow tree and enough steamed buns in her stomach to outrun ten thousand men. Mother would turn crimson with indignation every time she heard it, while Father would chuckle and reward the singers. As for me, I did not care. Let them sing. So long as they did not hinder my eating, my riding, or my polo, I was content. After all, I had endured years of pretense. I was finally free of the exhaustion of playing the frail, delicate maiden who supposedly fainted at the slightest breeze.