Chapter 4: The Cold Reception

Shuqiao's cousin received the general's wedding gifts beside an unlit brazier.

Wen Shumo had insisted on opening the reception hall's garden doors.

He wanted the visitors to admire his newly trained plum trees.

Shuqiao wanted him to remember it was winter.

"A very simple arrangement," Shumo said, examining the general's cloth-wrapped parcel.

The cousin who'd refused this marriage hadn't bowed to either visitor.

He had bowed twice to his own reflection in the polished door.

"It's a blanket," Yunting said.

"I meant the wrapping."

"You can keep that too."

Shuqiao looked at the blanket to keep his expression respectable.

It was thick wool, finely woven, dyed a plain dark blue.

Shumo touched it with a single finger.

"We generally use silk in this house."

"I remember," Shuqiao said.

His former bedroom had admitted wind through its window frame.

Silk hadn't helped much.

Their uncle entered carrying a hand warmer shaped as a small peach.

Wen Qirong wanted the marriage acknowledged without anyone believing he'd gained an ordinary general.

"My nephew has always preferred a useful life," he said.

He rested his hand on Shuqiao's shoulder before sitting beside Shumo.

Shuqiao moved his chair beyond its reach.

"Useful people dislike wasting good blankets," he said.

"May I take that one home?"

Yunting turned toward him at the word home.

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