Life at Little Lin Manor was like the crops in the fields—one harvest after another, unhurried and steady.
Spring came and went, summer passed into autumn.
A Li’s account books grew thicker and thicker. The “Vegetable Basket Project” had expanded from its initial thirty households to two hundred.
Lin Zhaoye had completely set aside his books and thrown himself into business. His abacus clicked faster than anyone’s, and occasionally, after being dragged by the Sixth Princess to admire flowers, he’d return with his ears still flushed.
Wei Fuyu and Zhao Di’er trained in the back courtyard at the hour of Mao every day without fail—one with a staff, the other with a sword—drilling the estate’s servants until they were groaning.
After Lin Jingshen recovered, he stopped wandering and stayed in Jinling, visiting Little Lin Manor every few days—claiming it was to “see his sister,” though his eyes kept drifting toward Zhao Di’er.
Xiao Shengrui still came often.
Sometimes he brought packets of new seeds; sometimes a farming book the Listening Wind Pavilion had uncovered; sometimes nothing at all—he’d just sit in the greenhouse and watch Lin Shuying pollinate the melon seedlings.
The two chatted about this and that—nothing particularly important: how many people had come to the canteen today, when the grape trellis should be built, what was new in the palace.
Lin Shuying had grown used to having him around.
Even when neither spoke, it didn’t feel awkward.
Xiao Shengrui had also grown used to watching her work.
When she crouched in the fields, her skirts stained with mud, sleeves rolled to her elbows, fine sweat beading on her forehead—
He’d hand her water, she’d take a sip, and get back to work.
Nothing special—but nothing was wrong, either.
— —
Life went on like that.
In summer, the greenhouse watermelons yielded their fourth harvest.
Lin Shuying stood at the edge of the field, counting on her fingers.
It had been nearly two years since she moved out of the Lin residence.
Little Lin Manor had expanded from a dozen acres to over a hundred. The canteen had opened a branch. Even the old man selling candied hawthorns on the street knew the name “Little Lin’s Fine Delicacies.”
Her sixteenth birthday was celebrated at the estate.
No grand affair—just family gathered for a meal.
Xiao Shengrui came too, bringing a pot of orchids he said he’d grown himself.
The flowers were in full bloom, the leaves glossy.
One look and Lin Shuying knew he’d been tending them for at least half a year.
“Your Highness knows how to grow flowers?” she asked.
“No.” Xiao Shengrui admitted honestly. “I killed two pots—this is the third.”
Lin Shuying laughed, not calling his bluff.
— —
In autumn, the grapes ripened.
The “Crystal Grapes” had been planted the year before and bore fruit for the first time this year.
The grapes weren’t large, but they were translucent, sweet with a hint of tartness—each bite tasted like sunlight.
Lin Shuying had several bunches picked, chilled with ice, and sent to each household to sample.
When Xiao Shengrui came, A Li brought up a plate.
He ate one and nodded.
“Delicious.”
“Of course.” Lin Shuying sat across from him, holding a bunch herself. “Just look at who grew them.”
Xiao Shengrui glanced at her, the corners of his mouth lifting slightly, but he didn’t reply.
Outside the window, the ginkgo leaves had turned yellow—a gust of wind scattered them across the courtyard.
— —
Winter came quickly.
Lin Shuying’s oil-paper greenhouses proved their worth.
The double-layered oil paper with straw curtains—though not as effective as the plastic greenhouses of later times—was enough to keep greens alive through the bitter cold.
The canteen’s menu never lacked fresh vegetables. Even the palace sent someone specifically to ask how they were grown.
When Xiao Shengrui visited, he often stayed a long time in the greenhouse.
Lin Shuying tended her work; he read his books.
Occasionally they’d look up and catch each other’s eyes. Neither looked away—they’d just watch each other for a moment, then turn back to their own tasks.
A Li said privately to A-Gua: “The way the Seventh Prince looks at Miss—it’s the same way he looks at those watermelon seedlings.”
A-Gua didn’t understand: “What do you mean?”
“It means… very intently.”
— —
When spring came, Lin Shuying turned seventeen.
Xiao Shengrui had turned fifteen as well.
The young man had grown taller, his features shedding some of their boyishness. Standing by the melon fields, he was beginning to look like a young adult.
His visits hadn’t become more frequent, but he stayed longer each time.
Sometimes, when Lin Shuying was writing agricultural texts in the study, he’d sit across from her and read the confidential reports from the Listening Wind Pavilion.
They’d each do their own work, occasionally look up to exchange a few words, then go back to their tasks.
Lin Moqian had run into them like this a few times when visiting the estate. When he got home, he told Gu Wanyin: “The Seventh Prince seems serious.”
Gu Wanyin asked: “And Shuying?”
Lin Moqian thought for a moment and said: “Little Sister seems… used to it.”
— —
On the ninth day of the third month, Xiao Shengrui invited Lin Shuying to see the peach blossoms outside the city.
It wasn’t any formal invitation.
He’d come that day carrying a newly acquired copy of Southern Plants, handed it to her, and casually said: “The peach blossoms west of the city are blooming—want to go see them tomorrow?”
Lin Shuying took the book, flipped through a couple pages without looking up: “Sure.”
And that was that.
The next day, they each rode a horse west along the official road.
Wei Fuyu wanted to follow, but Zhao Di’er held her back.
A Li wanted to prepare a food basket, but Lin Shuying stopped her: “Just a walk—no need for fuss.”
The peach grove was on a hillside ten li west of the city—not a famous scenic spot, just a patch of wild peach trees.
The blossoms were in full bloom, looking from afar like a pink cloud.
They tied their horses at the foot of the slope and walked up the path.
Lin Shuying walked ahead; Xiao Shengrui followed two steps behind.
A breeze blew, scattering petals across their shoulders.
“Did Your Highness invite me out just to see the flowers?” Lin Shuying asked without turning back, her voice carried away by the wind.
“Mm.” Xiao Shengrui answered. He paused, then said, “Not entirely.”
Lin Shuying stopped and turned around.
Xiao Shengrui stood three paces away, holding a peach blossom branch he must have picked at some point, his eyes lowered as if deep in thought.
“Shuying,” he looked up, “I’m fifteen now.”
Lin Shuying said nothing.
“Father has asked me several times.” He held out the peach blossom branch. “I said I was waiting for your answer.”
The wind blew, scattering petals everywhere. Lin Shuying looked at the peach blossom branch, stood there for a moment, then reached out and took it.
“Mm.” She looked down at the flowers in her hand. “Then next year.”
Xiao Shengrui was momentarily stunned.
Lin Shuying turned and continued up the path without stopping. After a few steps, she glanced back at him, a hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth.
“What are you standing there for? Come on.”
Xiao Shengrui stood there, watching her silhouetted against the light. It took a few breaths before he finally stepped forward to catch up.
The two walked side by side through the peach grove, neither speaking another word.
But on the way back, Xiao Shengrui kept his horse close to Lin Shuying’s the entire time, their stirrups clinking together all the way home.
— —
On the fifth day after their autumn outing, the imperial decree arrived.
That morning, life at Little Lin Manor went on as usual: A Li was reconciling accounts; Wei Fuyu and Zhao Di’er were training in the back courtyard; Lin Zhaoye was clicking away at his abacus; A-Gua was crouched at the gate feeding his precious carrier pigeons.
Lin Shuying was in the greenhouse, starting seedlings from the newly arrived “coffee seeds”—Xiao Shengrui had obtained them from a foreign merchant, who said the ground beans could be brewed and drunk to refresh the mind.
She was mulling over whether this plant could survive in the north when suddenly, urgent gongs and drums sounded from outside.
“Imperial decree—Jiahe Country Lady, receive the decree—”
Everyone in the courtyard froze.
A-Gua dropped his pigeon feed, scattering it across the ground as the birds fluttered away.
Wei Fuyu’s staff landed on her own foot, making her wince in pain.
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