Chapter 168: Foolish Woman

Robin lowered his eyes to avoid the caress of Lady Aishar's fingertips, but when she withdrew her hand he suddenly grasped her wrist, the force just enough for the jade bracelet to lightly tap the glass flower vessel, producing a crisp "click" sound.

As the lady's eyelashes fluttered, he had already released his hand, his fingertip barely brushing the gold dust on her shoulder: "The Night Orchid of the Northern Border needs extreme cold dew to be watered."

His voice mixed with greenhouse warmth and mist, but the trailing tone was like ice shards sliding across a string, "Just as some melodies, you must wait until the tuning peg rusts to understand the modulation."

Lady Aishar's pupils narrowed to slits in the dusk, and she suddenly tore off the sapphire necklace at her throat and slipped it into his palm.

The metal edge pressed against the pulse in his palm; Robin's fingertip traced the counterfeit's seam, deliberately raising his eyebrows: "The facet of this 'Heart of the Ice Sea'."

"Just a fake," the lady laughed lightly, turned, her gauze skirt sweeping over the rouge stain on his cuff, the jade bracelet flashing cold light on his wrist, "The real treasure—" she suddenly leaned close, the scent of ambergris mixed with rosemary flooding his nose, "will jump into your palm when you snap the third string of the lute."

Robin lowered his gaze at the silver hair coiled around her fingertips, his Adam's apple twitching: "I only break strings for those who are worthy." He stepped back half a step, the lute case brushed the flower rack, and as the Night Orchid fell it perfectly shielded the dark surge behind his eyes, "For example now, the angle at which moonlight passes through your veil."

The lady's fingertip paused above his clavicle, the jade bracelet only half an inch from the fake "Sword wound" he forged last night: "I heard Southern Border Bow Knights excel at shooting hearts." She suddenly pinched his chin, forcing him to stare into her peacock‑green eyeshadowed eyes, "Tell me, should I shoot this heart with a gold‑feathered arrow or a silver‑feathered arrow?"

Robin let her twist his face, her eyelashes casting fine shadows under his eyes, yet he let out a low laugh from his throat: "In the Northern Border, hunters never need arrows to aim at treasures." He deliberately softened his tone, as gentle as a wandering poet coaxing a maiden, "They will raise snow foxes for an entire winter, letting them fetch the brightest stars themselves."

Robin paid no mind to probing her claim of being a Bow Knight.

The lady's nail dug into his jaw, but when she heard the word "tame" she suddenly loosened.

From afar the silver wind chime rang, and she abruptly pulled the leather cord binding his hair, winding his silver hair around the jade bracelet into a dead knot: "Tomorrow at noon, bring your snow fox to the West Garden." As she turned, Robin caught a glimpse of a fresh red mark behind her ear.

"As you command, my lady." Robin knelt on one knee, the lute case covering half of the embroidered pattern on her Eastern Border brocade shoes.

Amid the scent of Night Orchid, he heard his own heartbeat as usual, yet between his fingers he crushed the pearl earring she had just slipped in.

Outside the greenhouse glass, dusk was deep. Robin touched the cuff hiding the sapphire counterfeit, and suddenly recalled the Viscountess's words: "The most clever bait isn't honey, but making the prey think it is hunting."

At that moment the lingering rose perfume on his shoulder suddenly turned sweet, just like the wildfire flickering in Lady Aishar's eyes when she first saw him—not the hunter's light, but the last willing wisp of a moth before it flies into flame.

"This woman is truly dangerous," Robin silently reminded himself.

Three days later, inside Lady Aishar's bedroom.

The wind chime's fingertip paused on the jade hairpin, and in the mirror Lady Aishar's eyebrows were dusted with freshly applied malachite powder, green as pine needles in early‑spring melt.

When she placed the pearl veil on the lady, she deliberately let the silver thread catch the silver‑hair rope knot at the other's ear, a trophy she had torn from Robin's head that morning.

"The Duke will inspect the winter grain stock list tonight," the maid's voice mixed with the soft clink of a perfume bottle opening, "The back kitchen just received fresh Eastern Border oysters, you said last time."

"Enough," Lady Aishar suddenly pressed her wrist, the jade bracelet clinking against the edge of her makeup case, "Hok wants a tame canary, but I—" she turned the ring toward the mirror, revealing a rose‑thorn tattoo on its inner side, "need a nightingale that bites."

The wind chime lowered her gaze to tie the silk ribbon, her peripheral glance catching a half‑exposed Parchment beneath the dressing table.

Charcoal sketch traced Robin's side profile with sharp angles, his Sword eyebrows higher than when they met last night, the half‑smile curve at his eye corner reminiscent of the decorative rib pattern on a male pet's skeleton he had seen this morning in the collection vault—features Lady Aishar adored as "prey traits."

"Madam, the Duke is inquiring about Robin," the wind chime's fingertip tied a neat bow on the ribbon, her tone sounding like she was discussing the weather, "The gatekeeper said he specifically reviewed all bards' city entry records from the past three months this morning."

"Then answer according to protocol," Lady Aishar turned the jade bracelet toward the mirror, "Just say I fell in love with Northern folk songs, even afternoon tea I must hear that child play the lute—" she suddenly burst into laughter, the malachite eyeshadow glinting mischievously in the candlelight, "A foolish woman's pastime, isn't that exactly what Hok desires?"

When the wind chime draped a sable cloak over the lady, she noticed the other's fingertip clutching a small glass bottle, pale gold powder swirling in the moonlight—Eastern Border's 'Mute Powder', which makes the user only hum melodies for three hours.

She lowered her head to avoid the lady's gaze, staring at a corner of an invitation peeking from the dressing table drawer: all the aristocratic ladies' invitations to Robin, neatly trimmed at the edges, looking like dead birds stripped of feathers.

"Those invitations—" the wind chime deliberately paused, "He rejected them all. The reason: 'no inspiration'."

Lady Aishar suddenly burst into a light laugh, shaking the tiny diamonds on the pearl veil.

As she turned, Robin's silver‑hair rope knot brushed the back of the wind chime's hand, feeling like the whip‑tails made from male pets' hair hanging in the secret passage.

"Smart child," the lady lifted the wind chime's chin with a peacock feather fan, "knowing whose ears the music should reach."

When the maid lowered her gaze, she saw her own reflection in the mirror.

In those eyes that should have been timid, at that moment reflected the lady's silver hair at her wrist, the powder in the bottle, and the broken string Robin had deliberately left by the fountain when he passed the garden this morning—a string wrapped with gold thread, now hidden in her cuff, trembling lightly with each heartbeat.

At the end of the corridor, Robin's music suddenly became lyrical.

Lady Aishar stepped away in her Eastern Border brocade shoes, and as the wind chime turned, she crumpled that half‑sheet charcoal sketch into a paper ball.

She knew the lady would never truly use the Mute Powder on Robin.

After all, compared to a mute doll, this concubine preferred hearing the fractured notes that escaped as prey struggled, just like she once loved, at the dock, the cheers of sailors tearing the morning mist as their ships came ashore.

For some reason, every recent meeting between the wind chime and Robin made her heart race, something that never happened when she dealt with the lady's other male pets.

(End of Chapter)