Chapter 169: Means

Whenever Fengling thinks of how every secret meeting with Robin these past days makes her cheeks turn red, she can't help it.

At their first meeting, Robin used the fact that they were both fellow villagers from the Southern Frontier to draw them closer, and even gave her a small Southern Frontier gift.

Fengling pinched the Southern Frontier shell pendant Robin gave her; the phosphorescent paint on the inner side of the shell glowed a pale violet in the candlelight, just like the sea she had seen at the pier before a storm in her childhood.

She also remembered that at their first meeting, he washed his hands with the Southern Frontier's distinctive locust‑flower scented soap, the foam sliding along his wrist bones into his sleeves, revealing an old scar that matched the one she had gotten from a fishing net years ago.

"Next time, don't bring these," Fengling's ears tingled as she tucked the shell pendant into her collar, but Robin gently pressed her wrist.

His palm, calloused from years of gripping a Sword, suddenly softened when it touched her skin, like the Southern Frontier waves lapping the beach: "This shell is called 'Whisper of the Tide' where we're from; it will keep a liar's secret."

Fengling jerked her head up, catching the candlelight reflected in his eyes.

At their second meeting, the locust‑flower scent on him had faded a bit, but a whiff of the cinnamon she had left in the back kitchen that morning lingered. She stepped back half a step, the hem of her apron crumpling: "You don't like the Lady, do you? What does that have to do with me?"

"My respect for the Lady is reverence," Robin lowered his head to adjust the pendant's knot for her, his fingertip pausing as it brushed her collarbone, "And for you—" He suddenly lifted his gaze, his lashes casting tiny shadows, "it's the yearning to dock as soon as one sees a mast."

The maid's breath caught in her throat.

She smelled the rosemary and sea‑salt scent mingling in his hair, and suddenly recalled the rum she had secretly drunk as a child—spicy, harsh, yet making one want another sip.

Footsteps of the night patrol echoed from afar; she shoved him away abruptly, and the shell pendant slipped from her collar at that moment, casting a pale violet glow between them.

"Tomorrow night," Robin retreated into the shadows, the clasp of his lute case chiming lightly, "Moonlight makes you even more beautiful." As he turned, Fengling saw a flash of silver hair beneath his cloak, shorter than the Lady's wrist ribbon; he had secretly trimmed his hair ends this morning.

She clenched the shell; the phosphorescent sand on its inner side brushed her palm like a secret kiss.

In the distance, the bell tolled nine times; Fengling suddenly remembered the Lady's soup still simmering on the kitchen stove, and as she lifted her skirt she discovered a scrap of paper Robin had slipped to her at some point, a crooked smile drawn in charcoal beside the words: "Your eyes are like a pearl shell flaring open."

The maid hurriedly shoved the scrap into Fengling's apron pocket, her fingertips still burning.

She didn't know what a pearl shell was, only that when Robin said "yearning," her heart pounded louder than the Lady's silver bell hair ornament.

Perhaps in this Duke's manor, rife with danger and intrigue, only the shell and smile he handed her were scorching like the Southern Frontier sun.

Even if it was just a stolen moment of warmth, it was enough to make her eyes redden quietly through the endless night.

At their third meeting, Fengling's apron was still stained with broth splatter, but upon seeing Robin leaning against the grape trellis, she instinctively smoothed the hem with her fingertip.

The paper parcel he handed her no longer contained a shell, but a piece of Southern Frontier coconut shreds cake coated in icing, its oiled paper edge tinged with a faint oil stain, looking exactly like the fish cake her mother fried in a dream last night.

"Taste it and you'll know," Robin's fingertip brushed her lips, the coconut shreds clinging to his thenar—"sweeter than honey."

Fengling didn't dodge, letting him place the bay leaf woven bracelet on her, the serrated leaf edges grazing her skin, yet still nothing compared to the itch his fingertip caused on her earlobe.

From afar came the clank of guards changing posts; she suddenly recalled the Lady's words this morning, "Tea must be delivered before ten," and as Robin lowered his head, she instinctively rose onto tiptoes.

The instant their lips met, the cake's sweetness mingled with his rosemary, shattering on her tongue like tiny stars.

Fengling heard her own heartbeat like a drum, louder than the ringing of the Lady's silver bell hair ornament.

Robin's palm lightly pressed against her lower back, not crossing any boundary, yet it reminded her of a stray cat she once held as a child—covered in thorns yet purring vibrantly when curled in her arms.

"Tomorrow night, shall we go to the market?" he stepped back half a step, the bay leaf on the bracelet brushing her chin, "They sell lanterns that glow like fireflies."

Fengling looked up, seeing moonlight reflected in his eyes, brighter than any crystal lamp in the Duke's manor.

She recalled that over the past three days, each time they part he slipped a small gift into her pocket: a shell on the first day, a paper note with a smile on the second, and today the coconut shreds cake—proving that sincerity has weight, pressing heavily in her apron pocket, making her grin with every step.

"The Lady wants to audit the accounts," she bit her lower lip, her fingertips clutching his cuff, "Under the third lantern in the back alley."

Robin chuckled lightly, his fingertip wiping the icing from her mouth corner, this time not evading her eager kiss.

Grape leaves rustled in the wind; Fengling sensed a faint iron‑rust scent beneath his cloak, the smell of a Sword sheath. With her eyes closed she thought, perhaps this was what her mother called a "driftwood"—even with barbs, it's the only warmth she would willingly cling to.

When they separated, a copper whistle lay in Fengling's apron pocket.

Robin said it was a whistle Southern Frontier fishermen use to summon dolphins; three blows and someone would come to fetch her.

She traced the little fish carving on the whistle, suddenly recalling his tone the first time he called her "Ling'er"—like waves lapping the ankle, gentle yet firm.

From afar came the rustle of wind chime grass; only then did she realize her name could sound so lovely, spoken by him like a song without strings.

She clutched the copper whistle and walked back, the bay leaf bracelet swaying a delicate fragrance around her wrist.

Perhaps the Lady was right—male favorites are like roses with thorns—but now the copper whistle in her palm, the coconut shreds cake in her pocket, and the lingering kiss mark at her lips all tell her—some thorns exist to guard a true heart, just as Robin's Sword hidden in his lute case is not for harm but for embrace.

"Fengling!" Lady Ai Sha Er's voice swept like a peacock feather fan across strings, startling the maid so that her hairpin clanged to the floor.

Fengling hurriedly bent to pick it up; in the jade hairpin's reflection she saw her reddened earlobes, just like the sugar‑iced coconut shreds cake Robin had slipped to her this morning.

"Lady, you called me," she rose quickly, the hairpin having been hastily removed from her hair, pulling out a few stray strands.

Lady Ai Sha Er sat before the dressing table, turning a jade bracelet; the mirror's reflection swept over a corner of oiled paper peeking from Fengling's apron pocket.

"You've been spacing out a lot lately!" the Lady laughed lightly, her malachite eye shadow glinting mischievously in the candlelight, "Missing a man?" She reached out, pinching Fengling's chin, forcing her to stare at her own flushed cheeks in the mirror, "Look at that gaze, just like the musician I gave to the steward last year, exactly the same."

(End of Chapter)