Qian Jiaoniang stayed in front of the snowman for a long time, from dusk to dawn. She looked left and right, and the snowman still looked like her.
She remembered how Xing Pingchun had a persistent fever on a heavy snowy day, and how he had finally managed to save his life. To teach him a lesson, she pretended to be angry and ignored him. Then Chou’er made a palm-sized snowman, tied a piece of red cloth around its neck, and gave it to her, flattering her by saying it was her. That was the first time anyone had given her anything.
She had never thought, not in all these years, that today the child’s father would pile up a snowman in the courtyard—one that looked like her. Could it really be true, like father like son, that this too was an apology?
Qian Jiaoniang tried not to dwell on it, yet no other explanation came to mind. In the dead of night, without sleep, he had shaped such a fine snowman, and it even resembled her—how could that be mere coincidence? When daylight came and more people entered her courtyard, every person who saw the snowman smiled at her. After so many smiles, Qian Jiaoniang herself grew flushed, as though that snowman had turned into… some sort of shameful thing.
Xing Muzheng, having slept two hours, got up. Qian Jiaoniang, as if in passing, asked him why he had built that snowman. Xing Muzheng countered: “Do you think it turned out all right?”
Qian Jiaoniang was slightly taken aback, then nodded. “It’s… all right.”
If she thought it “all right,” then she did not despise it. Xing Muzheng secretly let out a breath of relief. “Since you don’t dislike it, then let yesterday’s matter be past, shall we?”
“You mean to say…” Qian Jiaoniang hesitantly asked, “you built it for me?”
Put so directly, Xing Muzheng coughed into his fist. Truly, it was a child’s trick, unpresentable. “Who else looks like you? If not for you, then for whom?” he growled roughly. “In any case, I’ll just take it that you’ve accepted it.”
Qian Jiaoniang’s heart gave a heavy thump. So it was for this—he had gone without sleep, turned his hands, once always warm, ice-cold—just to build her that snowman?
Xing Muzheng went on: “Though I gave you this gift, it doesn’t mean I’ll let that matter go without explanation. You still owe me an answer.”
Qian Jiaoniang’s eyes widened. She had been moved, only for a moment.
After a pause, Xing Muzheng stammered a little, with difficulty: “But… yesterday, yesterday I was too harsh. Don’t hold it against me. Next time—no, there won’t be a next time.” In all his life he had never apologized to anyone; now, feeling it shameful, his face flushed with a suspicious red.
Qian Jiaoniang’s glare froze into stiffness. Xing Muzheng’s face really was red!
The two of them stood there, gaze meeting gaze.
After a long moment, just as Qian Jiaoniang was about to speak, Xing Pingchun’s voice came shouting from outside: “Wow! Such a big snowman—who built it?”
The two stepped apart, each turning their head aside, and walked out as if nothing had happened.
Once outside, the household was already bustling. Today was set for a great banquet. There was no time for the manor kitchens to cook enough, so already before the new year Xing Muzheng had ordered dishes from Yuzhou’s Dingxiang House and Fuman House. From noon onward, the dishes were delivered one after another. Qian Jiaoniang felt as though she had done nothing, yet with one small matter after another she was run ragged, feet barely touching the ground.
Suddenly a servant came over: the Marquis requested Qian Jiaoniang in the front hall.
She left Yanluo and Hongjuan behind, changed clothes, and hurried there. Suier lifted the curtain, and Qian Jiaoniang, rubbing her chilled hands, stepped inside—only to freeze at what she saw.
In the hall was not just Xing Muzheng, but a whole crowd of men seated below.
