Shufeng averted his eyes from the fan—the sight of his returned love token splintered his heart—and coincidentally saw that a few meters away from the dais the woman swathed in white silken orchids stared at him.
She offered her patented smile.
His eyes flashed, as though he was remembering something. He was able to think connectedly of the events of the past eight years: The way both their gazes lingered on one another, the way their voices became softer; in conversation they stood that little bit closer than folks usually do, and when they parted company he lent in to plant a kiss on her cheek. Wasn't it the silent language of love?
Taizong tapped his brother's left forearm with the back of his hand. On cue, Shufeng turned to his brother so that they sat with their torso facing each other. Next, his head gave in to a tilt that made him look like a hound hearing a whistle for the first time as Taizong declared:
