Morning light has just begun to tint the upturned eaves of the Liu family ancestral home when Yun Cangyue is jolted awake by a rush of hurried footsteps.

Liu Xiyu stands before a bronze mirror, adjusting her collar.
On her jade-green brocade robe, the chi dragon patterns quiver with her movements,
as if they might wriggle free of the fabric and bite.

“Ayue, look at this waist sash!”

She lifts a jade-inlaid leather belt, her voice steeped in utter resignation.

“Father insists I wear this to the poetry gathering—
says it’s proper Duanyang attire…”

“This isn’t attending a gathering.
It’s wrapping a rice dumpling!”

Yun Cangyue rolls over lazily.

From the front courtyard drifts the sweet scent of steaming glutinous rice.
There’s still a faint tang of realgar wine clinging to Liu Xiyu’s sleeves—
the presence of Duanyang so thick it could be mixed straight into a meal.

The bronze bells under the eaves sway softly.
Her ear tips twitch, catching the rustle of servants carrying bundles of calamus—

Liu’s father, clearly, has set his mind on making his daughter attend the gathering properly.

Liu Xiyu suddenly squats in front of the rabbit nook, her fingertip poking at the carved bars of the cage.

“Those sour old pedants are bound to make me improvise poetry on the spot again!”

“AYue, do me a favor—
what do you say to knocking over an inkstone during the banquet later?”

“Best if it splashes right onto Master Li’s goatee…”

A flick of a tail bats her finger away.
Pink paw pads press plum-blossom prints onto the blue stone tiles.

Ever since the dye house accounts were audited last month,
this one has grown increasingly sly—
even skipping events now had to be plotted down to the last detail.

“Miss, the carriage is ready.”

A maid’s soft call comes from outside the door.

In an instant, Liu Xiyu puts on the bearing of a proper young lady,
slipping Yun Cangyue into a specially made brocade pouch.

The pouch is embroidered with a hundred-herb pattern.
A hidden pocket holds honeyed plums and a miniature writing kit—
practically a “handy bag of tricks” made just for a poetry gathering.

“If anyone asks,
just say it’s a mugwort sachet to ward off evil.”

She gives the pouch a light pat, smiling like a mouse that’s just made off with stolen oil.

At the poetry gathering, Liu Xiyu kneels on a mat of green bamboo slats,
looking like a butterfly pinned fast into a picture frame.

Up front, an old scholar sways his head as he recites,
“fragrant herbs, fair beauties, standing apart from the world.”
As the crowd breaks into applause, she quietly fishes out a plum from the brocade pouch,
flicks it lightly with her fingers—

Thunk.

The pit drops cleanly into a bronze bowl, the sound swallowed by the cheers.

From the gap in the pouch, Yun Cangyue witnesses it all, her ear tips twitching.

When did she pick up such hidden-weapon skills?

No wonder—during last month’s account checking,
she was always lining up abacus beads at the sparrows outside the window.

“Next, we invite the winner of the policy discourse to present their talent!”

The master of ceremonies suddenly calls out.

Liu Xiyu’s spine goes rigid.

Last month, she had scraped through the policy discourse exam thanks to Yun Cangyue’s claw-mark annotations—
never expecting there would be an impromptu question waiting here as well.

The scroll snaps open.
“On the Balance Between Duanyang Boat Races and Commerce”—
the words cut like blades, a chill stabbing into her fingertips.

Those tongue-twisting policy phrases always make her think
of the towering stacks of ledgers piled in the accounting room.

A faint scratch comes from inside the brocade pouch.

A claw tip pierces the silk, tracing a wave across her palm—
the signal for “stir things up.”

“This student believes…”

Liu Xiyu suddenly rises to her sleeve “accidentally” hooking the celadon teapot on the desk.

Tea splashes across the question scroll.
With a startled cry, she stumbles back half a step,
and the brocade pouch slips neatly into the seating area.

“Oh no! My mugwort sachet!”

Yun Cangyue tumbles out of the pouch,
her silver-gray form streaking across the bamboo mat like a flash of light.

Before the guests can even make out what’s happening,
she has already darted up the high-hung poetry scroll.
Claw tips snag and tear the silk,
shredding “boat races and commerce” into fluttering scraps that fill the air.

“Where did this rabbit come from, making such a mess!”

The old scholar stamps his foot in anger.

“My apologies! This is my father’s pet moon rabbit—
it must have caught the scent of realgar and been startled!”

Liu Xiyu hikes up her skirt hem and gives chase,
the gold-threaded chi dragon patterns flinging joyful arcs in the sunlight.

The two fugitives from the poetry gathering squat beside a sugar-painting stall, catching their breath.

Grass clippings cling all over Liu Xiyu’s jade-green brocade robe.
A torn strip of poem-scroll silk dangles from Yun Cangyue’s ear tip—
looking exactly like deserters who won the battle, yet came away wounded.

“Ayue, the way you look when you tear up the prompt—
even nimbler than Father when he swings a sword!”

She weaves a collar from calamus leaves and tucks a fluffy pomegranate blossom into it.

“A Duanyang hero ought to wear a red flower!”

She gives her head a small shake, letting the fluffy blossom fall, then her paw pads pat against the iron griddle of the sugar-painting stall.

The vendor ladles up amber sugar syrup.
With a flick of the wrist, he pulls the syrup into phoenix tail feathers, sugar threads glowing honey-bright in the sunlight.

“Miss, would you like a dragon boat, or a sachet?”

the vendor asks with a grin.

Liu Xiyu’s eyes dart.
She suddenly lifts Yun Cangyue up above the griddle.

“Draw her—just like this!”

Sugar syrup drizzles down.

Yun Cangyue freezes like a stone statue, watching as the vendor draws out round ears and a stubby tail with sugar threads.
The sugar rabbit turns out so crystal-clear that the flowing honey patterns can be seen within.

Liu Xiyu, however, wrinkles her nose.

“The tail’s too pointy! My Ayue’s tail is like a little snowball…”

Sweat beads at the vendor’s temple.
Three rabbits in a row are drawn—each one found fault with.

Yun Cangyue reaches out a paw and lightly nudges the edge of the iron griddle.
The sugar rabbit tilts ever so slightly, and the amber syrup obediently runs into a crooked, lopsided smile.

“Huh? Th-this… this is rather distinctive…” the vendor freezes.

She lets out a snort of laughter and drops a silver coin onto the stall.

“This one! Look—doesn’t that smile look exactly like Ayue when she’s sulking?”

She snaps off one ear of the sugar rabbit and brings it to Yun Cangyue’s mouth,
sugar crumbs clinging to her fingertips, bright and sparkling.

As they push through the crowd, Liu Xiyu is tripped.

She staggers backward, shielding Yun Cangyue in her arms,
the small of her back bumping into a warm chest.

“Careful, miss.”

A clear male voice comes from above her head.

She looks up to see a youth in blue robes holding her brocade pouch.
As he moves, the wolf-head motif embroidered in silver thread at his cuff slips in and out of view.

His brows and eyes carry an easy smile,
yet Yun Cangyue’s fur bristles at once—
the scent clinging to him is a mix of iron rust and aloeswood,
like a nobleman who has slipped straight from the battlefield into the marketplace.

“Thank you, sir. That is my—”

She reaches out to retrieve the pouch,
but the youth lifts his arm higher.

“What an unusual embroidery.”

His fingertips brush over the hundred-herb pattern on the pouch, his tone shifting abruptly.

“Your pet seems remarkably perceptive.”

“The way it tore through the poetry scroll just now—
it rather reminded me of a Western hound lunging for a rabbit.”

Yun Cangyue pushes open Liu Xiyu’s collar with her head,
her amber eyes fixed on the youth’s waist—

A Wolf-Head Pendant carved from black jade hangs from his leather belt.
Blood amber is set into the wolf’s eyes, casting a sinister, muted gleam in the daylight.

“You flatter me, sir.”

She slips back half a step, quietly.

“My rabbit is timid—
I fear she wouldn’t hold up well to tales from the Western Regions.”

The youth lets out a low chuckle and returns the brocade pouch.
Before turning and melting into the crowd, he flicks the Wolf-Head Pendant lightly.

“Peace and good health for Duanyang, little rabbit.”

Staring after the direction he vanished,
Yun Cangyue’s claw tips absently worry at Liu Xiyu’s sash.

That wolf-head motif is identical to the Western Regions trade map hanging in Liu’s father’s study— even the curve of the wolf fangs matches almost exactly…

“What are you spacing out for?”

She ruffles Yun Cangyue’s ear fur.

“Come on, let’s go set river lanterns!
I secretly saved some lotus-seed pastries Mother made!”

As the river lanterns drift along with the evening glow,
she suddenly gives Yun Cangyue’s paw a light squeeze.

“You’ve been shedding like willow fluff lately—
don’t tell me you’re trying to learn from magpies and build a nest?”

No sooner is the question asked than her hand is swatted away by a flicking tail.
She watches as a paw reaches into the brocade pouch and hooks out a dark-blue cloth bundle.

Liu Xiyu loosens the tie.
A rush of silver-gray down spills out, mingled with the dried scent of mugwort,
scattering in the wind like fine grains of starlight—

All of it soft fur saved from these past days of grooming,
each little tuft still carrying the warmth of sun-dried afternoons.

“This is…?”

She presses the fur to her cheek, rubbing lightly,
and suddenly feels a raised shape beneath the inner lining of the bundle.

Her fingers pick open the stitching. Inside, there are even small bundles of rabbit fur tied together with silk thread, each finished with a crooked knot shaped like the character “Yue”.

Yun Cangyue turns her back and pretends to sleep,
yet the tips of her ears glow red, almost translucent with light.

After lightly tying the cloth bundle at her waist,
Liu Xiyu suddenly buries her face in Yun Cangyue’s fur and murmurs, her voice muffled:

“From now on, I’ll tell everyone—
this is the warmest talisman under heaven…”

From afar comes the thunder of dragon-boat drums.
The setting sun melts their shadows together into a single, warm ball of fluff.

Liu Xiyu hums a newly made tune,
its lyrics tangled with laughter and the sweetness of sugar:

“Duanyang poetry meets are busy tearing questions apart—
better the fluffy pouch by the riverbank…”

A paw reaches out quietly, hooking a loose strand of her hair.

Their laughter kneads into the evening breeze,
and together with that Wolf-Head Pendant hiding its deeper design,
ferments this day into a second secret of summer.