Chapter Seventy-Two: Unparalleled Beauty

Jiang Youyao gracefully ascended the examination platform.

It was early August. Though in the midst of summer, today blessed them with fine weather. Rain had fallen all through the previous night, and though the skies had not cleared, a cool morning breeze was blowing. Jiang Youyao resembled a bud on the verge of blooming in this quiet dawn—a pale pink lotus, delicate and radiant, trembling as she blossomed.

Ji Shuran had personally dressed her today in garments of rosy cloud hues, brightening the morning with her liveliness. She truly looked the part of a noble young lady raised in a house of great wealth, every gesture refined and exquisite.

The surrounding ladies of high rank exchanged admiring glances with Ji Shuran, who nodded back with a gentle smile. Even the other branch of the Ji family basked in reflected glory—when one’s granddaughter was so outstanding, it was no wonder that Concubine Li enjoyed special favor with Emperor Hongxiao.

Zhou Yanbang stood in the crowd as well. When Jiang Youyao mounted the stage, she cast a glance in his direction—whether deliberate or not, it was hard to say. She quickly averted her eyes, as if shy, giving only a fleeting look.

Those with a penchant for gossip noticed and nudged Zhou Yanbang, teasing, “The third Miss Jiang is up there!”

It was well known among the official circles of Yan Capital that Jiang Youyao was engaged to Zhou Yanbang, heir to the Marquis of Ningyuan. Zhou Yanbang smiled, but the expression was somewhat forced.

The beauty before him was as lively and charming as ever, yet his heart had wandered elsewhere. He could not help but look toward Jiang Li, who was speaking quietly to a friend, oblivious to his gaze.

A bittersweet longing welled up in Zhou Yanbang’s heart. In that moment, he suddenly understood the torturous joy of loving in vain—a feeling both more agonizing and more exhilarating than any other.

In truth, Jiang Li was perfectly aware of Zhou Yanbang’s gaze. She found it both vexing and absurd. The real second Miss Jiang had drowned herself for Zhou Yanbang; had the Marquis’s household ever shown the slightest concern for their betrothed, even a single question, her days might not have been so miserable. But they had not. Now, with the second Miss Jiang long gone, Zhou Yanbang played the role of the lovelorn suitor—a display that only disgusted her.

Jiang Li had no intention of acknowledging him.

Just then, Liu Xu beside her exclaimed, “Look, it’s about to begin.”

On stage, Jiang Youyao had just finished washing her hands. She performed the ritual with natural elegance. To be fair, Jiang Li thought Youyao’s poise at the zither was quite impressive.

Jiang Youyao smiled sweetly, her slender fingers dropped onto the seven-stringed instrument, and she plucked the first string.

“That’s ‘Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank,’” Jiang Li remarked.

Liu Xu was surprised. “How do you know?”

No sooner had she spoken than the music flowed from Jiang Youyao’s fingers—clear and crystalline. It was indeed “Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank.”

Liu Xu stared, dumbfounded. “Have you heard her play it before? Did you know ahead of time what she’d choose?”

“No.”

“Then how did you recognize it? She’d barely started.”

“Just look at her technique. Besides, a single note is enough,” Jiang Li replied lightly.

Liu Xu, however, was unsettled. She scrutinized Jiang Li up and down, then whispered, “Don’t fool me. Did you also learn music? Perhaps you’re quite accomplished? But how could there be a music tutor atop Mount Qingcheng? Are you some kind of prodigy?”

Jiang Li was both amused and exasperated. “It isn’t that difficult,” she said, catching another watchful gaze. Looking up, she met the distant eyes of Ye Shijie.

Ye Shijie quickly averted his eyes, surprising Jiang Li. Afterward, he felt his behavior had only drawn more attention and berated himself. Why worry about Jiang Li embarrassing herself? That girl was clever and crafty, always with hidden cards—who knew what she might do today? Why meddle in her affairs?

“Brother Ye, what are you looking at?” asked Li Lian, the youngest son of the Right Chancellor Li Zhongnan.

Ye Shijie turned back. “Just looking around,” he replied. Since Jiang Li had warned him of Li Lian’s motives, he had kept his distance.

Li Lian sensed his attitude but only smiled, his eyes glinting with curiosity as Ye Shijie looked away.

On stage, Jiang Youyao played beautifully.

“Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank” depicts the autumn sky, where wild geese wheel and gaze about. The ancient saying goes: “To capture the lonely spirit of autumn, the cries of wild geese, the vast clarity of high skies, the calm of windless sands, clouds journeying a thousand miles, geese soaring at the horizon—borrowing from their far-reaching ambition to express a scholar’s lofty heart.”

The melody was melodious and unhurried. Jiang Li had not expected Jiang Youyao to choose such a grand piece, thinking a well-bred lady would pick something more delicate. Not that women couldn’t play bold tunes, but music reveals the soul—how could Youyao possess such expansiveness?

Yet her performance was remarkable.

“This piece is extremely difficult. For years, almost no one has dared attempt it at the examinations, and those who do are mediocre at best. To play it as well as Jiang Youyao—she’s the first,” Liu Xu murmured. “Such tricky fingerwork, yet she makes it seem easy.”

“Is it very difficult?” Jiang Li asked.

“Of course!” Liu Xu replied. “Among the top ten guqin pieces at Mingyi Hall, ‘Flowing Water’ is the simplest, followed by ‘White Snow in Early Spring,’ ‘Three Variations on Plum Blossoms,’ ‘Fisherman’s Song at Dusk,’ ‘Mist and Clouds over Xiao and Xiang Rivers,’ ‘Dialogue on the Fishing Shoal,’ ‘Three Refrains at Yangguan,’ and ‘Guangling Melody.’ Then comes ‘Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank.’ In fact, Fairy Jinghong became famous in Yan Capital for this very piece… Wait,” Liu Xu suddenly recalled, “Jiang Youyao’s moves resemble Fairy Jinghong’s. Did the Fairy perhaps tutor her privately?”

Jiang Li understood. The Jiang family could afford it, and Ji Shuran was determined to make Youyao shine at this examination. If they could engage Fairy Jinghong, it would be no surprise.

“But you mentioned only nine pieces.”

“The hardest is ‘Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute.’ At least people have played ‘Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank,’ even if poorly. But ‘Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute’—no one has ever played it at the examination, not even the finest students, not even Master Xiao.”

Master Xiao, of course, was Xiao Deyin. Jiang Li knew that Xiao Deyin had played it—just not before an audience, always striving for perfection. In private, Xiao Deyin had practiced relentlessly and even sought Jiang Li’s advice.

But Xue Fangfei was dead, and none knew these things now.

Jiang Youyao continued to play, her notes unfolding the wild geese’s myriad forms—their circling, pausing, gliding, startled flight. Her music conjured the sense of an autumn sky, boundless and blue, with geese passing without a trace.

Among the examiners, Xiao Deyin’s expression shifted, while Fairy Jinghong’s eyes showed a flicker of satisfaction at Youyao’s technique.

Someone nearby commented, “I didn’t know the Fairy was taking disciples now?”

It was Mianju, the imperial musician, who, though over fifty, still seemed as lively as a youth, always cheerful, with linen robes worn pale from use—quite unlike an imperial musician. His tone was teasing, clearly disapproving of Fairy Jinghong’s actions.

Fairy Jinghong flushed. Such an expert as Mianju could easily spot Youyao’s tutelage. Though she’d expected it, having it pointed out was still embarrassing. Since marrying a tea merchant’s son, she could no longer show her face in public, but daily life required money. The silver Ji Shuran paid her ensured her family’s comfort for years; she could not refuse.

At least Youyao was a gifted student—better to teach one with talent.

Mianju added, “But your disciple isn’t quite there.”

Even Fairy Jinghong’s good temper was tested. “Please advise me, sir.”

“Forgive my frankness,” Mianju grinned, “but Third Miss Jiang has learned your form, not your spirit. She can play the flock of geese, but that sense of vastness—she falls short.”

Fairy Jinghong was annoyed but knew he spoke the truth. The heart of music could be taught only so far; enlightenment must come from within. Youyao had yet to grasp the heart of the guqin—a regret she could not remedy.

“But she’s young,” Mianju continued. “With little sorrow in her heart, such depth is hard to reach. Still, her performance is excellent. Unless something unexpected happens, she’ll likely take first place today.”

That comforted Fairy Jinghong. She had never taken a student before; if Youyao failed to win after her guidance, it would be a laughingstock.

As they spoke, neither Xiao Deyin nor the musician Shi Yan commented. Xiao Deyin was always discreet, and Shi Yan was far too proud to bother.

Nearby, Ji Heng rested her chin on a fan, eyes half-closed as if dozing in boredom.

Jiang Youyao’s elegant posture and skillful playing, especially on such a challenging piece, made her the focus of all eyes.

“That third Miss Jiang is quite beautiful,” Li Lian remarked.

Ye Shijie found this distasteful; discussing a lady’s looks in public was unseemly. Yet others quickly agreed, voicing their admiration for Youyao.

Elsewhere, a young woman glared at Youyao on stage, muttering, “Such shameless posturing—disgusting!”

This was Shen Ruyun, who admired Zhou Yanbang and thus harbored ill will toward his fiancée. Seeing Youyao draw all eyes, she burned with envy. Her mother chimed in, “She doesn’t look like a girl from a good family.”

Yet, they forgot that Youyao was the daughter of the Prime Minister. By birth, the Shen family was the humble one. If not for Shen Yuyong’s success in the imperial exams, Ruyun would have been lucky to serve as Youyao’s maid.

“She thinks she’s so accomplished—she can’t compare to my sister-in-law,” Ruyun blurted.

Her mother pinched her sharply, and Ruyun realized her mistake. The Shen family never mentioned Xue Fangfei now; to incur that person’s wrath would be dangerous.

At the Jiang family’s table, the usually quiet Jiang Yuyan couldn’t help but say, “Third Sister plays beautifully.”

Jiang Yue’e felt disgruntled—why praise Youyao? But with Ji Shuran present, she forced a smile. “Of course. Third Sister has always been clever, gifted in music. She’s sure to win today. No one else would dare attempt ‘Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank,’ but she plays it flawlessly. In a few years, no one in Yan Capital will be her equal.”

Ji Shuran replied, “Don’t flatter your third sister. If outsiders heard, they’d mock her arrogance. There’s always someone better, and she still has much to learn.”

Yet her smile could not hide her pride.

Yue’e thought bitterly: she was just as talented as Youyao, but only the main branch could afford the best tutors. If she had the same opportunities, she too could shine.

Why wasn’t she born to the main branch? Why were her parents mere secondary members? If only her family were not the humblest of the Jiangs.

Her resentment went unnoticed.

At that moment, Jiang Li was also watching Youyao’s performance.

“She plays… truly well,” Liu Xu admitted reluctantly. The audience’s response said it all—Youyao had widened the gap even further this year.

“But she lacks the heart of the music,” Jiang Li said.

“The heart of the music?” Liu Xu echoed.

“By the end of ‘Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank,’ the composer laments the harshness of life and envies the nature of the geese—landing upon the sands, at ease and unburdened, companions free of suspicion, male and female each in their place. The music is serene, yet vibrant, grace within stillness, tranquility within movement. But because my third sister lacks a touch of detachment in her heart, her playing lacks a certain lightness.”

Liu Xu listened intently.

“My third sister has mastered this piece, but no matter how many times she plays it, if she cannot grasp its essence, her music will always lack something—she will never be the best.”

“You have a point,” Liu Xu conceded. “But to touch the heart of music is easier said than done. Some musicians never reach it in a lifetime. How could the girls at Mingyi Hall possess such insight? Comprehending such depth is almost impossible!”

Jiang Li smiled. Indeed, expecting sheltered young ladies to understand the wild, unrestrained spirit of the geese was wishful thinking. Even most ordinary people never touch such truths.

As they spoke, Jiang Youyao’s piece drew to its close. She finished with a flourish, and applause broke out—unprecedented among the female students.

Youyao was clearly delighted, her smile radiant as she bowed to the examiners and descended the stage.

Liu Xu, palms sweating, whispered to Jiang Li, “What should we do? It’s your turn.”

“It’s fine,” Jiang Li reassured her. “I’ll be back soon.” As she turned to go, Liu Xu caught her sleeve.

“Wait! I haven’t asked—you, what will you play?”

Jiang Li smiled. “Something no one has ever played.” And she walked away.

Liu Xu stood in shock. “Something no one has ever played… she…” Her gaze froze on Jiang Li’s departing figure. “It can’t be…”

Jiang Li mounted the stage just as Jiang Youyao was leaving. As they passed, Youyao smiled sweetly. “Good luck, Second Sister.”

Jiang Li replied without turning, “Of course.”

The child with the red sash announced, “Number thirteen, Jiang Li.”

The arena fell silent.

Jiang Li walked onto the stage.

“Look—your sister’s up,” a mischievous youth nudged Jiang Jingrui.

“Quiet,” Jingrui snapped, annoyed.

The youth grinned. “What, expecting her to conjure celestial music? You’re not ill, are you?”

Everyone knew the scandal of the second Miss Jiang and her eight years in the convent; her reputation as an ignoramus was ingrained. Even if she excelled in the academic exams, the impression was hard to shake. After all, one could study books and etiquette in a convent, but not music, riding, or archery.

Jingrui’s face darkened. Even if he was uncertain, hearing others mock Jiang Li made him angry. “Use your eyes—just watch.”

“Fine, we’ll watch.” The young men laughed, oblivious to the Marquis’s heir, whose gaze lingered on Jiang Li.

Jiang Li washed her hands in preparation.

When she first learned the zither, she knew nothing of incense and rituals—such luxuries belonged only to the wealthy. In Tongxiang, her father’s meager salary barely sufficed, let alone for a fine instrument. Xue Huaiyuan had carved a wooden zither for her, its tone dull and muted. Once she learned to play, she refused to use it.

Her second zither was won by Xue Zhao in a contest. Someone from a wealthy family had taunted him, staking a fine instrument as a bet. Xue Zhao knew how much she longed for a real zither, so he seized the opportunity.

That zither was a treasure for their family. Jiang Li still remembered the day Xue Zhao burst in, triumphant, slinging the instrument onto the table. “Sister, this is for you!”

She used it for many years, playing “Fisherman’s Song at Dusk,” “White Snow in Early Spring,” “Wild Geese Descend on the Sandbank,” “Three Variations on Plum Blossoms.”

A fine blade befits a hero; at first, she believed only a great instrument could showcase great skill. But as time went on, she realized—fine zithers are not so rare, but fine musicians are.

What a pity…

Later, after marrying Shen Yuyong and coming to Yan Capital, Shen’s mother insisted she abandon such pastimes. The zither was locked away, gathering dust.

She heard that after Xue Fangfei’s death, the Shen family burned all her belongings. That zither, full of memories and love, had likely perished in the flames.

Jiang Li lowered her gaze, feeling strangely calm.

“What’s she doing? Why hasn’t she started?” someone grumbled.

“Maybe she doesn’t know how—she’s frozen up.”

“Very possible. There are no music tutors in a convent.”

“If she can’t play, she should just give up. Why make a fool of herself?”

“It’s all for appearances. Admitting she can’t play would be humiliating.”

“Isn’t standing there doing nothing even more embarrassing?”

Mockery, ridicule, pity, and sympathy filled the air. Ye Shijie watched anxiously. Last time, Jiang Li had seemed clever—what had happened to her composure now? Jiang Li’s silence delighted Youyao and Yue’e; if she failed on stage, her earlier academic success would be meaningless.

Ji Shuran fretted, “What’s wrong with Lier?”

“Maybe Second Sister really can’t play?” Youyao muttered. “That can’t be—she’s always been clever, surely she’ll excel here too.”

Her words reignited doubts about Jiang Li’s earlier achievements.

Meng Hongjin, seeing Jiang Li stand motionless on stage, was overjoyed, wishing she would trip and disgrace herself thoroughly.

Even Xiao Deyin frowned, signaling the attendant to prompt Jiang Li—if she delayed any longer, she would be removed from the platform.

As the red-sashed child was about to step forward, Jiang Li spoke suddenly, without warning.

“Moonlit winds at dusk, new groves in flower’s flush. Lovers tease beneath the spring moon, slender in trailing gauze.”

It was a folk song, sung in a dialect unfamiliar to Yan Capital, lively and bright.

“What is that?” Youyao asked Ji Shuran.

Shuran shook her head. She had never heard it.

“Sounds like a local tune,” Lu-shi of the second branch remarked. “Perhaps Lier learned it from the mountain folk in the convent?”

It was plausible.

Jiang Li was unaffected by the murmurs, still singing her unfamiliar song, not touching the zither.

“Green lotus leaves cover still waters, hibiscus blooms crimson and fresh. My beloved longs to pluck me, my heart yearns for the lotus.”

Her voice was pure and gentle, clear as an undiscovered spring—peaceful yet lively, flowing like snowmelt in spring, carrying sunlight, morning dew, dawn clouds, and the evening breeze.

Like a lotus-gathering girl’s first encounter with her sweetheart, innocent love springing up, quickly flourishing into a fragrant grove.

“Autumn winds slip through my window, muslin curtains billow and sway. I gaze up at the bright moon, sending my heart to your distant light.”

The maiden, lost in her lover’s smile, pours her feelings into the moonlight—so pure, so lovely, yet tinged with sadness. Love is wonderful, making everything charming, making one forget how short are spring and summer, that autumn has arrived and winter is near.

And she sang: “Last parted, the grass was green; now I return, snow on osmanthus. Who knows the pain of longing? Black hair turns white with sorrow.”

Her song ended abruptly.

The seasons change; the singing girl’s waiting is in vain, youth lost to the years. Was it time that passed, or did she waste her time?

Jiang Li’s voice was beautiful—her singing, even more so. Before anyone realized, the audience was swept away by the sweet, melancholy dream conjured by her unfamiliar tune.

“What is that song called? I’ve never heard it,” someone murmured.

“No idea,” another replied. “It’s not a Yan Capital melody.”

Not far from Princess Yongning, Shen Yuyong suddenly looked up at the girl on stage. He had heard that song…

It was a folk tune well known in Tongxiang, called “Midnight Songs of the Four Seasons.” Every girl there could sing it. Jiang Li smiled faintly—she too had sung it.

On the judges’ platform, Xiao Deyin frowned, lost in thought. Fairy Jinghong was astonished; Shi Yan remained impassive, but Mianju was delighted, waving his hands with glee. “What a clever girl! Music has always been about the zither, but she sings—and it’s a fine song!”

“That’s not allowed,” Fairy Jinghong explained gently. “If we judge not on zither, but on songs, it’s unfair to the other students.”

Mianju was about to retort when he noticed something, chuckling, “Never mind fairness—look, even the Duke has been roused by her singing.”

It was Ji Heng, who had opened his eyes for the first time, watching the girl on stage with a subtle smile.

This was the first time Ji Heng had shown any interest.

Elsewhere, Yue’e remarked, “Is Second Sister only planning to sing, not play?”

The song was novel, but music competitions were about the zither, not singing.

Clearly, the second Miss Jiang was out of ideas—so everyone thought, until Jiang Li placed her hands on the strings and began to play.

The first note rang out.

“She’s playing after all.”

“Listen—what is she…”

Before the word was finished, a stream of music poured out, even more striking than Youyao’s, as if a blade had been carved into the listeners’ hearts.

“She’s playing ‘Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute!’”

Someone recognized it, voice trembling with excitement. The entire audience changed color. Even at Mingyi Hall, no teacher dared attempt that piece, much less a student. Jiang Li dared?

How many years had it been since anyone attempted “Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute”?

The hall fell silent. Suddenly, Mianju burst out laughing, waving his arms in excitement. “It’s ‘Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute!’ This girl has courage—such boldness!”

Fairy Jinghong sighed, “Sir, quiet, please.”

Mianju grinned sheepishly and fell silent.

Now only Jiang Li’s music filled the hall.

“Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute” tells of a woman’s sorrow at exile and loss. The key is a sense of bleakness. Mingyi Hall’s girls—aristocratic maidens in the bloom of youth—knew only fleeting troubles, no true sorrow. How could they play true melancholy? Even “sadness” was beyond them.

People often speak of empathy, but how many truly feel another’s pain? Perhaps only a sage.

Meng Hongjin sneered, “Foolish—just making a spectacle of herself…”

She assumed Jiang Li would fail. If Jiang Li succeeded, wouldn’t that mean she was more talented than any girl at Mingyi Hall in years? Impossible.

But soon, Meng Hongjin could no longer laugh—her face grew pale.

Jiang Li’s playing was masterful, as if she’d studied for decades, her movements effortless, natural. She sat on the stage, sleeves fluttering in the breeze, fresh and beautiful. The examination hall became a mountain valley, far from worldly clamor. It was as if she played for herself.

Indeed, she did play for herself.

Her gaze seemed to rest nowhere and everywhere at once.

The piece spoke of exile and loss—she herself had lost her home, her family ruined, her loved ones gone. Her enemies flourished, while she could only bide her time.

Restraint is sorrow, blood-deep vengeance is sorrow, wrongful deaths are sorrow, a family’s ruin is sorrow. Oppression is sorrow, heaven’s injustice is sorrow—sorrow upon sorrow!

Her music rang out like a sword piercing the sky, a surge of righteous anger that left listeners’ hearts shattered, unable to contain their grief.

Desolation! Lament! Heart-wrenching pain!

For the first time in years, someone played “Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute” at the examination. Even remembering the notes would have been impressive. But Jiang Li played not only accurately, but with deep familiarity.

Yet she was only fifteen—how could she understand such sorrow?

“The twelfth variation, joy and grief entwined; love and parting, hard to express. The thirteenth, the strings pressed, the music urgent and mournful, the heart pierced, no one understands me.

The fourteenth, tears streaming, the river flows east, my thoughts follow. The fifteenth, the rhythm presses, my chest fills with unspoken longing.

The sixteenth, yearning stretches on—I and my child, each far away. Sun rises east, moon sets west, only distant gazes, unable to follow, breaking the heart. Facing daylilies, worries remain; playing the zither, my feelings wounded. Now I part from my child, return home, old grudges renewed by new sorrows. I cry blood to the heavens—why must I alone suffer this fate?”

Xiao Deyin’s always gentle face was rigid, her hands trembling. In this piece, Jiang Li’s skill far surpassed her own—she could have been her teacher!

The foremost musician in Yan Capital had become a joke.

Fairy Jinghong, though surprised, felt no jealousy, having moved beyond the pursuit of fame. She only wondered how a girl of fourteen could penetrate the depths of this piece. Even if Jiang Li had lost her mother young, spent eight years in hardship, that suffering was not the same as the sorrow in the music.

It was almost unbelievable.

Mianju was delighted, his eyes shining as if he’d found a treasure. He murmured, “A born musician!”

Shi Yan, too, was moved, his arrogance replaced by genuine admiration.

The last of the four judges was Ji Heng.

While the entire hall was ensnared by Jiang Li’s music—some jealous, some fearful, others lost in grief—Ji Heng alone remained untouched. He watched Jiang Li with a slight, unchanging smile, as if watching a play within a play.

He observed the stage and the audience, all the world’s drama, as a beautiful, detached spectator.

He remained wholly apart.

While some were swept away and others stood apart, what of Jiang Li herself?

She was engulfed in immense sorrow—her music and inner grief feeding each other, growing ever larger. It was as if she had split in two: one, the anguished Xue Fangfei, pouring out her sorrows in music; the other, Jiang Li, coolly watching the audience’s reactions.

“The seventeenth variation, heart and nose sore, mountains and barriers make travel hard. Departing, I miss my home; returning, I ache for my child.

The eighteenth, the music ends, but the echo lingers, longing unending. The music of nature, joy and sorrow changing with the heart, understanding comes with change. The Hu and Han, different lands, heaven and earth apart, child west, mother east. My grief fills the sky, the vastness cannot contain it.”

All sorrow must end, all music must cease.

Jiang Li struck the final chord; the great sound faded into emptiness.

No one spoke. Heaven and earth seemed to mourn with the music.

Liu Xu felt something cold on her face; she touched it—her cheeks were wet with tears. Many around her had wept, lost in sadness.

“Eighteen Songs of the Nomads’ Flute” had finally been played at the examination, and that folk song before it had deepened the sorrow.

Everyone looked up at Jiang Li on stage—had they not seen it, none would believe that such music could come from a fifteen-year-old girl.

She stood on the platform, the wind tossing her hair, head bowed, seeming very calm.

Jiang Li sighed deeply. As she looked up, she was startled.

She met a pair of long, beautiful phoenix eyes, full of amusement.