Shen Lian didn't call for help. She didn't shout for a servant or rush to the boy's side.
Instead, she stepped forward with quiet deliberation and knelt before him. Her eyes swept over his injuries—deep gashes along his ribs, dirt beneath his nails, and the unmistakable bruises left by shackles.
So it was already this day.
This was the day Shen Lian had overheard in her past life—the day the marquis's guards dumped a "thief" outside the estate to die, not knowing they had thrown away a tiger cub.
"Do you have a name?" she asked.
The boy blinked at her, too weak to respond. His eyes were wary, still brimming with pain and pride.
"Never mind," she murmured. "You'll have a name when I give it."
She tore off her outer robe and wrapped it around him.
Footsteps approached.
"Miss Shen! What are you doing outside in the snow?" One of the senior maids, Aunt Lin, rushed over, her face stricken with worry. "You'll catch cold!"
Shen Lian rose slowly. "I heard a noise and found a dying child by the fence."
"Then we should call the steward! This might be trouble—"
"No." Shen Lian's voice was soft, but it silenced the older woman instantly. "Send for Doctor Lu. Quietly. Tell the kitchen to make porridge."
Aunt Lin hesitated. Shen Lian turned her head slightly, her gaze level.
"This is my courtyard. I'll take responsibility."
The maid bowed and left.
Shen Lian turned back to the boy. He had passed out.
"Don't die," she said, brushing the hair from his forehead. "I haven't even begun to use you yet."
Above them, the plum blossoms continued to fall like snow.