“You reek of makeup. Where have you been fooling around now?”
He fluttered the fan in his hand, deliberately wafting the scent of makeup toward me.
“I’m not taking the civil service exams, so of course I have to enjoy myself and roam the world.”
I raised my head with a helpless sigh.
“If you have so much free time, why not do some more reading? You could try the exams in a few years. Stop hanging around those disreputable places.”
He folded his fan and said indifferently,
“No, that’s not for me. The burden of restoring the Lục family still falls to you, big brother. I’ll just manage the family business and take life easy.”
Though the Lục family had fallen on hard times, it still possessed considerable wealth, and managing the family business was no light burden. Yet he acted as though it were effortless, as if he’d gotten himself a tremendous bargain.
Seeing how relaxed he looked, I deliberately said,
“Oh? If it’s so easy, then I’ll tell Second Uncle to send you to the capital to get your career started.”
“No, no, big brother! Just pretend I was never here.”
He waved his hands repeatedly, then casually picked up a pastry from the table and popped it into his mouth. He turned to leave while chewing, but before he reached the door, he turned back.
“Big brother, where did you buy these pastries? They’re soft and crisp, cool on the tongue, and sweet without being cloying.”
“I never thought the pastries here would win the approval of the Second Young Master of the Lục family. You don’t usually care for sweets.”
He answered as naturally as could be,
“That’s only because I’ve never come across any that suited my taste before. Don’t beat around the bush, big brother. Just tell me where to buy them.”
I replied casually,
“One of the maids in my courtyard made them. If you like them, take them all.”
He gave me a knowing smile.
“So there’s a skillful young lady here, is there? No wonder you’ve been in such good spirits, big brother. She must deserve a fair bit of the credit, don’t you think?”
I couldn’t be bothered to humor him. I picked up a pastry and tossed it toward his mouth.
“Can’t you keep your mouth shut even while you’re eating? You talk too much.”
He swallowed the pastry and called to the page at his side.
“Vương Ngũ, hurry and find a box. Take all the pastries on this table home.”
I gave him a disgusted look.
“Everyone says the Second Young Master of the Lục family is refined, graceful, and above worldly concerns. Why do you drop all appearances in front of me? They’re only a few plates of pastries. Do you really have to go that far?”
He grinned.
“I only came to keep you company because I was afraid you’d wear yourself out studying. Besides, why should I put on airs in front of you?”
Then he looked all around my room. When he spotted the pots of orchids on the windowsill, he was about to ask Vương Ngũ to take them too. I stopped him.
“These orchids are delicate. They wouldn’t last ten days at your place. Don’t ruin something precious.”
Without waiting for him to answer, I ushered him out with the plates of pastries.
When I returned, I looked at the orchids on the windowsill, fresh and pure, waiting to bloom, and smiled.
In the days that followed, I applied myself even more diligently. If I wanted to restore the Lục family, merely earning the jinshi degree wouldn’t be enough. I had to come in first.
Late at night, the world was still. A gentle breeze slipped through the window, carrying the orchids’ delicate fragrance.
I set down my brush, gently rubbed my tired eyes, and looked outside.
A bright moon hung high in the sky, silver light washing over the courtyard and revealing the small, solitary figure of someone there.
She gazed up at the moon, so intently that it seemed she wanted to see right through it.
I stepped quietly outside and stood behind her in silence.
After a long while, she finally stirred and spoke in a clear, gentle voice.
“May we all live long, and share the sight of this moon though a thousand miles apart.”
I was astonished. This poem was newly composed last year by the great Tô Thức. If my teacher hadn’t happened to mention it around the Mid-Autumn Festival, even I wouldn’t have known it. How could she recite it?
I stood there, staring at her in a daze.
Only after a long while did she turn around.
The moment she saw me, I clearly saw surprise flicker in her eyes, along with a touch of dazed confusion. The deep affection in her gaze was impossible to hide.
But before I could get a closer look, she quickly returned to her usual self.
Cool, rational, distant.
I took her by the arm and asked,
“How did you know how to recite the new poem by the great Tô Thức?”
It was an ordinary question, yet she jumped. Her wide eyes filled with panic, like a startled fawn.
She hurriedly pulled her hand from mine and stammered,
“Young master, you must have misheard.” Then she hurried away.
Watching her flee in a panic, I shook my head and chuckled, puzzled.
“That girl isn’t stupid at all. She’s clearly a little liar.”
I returned to the desk, took out a blank sheet of paper, carefully copied out the poem “Prelude to Water Melody,” and signed it, Lục Văn Quân.
From that night on, she became even more cautious and went out of her way to avoid me, as though I were a vicious beast ready to swallow her whole at any moment.
I found it amusing. That girl was still as timid as ever. Never mind—if she didn’t want to mention that night, I’d forget it along with her, so as not to frighten her any more.
Still, during quiet moments, I sometimes found myself remembering those round, frightened eyes, and the little fawn fleeing through the night.
At last, the day of the examinations arrived. Everyone at Bác Nhã Courtyard saw me off at the gate. As I passed her, while no one was looking, I slipped a small piece of paper into her hand.
I didn’t know whether she knew the whole poem, but now she would.
After several days of arduous travel, I had barely had a chance to rest before I had to hurry into the examination hall.
The spring chill was bitter. In the cramped cubicle at the examination compound, the wooden stool was as cold and hard as ice, making it feel as though I were sitting on a bed of needles.
By chance, my elbow brushed against something soft: the large cloth pouch I used to carry my brushes and ink. When I opened it, I found an extra layer of thick wool sewn inside, wonderfully warm and soft.
I turned the pouch over and laid it on the stool. Then I noticed a line of tiny writing at the bottom, where the two pieces of cloth met.
“May the golden list be proclaimed in the Jade Hall, may imperial favor grant you first place, and may your name be inscribed at the top of the list.”
I gently traced the tiny words. My anxious heart suddenly grew calm, and I thought,
“You little liar. How can you be so lovable?”
The examinations ended, and, just as I’d expected, my name was called from the golden list. I had become a Presented Scholar.
Suitors’ families came calling without end. After careful consideration, Mother finally arranged a marriage for me to the only granddaughter of Lord Thân.
The Thân family was an illustrious clan, renowned for its purity and integrity and strict family rules. Its descendants were all exceptionally talented and virtuous, admired throughout the realm.
The Thân family’s daughter was every bit the grand young lady, famed for her gentle virtue, modesty, and dignified bearing. Many a powerful household vied to marry her.
If Miss Thân hadn’t been frail, even I might not have had a chance to marry into the family.
I considered it for a moment, then nodded in agreement.
Mother was afraid I’d be getting the short end of the stick, so she suggested I take a concubine.
Something stirred within me, and the slight, frail figure of someone appeared before my eyes.
Take a concubine? Of course! If Mother sponsored her, she’d gain some standing, and no one could say a thing. It couldn’t be better.
I gave nothing away, but without thinking, I mentioned her name.
Mother, of course, took the hint and immediately offered to raise her status.
When she arrived, she had changed out of the threadbare clothes she usually wore. She’d lightly applied powder and rouge, and a red hairpin adorned her hair. She looked nothing like her usual self. No longer an inconspicuous maid, she was delicate and refined, with a hint of lively grace.
I couldn’t help staring in surprise. My heart pounded like a drum. I knew it was the little fawn inside me leaping about.
Thinking that before long I could officially spend my days and nights with her, I felt my heart stir, overwhelmed with joy.
And yet, she refused.
I stood there stunned, disappointed and a little angry—and, more than anything, confused.
The master was offering her such a generous opportunity, one countless maids in the household could only dream of. Wealth and status, fine silks and satins, even my favor and Mother’s affection—all of it was within her grasp. And yet she dared to turn it down.
Why? Why on earth?
Could it be that her earlier caution and reserve hadn’t been because she feared meeting Bích Đào’s fate, but because she truly wanted to leave this place?
I couldn’t make out what she was saying. Mother looked displeased and was about to fly into a rage, and seeing her trembling on her knees, I couldn’t help saying:
“If that’s how it is, there’s no need to force her. We might as well let her go and avoid offending the Thân family.”
Mother had always indulged me, so she let go of her anger and dropped the matter. She gave the girl a few taels of silver and sent her away.
When I returned to Bác Nhã Courtyard and saw the pots of magnolias filling the yard, their blossoms soft and pure and their fragrance gentle, I laughed at myself. So be it. I knew she was a little liar; why force her?
After that, I deliberately kept my distance from her.