Chapter 1

Chapter One

Spring’s beauty is divided into three parts: two are dust, one is flowing water. Across the pond, tiny duckweed floats—are they willow catkins? No, they are the tears of those parted...

A row of pavilions by the river is shrouded in mist; the water fills the ponds. Beside the bridge, the shadow play theater has not performed “The Execution of Guan Yu” today, but instead sings “Longing for Husband.” Unlike the troupes that officials invite with heavy gold, there are no flutes or drums here, only a clear, ringing voice, occasionally punctuated with scattered beats. The melody is sharp and winding, full of sorrow and longing, the tale of separation rendered in exquisite detail.

A month ago, the frontiers grew tense. The court conscripted thirty thousand soldiers, and many young men from the city departed for the battlefield. Tears of farewell have continued ever since.

Most of the audience below are women, their eyes fixed on the lone figure remaining behind the curtain. Their emotions rise and fall with the singing, eyes growing misty. Sparse rain drips onto their temples, gradually dampening their shoulders, yet none leave.

Suddenly, the curtain’s lights fade, the heartbreaking song abruptly ceases—the play is over.

A head peeks out from behind the stage, rough cloth cap on, a fair face beneath. The performer beams at the crowd, “It’s raining, let’s call it a day.”

The stilted house built against the bridge cannot accommodate too many. The women crowd the stone steps, sitting or standing, slowly awakening from their sorrow, lingering in their thoughts, complaints rising, “Already finished? It’s not even dark…”

“Yes, sing one more!”

It isn’t dark yet, but it’s raining.

The gates of the Feng household close early on rainy days; those who arrive late can only crawl through the dog hole by the west wall.

The “young fellow” of the shadow play troupe smiles and says nothing, quietly packing up the puppets behind the curtain. Once removed from the light, the vivid little figures seem to lose their life, stiff and lifeless. The performer carefully places them in a wooden chest, slings it over a shoulder, and heads out into the rain.

The audience outside, mingled with grumblers, has already dispersed. The gray stone slabs along the river are now stained a bluish hue by the rain.

“Shi Jin, closing up for the day?” someone calls from the roadside.

Along the river, the street is usually full of tourists and casual vendors, most ordinary folk eking out a living. With no fixed stalls, they find empty spots to sit; after enough time, everyone becomes familiar.

Shi Jin nods with a smile, “It’s raining, Aunt Wang. You should pack up early too.”

“Spring rain is unpredictable, who knows when it’ll stop? I’ll wait a bit longer—if I don’t sell today, this pot of eggs will be wasted.” She deftly fishes an egg from the pot, wipes it dry with a cloth, and presses it into Shi Jin’s hand. “Saw you didn’t eat at noon—fill your stomach first…”

“No need…”

Aunt Wang squeezes her hand, grateful. “Don’t think I don’t know—you bought all my leftover eggs last time.”

Shi Jin smiles, thanking her politely, “Thank you, Aunt Wang.”

The marinated egg is still warm from the pot, somewhat hot, and Shi Jin tosses it from palm to palm. At the blacksmith’s shop, the smith is forging a blade—his furnace blazes, and each hammer blow on glowing iron sends sparks flying.

Shi Jin steps back, standing at the bottom of the steps, craning her neck, “Brother Wei!”

The blacksmith turns, recognizes her, sets down his hammer, wipes his hands on the black cloth over his chest, and strides over. He shakes his head regretfully, “I’ve checked all the places that sell news—no sign of her.”

This result is not new, and Shi Jin isn’t surprised.

Everyone on this street knows she’s searching for her younger sister—rumored to have survived a disaster a year ago, leaving only the siblings. On their journey fleeing famine, they became separated and never reunited.

In the twenty-six provinces of Daye, finding an obscure commoner is like searching for a needle in the sea.

The words are ominous; it is feared her sister met misfortune.

“No matter, please keep looking, Brother Wei.” The sorrow on her face vanishes as she hands him the hot marinated egg, “Aunt Wang just cooked this—fresh.”

To earn a living in the crowded capital, everyone relies on their own skills. Shi Jin depends on her shadow puppet performances—alone, pulling the strings and singing, with no help. Though her act lacks grandeur, her stories and singing are moving, and business is good. She treats the neighbors generously, always smiling, and is well-liked.

Seeing the rain intensify overhead, the blacksmith lends her a bamboo hat.

The hat woven from thin strips covers her entire face. As she crosses the bridge, a few young beggars huddle beneath its eaves. Hearing her approach, their eyes shine and watch her intently.

Shi Jin does not disappoint; she fishes out her purse from her sleeve and weighs it. With only one show in the rain today, earnings are halved. “Tonight we’ll have Aunt Wang’s marinated eggs.”

She tosses the purse forward; a beggar catches it, and the group rushes away, heading for Aunt Wang’s stall.

Rain shrouds the river like smoke, sparse lanterns reflected in the misty green waves. Shi Jin continues on.

Across the river, upstairs in a teahouse, ancient flower windows are open. A young gentleman by the window idly observes the figure vanishing into the deep alley’s mist, asking, “Is that Shen Mingsu?”

“My lord, I’ve followed her for some time. A year ago, Lady Shen began frequenting this area, calling herself Jiang Shi Jin.”

—

The back alleys are not as wide as the riverside—two tall walls stand, with a narrow stone path between. There’s no eaves for shelter; the rain falls directly onto one’s body.

At the end, before a small door, Shi Jin quickly produces a key from her pocket, unlocks the brass lock, and enters.

The bamboo hat, wet with rain, is hung on the wall. She unloads the wooden chest from her shoulder, placing it by the bedside cabinet, and finally removes her round cap.

A cascade of black hair pours down instantly, like flowing ink-silk, reaching her waist.

Jiang Shi Jin is indeed Shen Mingsu.

She is also the legitimate eldest daughter of the Feng family, the fiancée of the esteemed Left Deputy of the Ministry, whom all revere.

A year ago, disaster struck the Shen family. On his deathbed, Lord Shen entrusted a marriage contract to Shen Mingsu, urging her to take her sister to the capital for refuge with the Feng family.

In the end, only Shen Mingsu reached the Feng family.

She has stayed for a year.

Though the marriage has not been formalized, everyone in the capital knows that Feng Zhongyan has an unmarried fiancée living in his household.

---

In great households, face and decorum are paramount. The two aunties in the house once laid down three rules: “Miss Shen, you are mindful and independent; the servants cannot control you. But as long as the engagement with the Feng family stands, you must safeguard the Feng family’s reputation outside.”

She understands this well.

She changes out of her blue robe into a skirt. When she emerges, her every word and gesture betrays no hint of Jiang Shi Jin. The oil-paper umbrella is perfectly held, her steps measured, and her expression composed, all traces of earlier recklessness erased. She is now every inch a proper lady from a noble house.

She has memorized the route from the market to the Feng residence; a covered boat takes half an hour to reach.

The Feng family’s mansion was gifted by His Majesty two years ago. The main gate is reserved for honored guests and family; others use the east or west side gates.

The corner gate is mostly for servants; Shen Mingsu enters through the east gate.

Few people use the east gate, and it is close to her courtyard. Only inconvenience is that it closes early on rainy days, but she arrives just in time.

She crosses the corridor, puts away her umbrella, straightens her attire, and takes a deep breath before proceeding.

As she steps over the threshold, she sees the two aunties standing left and right at the doorway.

The lady on the left was assigned by the Lady Feng, named Lian Sheng. The one on the right was given by Feng Zhongyan, named Wan Yue.

They have lived with her for a year. At first, they tried hard to guide her, but seeing she was hopeless, they let her be.

When she is not present, they pretend not to see her, avoiding annoyance. Standing here now, they must have business.

Both see her, fold hands before their waists, bow to her, but their eyes slowly rise, noticing the dirt on her shoes and openly showing their displeasure.

Shen Mingsu instinctively draws her feet beneath her skirt.

When Feng Zhongyan stayed at her home years ago, she always told him to feel at ease, to treat her home as his own. He would smile but never reply.

Now she understands what it’s like to live under another’s roof. She looks up and smiles, “Aunties, forgive me.”

“Lady Shen, you jest. We are mere servants, how could we bear your apology?”

They are servants, but she is not necessarily their mistress.

The Feng family’s dislike of her is nothing new—from Lady Feng to the maids, all have some prejudice.

A talent like Feng Zhongyan, had he not been engaged to her, would have married a princess or duchess, not an orphan like her.

But the Shen family saved his life; though unwilling, the Fengs cannot say so, and must serve her.

Lian Sheng goes to fetch a clean skirt, Wan Yue stays to change her shoes, tone neither warm nor cold. “The Provincial Lord sent someone for you an hour ago; you were not in, so I reported you were out buying rouge.”

Shen Mingsu is startled.

Only Feng Zhongyan is called Provincial Lord by Wan Yue.

Two years ago, Feng Zhongyan crafted a flock of wooden birds that dropped sleeping powder on Hu army, rescuing the emperor and earning the title of National Duke for his father and Left Deputy for himself, becoming the head of all officials—a figure revered by all.

Great power brings great responsibility. Even living under the same roof, she seldom saw him; the last time was at the Duke’s birthday a month ago.

Why would he suddenly summon her?

Could it be her activities outside the mansion were discovered? Her heart tightens. “Did he say what for?”

“I do not know.”

She is nervous; Lian Sheng and Wan Yue are nervous too. Shen Mingsu has been in the mansion a year, and the Provincial Lord has summoned her only a handful of times.

They are uneasy, fearing trouble. They tidy her appearance, and as she is about to leave, remind her, “Remember not to lose decorum before the Provincial Lord.”

“Decorum”—she has heard the word so many times her ears are numb.

When she first entered the Fengs, Lady Feng told her: beauty lies in the bones, not the skin. However lovely, beauty grows dull with time; for the family’s reputation, she must learn decorum.

Don’t lean on doors, don’t shake your head when walking, don’t show teeth when smiling, listen more and speak less…

She grew up in the Shen household, her father a demoted imperial physician, living leisurely with her mother, who spoiled her and her sister, teaching only survival, not decorum. Suddenly required to learn, people say habits die hard; it was like breaking bones and mending them anew.

It was difficult, but with determination, even the hardest things can be mastered. In a year, she has learned the basics, if not the essence.

Wan Yue escorts her to the gate of the Quiet Courtyard, where a young servant leads her inside. Her hair ornament stays perfectly in place along the way.

At the main door, the servant bows, “Please wait, Lady Shen, I will announce you.”

She didn’t understand these rules at first, finding it strange—why must she be announced to see him?

At her home, she would simply knock and enter, ignoring protests. Before she could speak, he would look up impatiently, cold-eyed, “In future, have the servants announce you first.”

Afterward, Lady Feng scolded her, and she was punished with several days of missed suppers.

Physical punishment is effective; she learned to wait to be announced, and realized even then, she might not be received.

So many refusals led her to give up, never visiting again.

Today he summoned her—it was different.

The servant announced her, “Lady Shen has arrived.” Soon, a clear voice from inside: “Come in.”

Shen Mingsu remembers the aunties’ advice, and upon entering, keeps her gaze fixed on the floor, not daring to look at the man inside. Yet her nose catches a scent of cold plum blossoms.

She knows the fragrance well—it’s made from snow water taken from plum blossoms, formed into a ball called “Spring’s Message in the Snow.” She had seen him make it; now, smelling it again, she feels as if years have passed.

---

The servant leads her to seat on the opposite side of the soft couch, serves tea, and retreats behind the beaded curtain.

Now only the two remain. Shen Mingsu sits properly, eyes fixed on the rising smoke from the incense burner, not hearing him speak for a long time, her heart growing restless.

If her activities outside were discovered, she does not know what he would do.

At last he asks, “You went out?”

Shen Mingsu nods, “The rouge was finished at home. The aunties did not know what I wanted, so I went myself.”

“Mm.” He does not ask further.

She relaxes—so it’s not about that. What could it be? Unable to guess, she waits quietly.

Feng Zhongyan glances sideways at her. His mother had remarked she was much quieter than when she first arrived. Now, seeing her, it is true. He notes her hands folded neatly on her knees, and says gently, “You need not be so tense.”

“Yes.” She replies, but her posture remains rigid.

He does not press further.

Today, the Crown Prince mentioned in court, “Lady Shen has lived at your house a year—don’t let her wait too long, Duke Feng. When will you arrange the wedding?”

It has indeed been some time. Feng Zhongyan drums his fingers on his knees, taking advantage of this rare leisure on a rainy day to speak with her. He turns, “Why are you silent?”

Shen Mingsu is surprised, forgetting decorum, and turns to look at him.

The moment their eyes meet, she is momentarily stunned.

He is not in official dress, but wears a black round-collared robe embroidered with gold, silver crown in his hair, pale and flawless, with cold, elegant features. Five years ago, she knew he was handsome; now, with the highest rank, power has lent him an icy aura, his gaze sharp and noble, like a beautiful sword impossible to look away from.

Their eyes meet, and a sudden sting pierces her heart. She quickly looks away, understanding his intention.

He is giving her a chance to speak.

Such an opportunity is rare—a dream come true. Yet she cannot recall the last time she spoke to him or what she said, and cannot find a topic. After hesitating, she gives up, and asks, “Why did the Provincial Lord summon me?”

Lady Feng had told her, she could no longer call him “Brother Feng,” but must use “Provincial Lord” or “Sir.”

She remembers.

Feng Zhongyan does not answer, but after a pause asks, “Did you make the Luban lock?”

“Yes.” Her anxiety tightens once more.

Her mother’s family, the Su clan, had ancestors who were Luban’s disciples, but by her mother’s generation, the skills were lost, and no one inherited them. The Shen family lacked the talent.

Few are geniuses like Feng Zhongyan, who could learn to craft flying wooden kites from a few books.

She can only make small trinkets. She once envied him for making flying kites, and begged him to teach her. He said, “When you make a lock I can’t solve, I’ll teach you.”

Afraid of overreaching, she spent much effort on the Luban lock, hiding inside its secret compartment the jade pendant he gave her as a token of affection.

That pendant should now be what the Fengs most desire, but one must unlock the lock first to see it.

She wonders if he has solved it.

Her fingers clench nervously as she awaits his next words, but Feng Zhongyan produces a lacquered wooden box from his sleeve and gently slides it to her. “This is for you.”

Shen Mingsu is puzzled.

“Fulan said she liked the lock and took it.”

Fulan is the third miss of the Fengs, Feng Zhongyan’s cousin.

Seeing Shen Mingsu’s slight pause, Feng Zhongyan pushes the rouge box between them again, looking up and asking softly, “You don’t like it?”

Shen Mingsu regains her composure, takes the rouge box without protest, and smiles, “A piece of wood in exchange for a box of the Provincial Lord’s precious rouge—it’s a good deal for me.” She has been here long enough, and must not delay his work, and remembers she cannot leave without his permission. Rising from the couch, she bids farewell, “The Provincial Lord must be busy. I won’t disturb you.”

The servant outside lifts the curtain; she is about to bow.

“Ah Jin.”

Hearing the familiar name, she instinctively replies, “Mm.” But the sound catches in her throat, her eyes stinging, and she does not turn around.

...

“Brother Feng, don’t call me Lady Shen—it sounds so distant.”

“What should I call you then?”

“Ah Jin, as in ‘adding brocade to the brocade.’”

“All right.”

She thought he had long forgotten.

“Tomorrow at the hour of Shen, An Fu will come to fetch you. Let’s go to the market together.” Feng Zhongyan’s voice comes from behind, “Tomorrow is your birthday.”