Chapter 8

That day.

Elder Sister and Xie Changyu parted in discord.

She was listless even at supper, absent-minded.

Mother scolded her for want of decorum.

She lifted her eyes, languid—rarely did she retort. “And my sister?”

I kept my head down eating; I might sit aslant or askew.

Mother frowned and equivocated. “She is different.”

Elder Sister pressed. “How different?”

They nearly came to blows, until Mother flung down her chopsticks and spoke without thought. “Must you be like her—unlearned, of ruined name, married to one such as Sheng Yi—before you are satisfied?”

The words out, the table fell silent.

Elder Sister widened her eyes in disbelief.

Mother regretted at once.

“Ah Ying…”

I finished my meal in silence; being free of the rules, I simply left.

In the courtyard the moon was like still water, flowing mute.

I wiped at the corner of my eye and found I could no longer weep.

It was no surprise.

Mother loved Elder Sister more, and thought for her more; that was all.

I crossed the covered walk.

Yet heard light, hurried footsteps.

Elder Sister caught my hem, face pale, words failing her.

“Ah Ying—”

I looked at her in silence.

Suddenly I remembered the past life.

I had questioned the elder sister who had always doted on me, why she would treat me so, would ruin the rest of my life.

She was flooded with tears.

“You are the one who benefited; you saw me harshly treated by Mother—why should you stand apart, and live your life smooth and safe?”

She said she had lived bitterly. That time Mother took her to study, the great scholar refused female disciples; Mother forced her to kneel a day in the snow, until she fainted outright.

For the fair name of making the great scholar break his rule.

Each cold or rainy day, her legs ached near beyond walking.

Mother regretted it, but there was no turning back.

She said, “You were in the nurse’s arms then, wrapped snug in fox fur; Mother had her carry you to the warm chamber—how could I not hate you?”

Now, the moon cool as water, she looked at me, her lips trembling.

She understood it all.

It was not my fault.

Mother was extreme.

She was very stern with her, so she had never been happy a moment. Yet she had not minded me either, nor let me leave the inner chambers.

I had never been her enemy.

She wept like rain. “I am sorry.”

Elder Sister suddenly changed her nature.

She tried to have the Sheng family break the engagement.

Sheng Yi was at his wits’ end.

Sometimes he said, “As it should be; those things my stepmother sent are not worthy of you.”

Sometimes he said, “That said, what has it to do with her? False kindness.”

The Sheng family had been neglectful when proposing.

Many of the betrothal gifts he made up to me in private.

There were treasures, and a long-lost score of qin music.

I said I had no use for it.

He only said, “In case, one day, you should wish to learn?”

I carried the score and practiced in secret a long while.

By the sixth month, clouds gathered and rain passed, the wind aged the young orioles.

Lady of Wei, a widow who loved liveliness, as was her custom invited the capital’s youths to a feast.

At the lake pavilion, viewing the lotus, a maid brought a qin.

Sipping tea, tending flowers, playing the qin—these were ever refined pleasures.

Someone said pointedly, “The eldest young lady Song is of astonishing talent; her sister surely is not far behind.”

“Second young lady, why not play a piece?”

Such an occasion, such words—I had heard them often.

Before, Elder Sister would only let me shame myself.

But now she was the first to step forward, weighing her words, and spoke with care.

“She is tired; let me play in her stead.”

She did not say I could not play.

I thought a moment, set my round fan upon the table. “No need; I can play.”

Elder Sister was startled; as I passed her she lightly caught my sleeve.

“Ah Ying.”

I said, “I am not forcing it.”

I lowered my eyes and plucked the strings.

I was not so gifted as she, not so long practiced, only followed myself—thumb-out, stroke, hook, strike, support, lift, scrape, pluck.

The qin’s sound met the gurgling water, parting the crowd that seemed both noisy and still.

Like my clumsy life.

Reckless, fearless, pouring itself all out.

An incomplete, unskilled *Guangling San*.

“Forgive the poor showing.”