To dare drive the common people out into the snow at night;
to dare have the Imperial Guards pour wine for him;
to dare use relay horses to pull his family’s carriage –
These three deeds, when spoken aloud, made even the unrelated Han Yuanchao and his father feel a chill run down their spines.
What kind of person would dare do such things?
And what kind of person could actually do them?
And what fate would await someone who did?
There was once a grand chancellor of the previous dynasty who, in drunken jest, asked an imperial guard to draw his sword and pour him wine. Though deeply trusted by the emperor, he still could not escape the censors’ impeachment and was forced to resign and be sent away.
In this very dynasty, there was also an official who admired the snowy scenery, but because his words were twisted by his rivals into “driving out the people,” he lost his post.
And yet another – a general who once used the imperial relay horses to haul a wagon of his own grain – and was executed for it.
Committing even one of these acts could bring disaster; to have done all three was unthinkable.
Of course, that doesn’t mean everyone who does such things meets a bad end. Throughout history, many have done so; the common folk are used to it, and most officials turn a blind eye, since it’s not worth the trouble to meddle.
But every rule has its exceptions – and it’s the exceptions that make things dangerous.
Han Yuanchao and his son exchanged a glance.
They wondered – was this official one of those who turned a blind eye, or one who couldn’t resist sticking his nose into other people’s business?
“Ah – Master Feng, Master Feng!”
The post station keeper ran out after him, calling, holding up a thick cloak.
“The wind is strong, my lord – please, wear this.”
“It is not mine. Feng Lin here dares not accept it,” the middle-aged man said, urging his horse forward with a rhythmic de-de-de of hooves.
“Thank heaven, that grim judge has finally left,” someone muttered behind him.
“At least this time he didn’t burn down our post station.”
“Shut your mouth! You want him to come back and burn it again?”
The postmaster and the station runners laughed as they went back inside.
“Feng Lin!”
Han Yuanchao and his father looked at each other in astonishment.
“So it was Feng Lin,” Han Yuanchao said, his gaze following the distant figure on the main road.
Two years ago, Feng Lin, then a Judicial Officer of the Three Bureaus, had been sent to investigate affairs along the Taicang Circuit. Before he even arrived, someone tried to burn him alive at a post station. Having narrowly escaped with his life, Feng Lin entered Taicang carrying his own coffin. The investigation into the Fiscal Commissioner’s Office’s embezzlement of grain and funds lasted a full year and a half, implicating over a hundred officials and clerks. Many were imprisoned, their families ruined, some even took their own lives. For a time, all of Taicang wept in fear and blood. From then on, his title became a byword – they called him the Ghost Judge.
“So he’s been transferred to the capital as well,” Master Han said, shaking his head with a wry smile. “Then this Master Cheng is out of luck.”
For Feng Lin to have seen such behavior with his own eyes – and to have spent a whole night listening to the public’s gossip in the hall – he was clearly provoked. Otherwise, he would never have spoken as he did just now.
“Looks like Master Feng will find himself busy once he reaches the capital,” Han Yuanchao said, mounting his horse. “Meritorious to the nation…”
He repeated the phrase slowly, his face turning grave.
“To possess divine weapons and yet offer them up only after one’s own grievances are redressed – how is that serving the nation?”
“A scholar who clings to private comfort,” Han’s father replied, “is no true scholar at all.”
Riding fast on a plump relay horse, Second Master Cheng had no idea that he had just gotten himself into trouble.
And those far away in the capital, of course, knew even less.
The thin layer of snow on the streets had already been trampled into slush before the snowfall even stopped.
In front of the Cheng residence by Yudai Bridge, the ground had long been swept clean.
As always, it was crowded with people – some dressed in fine robes, sitting on felt mats before low tables; others in tattered clothes, crouching and using twigs to write.
There were familiar faces from past days, and many new ones, eyes bright with curiosity.
Qin Shi’san-lang stood outside, watching and sketching in the air with his finger.
“The weather’s turned cold – the ink won’t even flow. Why not put up a shed, or find a hall indoors?”
When the copy practice ended, Qin Shi’san-lang entered the house.
He looked at Cheng Jiao-niang, who was warming her hands over the brazier that Ban Qin had just handed her.
Cheng Jiao-niang shook her head.
“I never meant to teach calligraphy,” she said.
To write like that would be to write only for the sake of writing.
“I was just worried you might be cold,” Qin Shi’san-lang said quickly.
Cheng Jiao-niang looked up at him, smiled, and nodded.
“I’m dressed warmly – and I just finished archery practice,” she replied, stretching out her hand and waving it lightly before her. “Not cold.”
At first glance, her slender hands looked fair and delicate, but up close, the marks of the bowstring and the faint calluses were clearly visible.
It was the first time Qin Shi’san-lang had ever seen a girl’s hands like these.
All the hands he knew – his mother’s, his sisters’, the maids who attended him – were soft and pale as jade, smooth and scented, their nails tinted, their fingers ringed and bracelet-clad.
Yet these plain, unadorned hands – slightly rough, even – were beautiful in a way all their own.
“Oh, right – look.” He suddenly remembered something and snapped back to attention. “Zhou Liu-lang sent me this knife.”
As he spoke, he unfastened the blade he carried at his side.
Cheng Jiao-niang reached out and took the knife, examining it carefully.
“I don’t like inkstones,” Qin Shi’san-lang suddenly said.
Ban Qin looked up at him, surprised.
Cheng Jiao-niang didn’t lift her head; she kept her eyes on the knife in her hands.
“What do you like, then?” she asked.
“I like the pastries and tea you make – anything’s fine, really. I just don’t like inkstones,” Qin Shi’san-lang replied.
Cheng Jiao-niang nodded and set the knife down.
“All right,” she said. “Next time, I’ll give you pastries and tea.”
Qin Shi’san-lang looked at her, and a moment of silence fell over the room.
Cheng Jiao-niang reached out and gently pushed a small plate of pastries toward him, glancing at him as she did so.
Qin Shi’san-lang sat upright for a moment, then reached out, took one, and began to eat.
There weren’t many on the plate, and soon he had finished them all.
He lifted his cup and drained the tea in one go.
“These weren’t made by you,” he said again.
Cheng Jiao-niang smiled faintly.
“They were sent by me,” she replied.
“But I didn’t want that,” Qin Shi’san-lang said.
“Then what do you want? Tell me,” Cheng Jiao-niang asked, her eyes still smiling.
Ban Qin, standing to the side, was stunned by the exchange and stared at Qin Shi’san-lang in disbelief.
Was he… angry?
Or… pouting?
The word pouting popped into her head, and she shivered at her own imagination, quickly pouring another cup of tea for Qin Shi’san-lang.
“I’m inviting you to a banquet at my house – will you come?” Qin Shi’san-lang asked.
Cheng Jiao-niang shook her head.
“No,” she said with a gentle smile.
Qin Shi’san-lang looked at her for a moment, then laughed.
“I knew you wouldn’t,” he said with a grin. “You’d never go without a good reason. But when I pass the exams – if I invite you then, you’ll come, won’t you?”
Cheng Jiaoniang looked at him.
“Then… should I bring pastries and tea?” she asked.
Qin Shi’san-lang let out a snort of laughter, then burst into hearty laughter.
“Yes,” he said between laughs. “Bring them.”
When he got home and picked up his brush to write to Zhou Liu-lang, Qin Shi’san-lang couldn’t help but laugh again as he thought of that conversation, even as he kept writing on the paper.
“…I’d been sulking for days, and then she went and made me laugh again with that innocent face and those words of hers. Truly, there’s no helping it. Ah, I know what you’re going to say – you’ll say of course there’s no helping it; she’s driven me mad before.”
“…Still, at least I said what I wanted to say. And she – well, she coaxed me. Coaxed -that’s a strange word to use…”
He paused, holding the brush between his fingers, replaying it in his mind.
Yes. It really did feel like she was coaxing him.
“…Just like that time when you and I were so eager to arrange her marriage, and she gave us those two boxes of pastries. I know – you’re laughing already, aren’t you? What are you laughing at…”
“Shi’san, what are you laughing at?”
A woman’s voice came from the side. Qin Shi’san-lang’s brush paused mid-stroke; he looked up to see his mother standing in the corridor, hands tucked into her sleeves, smiling at him.
“Mother, I’m writing a letter to Zhou Liu-lang,” Qin Shi’san-lang said.
Madam Qin chuckled.
“Writing to that silly boy Zhou Liu-lang can make you laugh like this?” she teased. “His face must be blooming with flowers by now.”
Qin Shi’san-lang burst out laughing.
“Mother, don’t tease me. I’m busy – after I finish this letter, I still have to study,” he said, pretending to be serious.
“I’m not teasing you,” Madam Qin replied, still smiling. “It’s just – I heard you’ve been sighing day and night lately, can’t eat or sleep, one moment dazed, the next smiling to yourself. I got worried and came to see for myself. I was starting to think you’d caught the same lovesick fever as that musician Cui in the palace.”
Qin Shi’san-lang listened, shaking his head as his mother spoke. But when she reached the last line, he couldn’t help his curiosity.
“Master Cui? Didn’t Father say he was going to invite him to play the qin? What illness does he have?” he asked. “What kind of illness?”
“Lovesickness,” Madam Qin said.
Lovesickness?
Qin Shi’san-lang froze for a moment, then raised an eyebrow.
“Mother, is this how you slander your own son?”
Madam Qin’s laughter rang out across the courtyard.
But in the palace, when the Empress Dowager heard that word, she most certainly did not find it funny.
“Lovesickness? Outrageous! Corrupting morals – throw him out of the palace at once!”
The Empress Dowager’s brows shot up as she barked the order.
“No, no, Your Majesty!” the eunuch hurried to explain. “Master Cui is not lovesick for a person – he’s lovesick for a sound, for the music itself!”
The Empress Dowager exhaled, slightly relieved, though her brows remained stern.
“Nonsense,” she scolded. “How can people speak such foolish things?”
The eunuchs all lowered their heads in apology.
“What exactly happened?” the Empress Dowager asked.
“It has to do with Duke Jin’an, Your Majesty,” one eunuch said with a smile.
The Empress Dowager gave a small oh of surprise, about to speak – but someone else spoke first.
“What’s wrong with Jin’an?”
The Emperor walked in slowly from outside, and the concubines in the hall all rose to bow.
He took off his cloak and sat down to one side, his expression caught between amusement and something unreadable.
“What’s wrong with Jin’an?” he asked again, his gaze flicking – almost casually – toward the Imperial Consort seated below the Empress Dowager.
The Consort lowered her head as if she hadn’t noticed, her hands tightening around the hand warmer resting on her knees.
When Master Cui was brought in, his face was deathly pale, his eyes dull and unfocused.
Musicians were not expected to be handsome, but palace performers were rarely plain – so his haggard, ghostlike appearance startled everyone in the hall: the Emperor, the Empress Dowager, and the gathered consorts alike.
“Your servant pays respects to Your Majesty and Your Ladyships,” Master Cui said, kneeling and kowtowing. His voice trembled, his whole body nearly pressed flat against the floor.
Even after completing his bow, he seemed unable to rise.
“You’re a musician yourself – how could you be bewitched by a sound?” the Empress Dowager asked, frowning.
The Emperor laughed.
“Precisely because he’s a musician, that’s why he could be bewitched,” he said. “When one is skilled, one listens differently. Others may hear something beautiful and simply think, how lovely. But a musician – he wants to know why it’s beautiful, how it’s beautiful. And in thinking that way, it’s easy to lose oneself.”
Master Cui kowtowed deeply.
The Empress Dowager and the others laughed.
“So this lady truly plays that well?” she asked. Then, after a pause, added, “Was she playing especially for Wei-lang?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” the eunuch replied with a smile. “They said she was purifying the prince’s residence with her music. After hearing her play, His Highness wouldn’t allow any of the palace musicians to perform again – he said he didn’t want them to disturb such a pure sound.”
At those words, everyone in the hall froze for a moment.
Purifying the residence…
“Still say she’s not a disciple of the Daoist patriarch,” the Empress Dowager muttered. “She even knows how to purify a residence – what next, reading feng shui charts?”
The Emperor gave a light cough.
“You all heard her play too?” he asked the eunuch, smoothly changing the subject.
“I don’t understand such things,” the eunuch said with a grin. “But it sounded quite lively.”
“Lively?” the Empress Dowager repeated. “It’s not a pipa – how can a qin performance be lively?”
“It wasn’t the playing that was lively,” the eunuch explained, smiling. “The scene was. We servants were talking, the musicians were joking, and Prince Qing was making a fuss…”
In other words, no one was actually listening. Everyone went on with their own business; not even the audience was drawn in. How could that be called good?
So many people hadn’t been moved – only this one musician had fallen under the spell of the sound?
More likely… he had seen that Cheng lady.
That Cheng lady truly was a beauty…
Several of the imperial consorts exchanged glances and covered their mouths, stifling laughter behind their sleeves.
The Empress Dowager’s face, however, darkened.
If even a man of Cui’s age had been bewitched – what about the young Duke Jin’an, who had barely encountered women?
The Emperor, too, looked somewhat taken aback. He had imagined the girl’s music would be like her wine – enchanting all who heard it, leaving listeners dazed and entranced.
“Master Cui, you’re not truly ill, are you?” the Empress Dowager said. “If you are, then let the imperial doctors examine you properly – whatever the illness is, it is. But don’t go stirring up rumors in the palace.”
Master Cui kowtowed.
“Your Majesty, I would not dare speak recklessly,” he said in a trembling voice. “Lady Cheng’s playing is… exquisite.”
“How exquisite?” the Empress Dowager asked. “When Bai Xiangshan wrote poetry, even common market women praised him as brilliant. Yet Lady Cheng’s music has bewitched no one but you, a musician – how can that be called exquisite?”
Master Cui raised his head, and his once-dull eyes suddenly gleamed with light.
“Your Majesty, Lady Cheng’s music was so refined that I lost awareness of my own fingering,” he said.
To the untrained, music is just sound; to the trained, it is technique.
Ordinary listeners hear the melody, but a musician cannot help but analyze the method behind it.
If a musician, while listening, forgets to think of technique – if he cannot separate himself from the sound – that means the music’s skill and spirit are truly transcendent, able to reach the heart and drown even mastery in awe.
The Empress Dowager’s expression eased slightly, though her brow remained furrowed.
Why was it that no one else was moved – but this Master Cui was?
Or perhaps… her Wei-lang was, too?
Then Cui’s voice sounded again.
“And also – Lady Cheng played the Autumn Wind Melody,” he said.
Autumn Wind Melody? Nothing particularly rare about that, the Empress Dowager thought.
“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Master Cui continued, “Lady Cheng’s Autumn Wind Melody made Prince Qing shiver and feel cold.”
To make Prince Qing shiver…
To make Prince Qing feel cold!
The Empress Dowager froze – then suddenly rose to her feet in alarm.
Master Cui’s words had shocked her so much she stood up without thinking.
The concubines around her all gasped in fright, and the Emperor, too, straightened in his seat, astonishment written across his face.
“What is it?” one of the consorts asked in confusion, lowering her voice. “What’s the matter?”
“Prince Qing is a fool – one who doesn’t know hunger or fullness, heat or cold,” another whispered.
The consort turned to look and saw the Imperial Consort’s expression shifting, complex and unreadable.
“…To make a fool feel cold through the sound of the qin – that is no ordinary skill,” she said slowly. “A melody that can stir awareness even in one without reason…”
To make a fool feel something!
To feel – one must have a heart.
If he hears it again… could a fool’s heart be awakened?
I knew it!
The Imperial Consort’s grip on her hand warmer tightened and tightened.
From beside her came the Empress Dowager’s urgent voice:
“Summon Wei-lang to the palace! Quickly – summon that Lady Cheng as well!”
The Emperor, though clearly astonished by what he had heard, still kept his composure.
Finding the whole matter absurd yet intriguing, he ordered first that Duke Jin’an be brought in.
Duke Jin’an, who had hurried into the palace, listened to the Empress Dowager’s questions and smiled.
“Your Majesty, she wasn’t treating Prince Qing’s illness,” he said with a light laugh. “She was purifying the residence.”
“Then why did Prince Qing feel cold?” the Empress Dowager pressed. “The Autumn Wind Melody is somber and chilling – when we hear it, we too feel cold. If Liu Ge’er can now sense that, doesn’t that mean he’s getting better?”
As she spoke, tears welled in her eyes.
Duke Jin’an stepped forward on his knees.
“Your Majesty, no – that’s not it,” he said softly.
“How is it not?” the Empress Dowager said, wiping her tears. “Child, are you trying to keep the truth from me?”
“Your Majesty,” Duke Jin’an said, “Liu Ge’er cannot be cured. And she… she wasn’t treating him.”
Seated behind them, the Imperial Consort gave a cold, silent laugh. Go on pretending, she thought. Let’s see what it is you really want.
“Then why did Liu Ge’er feel cold?” the Empress Dowager asked again.
“Your Majesty,” Duke Jin’an sighed, “Lady Cheng said… her music was not meant for human ears.”
