That night, Xing Muzheng came back from outside. After dinner, he went over Qian Jiaoniang’s writing practice for the day. Somehow this had become his “business”: every morning before going out, he would write ten characters for her to copy, and when he returned, he would inspect them one by one. If a character wasn’t written well, he would personally guide her hand to teach her again.
Luckily, today’s characters were all fairly neat. After examining them carefully, Xing Muzheng folded the paper and placed it back in the book chest. “Today’s writing is quite good. With more practice, the proper spirit will show.”
“I know.” Qian Jiaoniang nodded obediently.
“What else did you do today?” Xing Muzheng asked.
“Just writing in the morning, then I read some of Chou’er’s old books, and later practiced a bit of qin with Yanluo.”
Xing Muzheng considered for a moment. “Since you’re reading Chou’er’s old books, do you want me to find you a tutor to teach you more thoroughly?”
Qian Jiaoniang thought it over. “Better not. I don’t truly enjoy those flowery scholarly things, I only care to recognize characters. Besides, Yanluo is very learned—her teaching me is enough.” She paused. “Only, there’s one thing. Yesterday, while helping clean your study, I noticed two books that looked very interesting. I’d like to borrow them to read, if you don’t mind.”
“If you want to read, how could I possibly refuse? That study belongs to us both. You can go in anytime, take whatever books you like,” Xing Muzheng said. “But which ones are you interested in?”
Qian Jiaoniang counted on her fingers: “One was called Records of Strange Tales from the Wilds, another was Geography of Earth Veins, and another Sima’s Art of War.”
The strange tales didn’t surprise Xing Muzheng—she and Qingya had read countless supernatural romances before, usually about some female spirit falling for a young scholar in a love more earth-shaking than heaven. What surprised him were the other two she named. “The Geography of Earth Veins is about the mountains, rivers, and customs of Xie Dynasty, while Sima’s Art of War is a military text. You want to read those too?”
Qian Jiaoniang nodded. “That Wei Zhi’s Art of War of yours, I already found it very interesting. How could the ancients be so clever—deploying troops as though they were immortals.”
Seeing her face full of admiration, Xing Muzheng couldn’t help but say: “Some of the strategies in there are indeed good, but some are nothing much. If I were to write down the battles I’ve fought, I could publish a book of war myself.”
How did it suddenly turn into a contest? Qian Jiaoniang found it funny, but sensibly nodded along, murmuring agreement.
Xing Muzheng squinted at her and pinched her nose, “Just you wait.”
With that, he ignored her, turned to change clothes, and got ready to rest.
Qian Jiaoniang held her nose, stunned where she stood. She glared at his back, her face flushing hot. After a moment, she cleared her throat and told him about the attempted hanging earlier. Xing Muzheng, already on the bed taking off his boots, frowned and asked: “Not dead?”
“Not dead, just putting on a show,” Qian Jiaoniang said. “Later I went inside to look—the white silk was all loose and slack. If it hadn’t strangled her, she’d have fallen and broken her neck anyway.”
“You sent her away then?”
Qian Jiaoniang shot him a sideways glance. “Not yet.”
“What’s the use of keeping someone like that around? This is our new residence—if someone dies here, it’ll bring nothing but ill luck. Send her off quickly. Who knows, one day she might really fall and die.”
Qian Jiaoniang chuckled, pulling out her embroidery basket. “It’s not so serious. I only wanted to discuss something with you.”
“What is it?” Xing Muzheng asked, raising his hand. With a soft whoosh, the red candle on the table went out. Qian Jiaoniang, just holding her embroidery, was dumbfounded by the sudden darkness. Only when Xing Muzheng’s voice sounded did she realize it was his doing: “Embroidery is fine in the day, but by night candlelight always harms the eyes. Extinguish the lamps as well, go to sleep quickly.”
Qian Jiaoniang looked crossly at the man propped against the bed, his face leaving no room for argument. Helpless, she gave up. She put her things away, blew out the palace lamps in the corners, left only a small oil lamp by the bed, lowered the outer curtains, and inside began undressing. Xing Muzheng lay on his side, head resting on one arm, watching her without blinking in the dim light.
Even without looking at him, Qian Jiaoniang could feel his gaze. She turned her back deliberately. “I want to send those idle women to your barracks for a few days.”
“Who? Them?” Xing Muzheng’s voice came from behind, tinged with hoarseness.
Qian Jiaoniang, in only her underclothes, climbed quickly into bed, tucked the bed-pressing ornament into place, then said: “Those idle beauties in the courtyard, with nothing to do all day.”
As soon as she got into bed, Xing Muzheng blew out the lamp and turned toward her. “Them? To the barracks? For what?”
Qian Jiaoniang whispered: “Just treat them as little soldiers, give them a bit of drilling. Isn’t it good to let them see the strengths of your brothers there? It’ll also cut down their arrogance, leave them no time to keep talking of dying all day long.”
Xing Muzheng chuckled, lowering his voice to match hers. “That lot, who’d topple at the slightest breeze—if they go to the barracks, won’t they all line up to hang themselves on their return?”
Qian Jiaoniang was amused, muffling her laughter. After several chuckles, she still said with a smile: “Don’t worry. They’re only putting on an act. Who knows, maybe one day a female general might come out of them.”
Xing Muzheng’s smile deepened. Clearly he didn’t believe it, but he didn’t contradict her. “Fine then. Tomorrow tell Ah Da to arrange it. Though right now everyone’s busy with the polo field—better let those idlers help out there first.”
“You really are building a polo field?”
“Do you take my words for lies? That bunch loves putting their heart into such things. When the weather gets warmer, you’ll be able to play polo yourself.”
Qian Jiaoniang answered softly.
“Anything else?” Xing Muzheng asked.
She thought he was sleepy and wanting rest. “No, that’s all. Go to sleep.”
He gave a reply, but instead of sleeping, he moved close, wrapping her in his strong arm, kissing her gently and persistently, seeking her. Even though Qian Jiaoniang had already been entangled with him many times, she still felt terribly shy. She tried to push him away, murmuring, “Why do you come every night…?” She hadn’t seen him leave her alone for even one.
Xing Muzheng pressed her beneath him, coaxing in a low voice like to a child: “Only then can we have a baby…”
Qian Jiaoniang’s breath caught.
His burning kisses fell across her brows, eyes, cheeks. In the dark, his voice was husky: “Let’s have another daughter… I want a daughter.” Chou’er took after him; surely a daughter would take after her. “Are you still taking your medicine? Once your body is well adjusted, let’s have another little girl.” This time he would definitely stay by her side.
Qian Jiaoniang’s lips were lightly pecked. She turned her head away. “But I haven’t recovered yet, and still you…”
“Fool,” Xing Muzheng chuckled in the dark, “this isn’t only about having babies. You enjoy it too, don’t you?” By now he could already tell the difference—her crying when she was in pleasure.
Qian Jiaoniang’s face burned hot. She opened her mouth to speak, but the man sealed it tightly with his kiss.
