Qian Jiaoniang’s smile froze on her lips.
Her elder sister, Qian Liniang. That was her second sister. Her eldest sister was named Qian Meiniang. She also had a younger brother named Qian Baogui.
“Liniang said her family had five members—her father, Qian Dafu, her mother, Madam Li of the Qian family. She has an elder sister named Meiniang, and a youngest brother named Baogui.” Li Qing’s wife relayed all this to Qian Jiaoniang, and after speaking she carefully studied Qian Jiaoniang’s face.
Qian Jiaoniang gave a light nod, but that was all—she made no other reply.
All these years, she had struggled just to make a living. Later, once she had caught her breath, she was swept into the endless affairs of the Marquis’s household. She had never had the time, nor the mind, to think of her original family. And she had certainly never thought of seeking help from them. Because both sides understood—what happened back then was a transaction. Once a daughter was sold, it was as though that daughter no longer existed. Whether she lived or died had nothing to do with the Old Qian family anymore.
And now, suddenly, her second sister appeared, wanting to recognize her again.
So many years had passed, yet Qian Jiaoniang could still faintly remember fetching water with her second sister, the two of them singing loudly and cheerfully all the way.
Was she… living well now?
Li Qing’s wife said she had married into the Sun family as the second branch’s young master’s wife, and that her situation was rather respectable. But she missed her so badly that she wept constantly. Still, fearing she could no longer reach so high, she asked Li Qing’s wife to test Qian Jiaoniang’s attitude first.
Qian Jiaoniang dismissed Li Qing’s wife and sat alone in her inner chamber. She leaned slantwise against the soft couch, gazing blankly at the setting sun sinking slowly in the western sky.
To see, or not to see?
“The Marquis has returned.”
“The Marquis has returned.”
The maids outside called out one after another. Before their voices faded, Xing Muzheng had already strode into the chamber.
Qian Jiaoniang returned to herself and saw him standing before her, travel-worn, shoes and clothes stained with mud, his whole body filthy.
“Lord Marquis, you’re back. Did you go rolling about in the mud?”
Xing Muzheng let out a dry laugh as he unbuckled his sword. “I’m no pig—why would I roll in the mud? Today I went with some men to look over two patches of wasteland. I thought we might reclaim them as farmland. …Come, undo my robes for me. My hands are dirty.”
He wasn’t much cleaner anywhere else. Even so, Qian Jiaoniang went forward and began undoing his fastenings. “That’s a good thing. The more land reclaimed, the more grain planted, the less fear of famine next year.”
“Mm. Only, the land is good, but there’s no water.”
“Ah? Then that won’t work?”
“Not that it won’t work—we can always find a way to divert some water.” Xing Muzheng spoke lightly, which drew a laugh from her. Lowering his eyes, he took in her bent head, her gentle brows, the smile at her lips as she undid his clothes. His throat worked. He leaned down and brushed her soft red lips.
Qian Jiaoniang paused, then lifted her gaze—eyes meeting eyes.
She lowered her head again, and Xing Muzheng’s lips followed, pressing down once more. She turned her face away, but his long arms pulled her into his embrace, his mouth pressing against her cheek.
“You’re filthy…” she chided.
“What’s there to fear? We’ll wash later.”
And with that he captured her lips again, lingering and tasting.
She thought—just a moment ago he said he was dirty, and now he no longer minded. Truly, what a foul man.
“Marquis, Madam, the kitchen says the meal is ready. They ask where you and Madam will take it.” Just as Xing Muzheng was kissing her madly, pressing her against the wall and about to take liberties, the maid Suier’s voice came from outside.
Qian Jiaoniang snapped back to herself, shoving him away. Flustered, she tidied her hair and called out, “We’ll eat here. Go call Chou’er in.”
Then she cast Xing Muzheng a glare, her cheeks flushed red, and swept out through the curtain.
Later, when the three of them had finished supper, Xing Muzheng went to practice his martial arts, then bathed in the hot spring pool. He returned drying his hair, and found Qian Jiaoniang at the table, chin propped on one hand, a book of strange tales in front of her. She had sat there half the night and hadn’t even turned a page.
Watching her for a while, he silently went out and summoned Hongjuan to ask, “Has Madam been displeased today?”
Hongjuan shook her head. “To answer my Lord, no one angered Madam today. Only…”
“Only what?”
“Only that Madam Li came. She spoke with Madam, and after that Madam was gloomy. We asked, but Madam would not say.”
Xing Muzheng nodded and waved her off. Returning inside, he and Qian Jiaoniang sat quietly with their books for a time. When he saw she truly could not get through even a page, he asked:
“What troubles your heart?”
Qian Jiaoniang shook her head. “Nothing.”
He didn’t press her. Lowering his head, he read another chapter, then rose to rest.
“You sleep first. I’ll read a bit longer,” she said.
So he went to bed. She drew the curtains around his bed, then sat again with her book, lost in thought. Time passed. After a long while, Xing Muzheng’s deep voice came: “Still not sleeping?”
Qian Jiaoniang jumped slightly. She mumbled two vague words, set the book aside, undressed, blew out the candle, and slipped under the quilt, lying with her back to him. The rustling subsided, and the bed was quiet again. After some time, Xing Muzheng heard the faintest sigh.
He turned her toward him. “What is it? Tell me.”
“It’s nothing,” she whispered.
Still unwilling to lean on him. Xing Muzheng frowned slightly in the dark, though his voice remained calm. “If you won’t say it, shall I make you say it?”
Before she understood his meaning, his hand had already reached down and caught her bare foot.
“Ah! Hahaha—it tickles! Xing Muzheng, what are you doing!” Qian Jiaoniang wasn’t ticklish anywhere—except the soles of her feet. Just a few strokes from him and she was squirming and rolling about the bed, laughing uncontrollably.
“Will you tell me?”
“There really isn’t—ah! Hahaha! Stop! Stop it!”
…In the end, Qian Jiaoniang couldn’t withstand Xing Muzheng’s “severe interrogation.” Breathless, she confessed to him what Li Qing’s wife had told her.
Xing Muzheng was silent for a while, then asked her: “What is it you’re worried about?”
“I’m not worried,” Qian Jiaoniang said in a low voice. “I just don’t know if I should meet her or not. After all, I have nothing to do with the Qian family anymore.”
Xing Muzheng had never met her second sister. Back then, Old Qian had said there were two daughters of similar age, but only Jiaoniang was brought out. Xing Muzheng hadn’t thought much of it and simply chose Qian Jiaoniang. Later, when he went to fetch his bride, Jiaoniang’s mother had splashed a basin of water behind the bridal sedan—that he remembered vividly. After that, when Jiaoniang married into the household, she never went back home the very next day, and the Qian family never once came calling.
When, in the future, their own daughter marries out, would Jiaoniang be willing to pour out a basin of water and sever ties like that? Would she be able to sell her own daughter? And he, as the father—could he really be heartless enough not to see his child again?
The more he thought about it, the more Xing Muzheng’s heart ached. He remembered that time when Jiaoniang got drunk at the Hang residence and asked him if she was fated to live alone in the world.
In a hoarse voice, he said: “Better never to have gained, than to have gained and then lost.”
Qian Jiaoniang’s shoulders went stiff.
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