Winter came harshly that year.

Winter had always been the cruelest season for the sick.

All those who hovered between life and death found themselves in a peculiar limbo. Because everyone already knew there was no saving them, the visitors who came to call were invariably treading on eggshells — their words nothing but well-worn comforts, hollow reassurances that both sides knew to be meaningless, yet the back-and-forth of pleasantries was maintained all the same.

This was precisely the scene Ye Qinglan walked into when she arrived at the Meng household.

When her maternal aunt, Madam Meng, had been in good health, she had been among the most distinguished ladies of the capital’s noble families — the eldest daughter-in-law of the Meng Minister’s main branch, a woman of remarkable standing. But after years of illness, every last bit of that spirit had been worn away. Her husband had long since taken a favored concubine, who had borne him several children already. Her own family, the Lin family, had lost both parents, and the estate had passed to the son of a lesser mother. Of course, contact was maintained on the surface, but it was nothing more than a facade. Otherwise, at such a critical time, they would not have sent merely two old serving women to pay their respects — not even Lin Madam herself had bothered to come.

When Ye Qinglan arrived, only two ladies of modest family background sat in the outer hall — women who owed Madam Meng past favors — along with a middle-aged Buddhist nun named Shan Hui, who frequently visited to recite scriptures for Madam Meng. They were all murmuring sutras softly and rose to their feet when they saw her.

Ye Qinglan patiently exchanged greetings with them before leading her two younger sisters into the main chamber. Madam Meng’s quarters were divided into three sections by interior partitions: the outermost room for receiving guests, the middle room for daily living — and there on the embroidery frame still sat the butterfly-patterned satin Madam Meng had spoken of embroidering for Lingbo last autumn. The sight of it was enough to break one’s heart.

The inner bedchamber was thick with the smell of medicine.

“Auntie.” Ye Lingbo went forward first. She was the middle of the three sisters and had always been closest to Madam Meng. Seeing her come, Madam Meng struggled to sit up, but Ye Lingbo dropped to one knee on the floor beside the canopied bed before she could manage it. Aunt and niece clasped hands and looked at each other in silence, tears streaming down both their faces.

“Auntie…” The youngest sister, Yanyan, began to cry as well. The maids and serving women hurried to comfort her. The maid who had accompanied Madam Meng as part of her dowager household was surnamed Lin — she had married Lin Jiu, who oversaw the carriages and horses — and when Madam Meng managed the household, she had served as the housekeeper’s wife. Everyone called her Lin Niangzi.

“Young misses, please don’t grieve so — the physicians have all said she’ll recover once the new year comes…” Lin Niangzi hastened to console them.

But Madam Meng was so gaunt she was hardly recognizable, the bracelets on her wrists sliding over hands thin as kindling, the deathly pallor already settled on her face. All three sisters had witnessed their own mother’s final hours. Even the youngest, Yanyan, had been only seven or eight at the time — too young to fully understand, yet old enough to have wept alongside everyone else. None of them could fail to see that Madam Meng’s lamp was burning its last drops of oil.

Ye Qinglan, being the most composed of the three, knew this was no time for tears. Going along with Lin Niangzi’s words, she said gently: “Auntie is ill — too much crying will do her harm. Lingbo, take Yanyan outside. Nanny Wu, would you be so kind as to watch over them? Let me sit with Auntie for a while.”

Nanny Wu was one of the Meng household’s senior serving women, attached to the Old Madam Meng’s personal staff, and had been stationed in Madam Meng’s chambers every day. In name she was there on the Old Madam’s behalf to care for Madam Meng; in truth, she might as well have been a watchdog. Madam Meng had been married into the family for over a decade without bearing any children of her own, while the Master’s concubine had produced sons and daughters. By custom, children born of concubines were registered under the principal wife’s name, and a wife’s dowry passed to her daughters, not her sons. The Meng family’s intention was clear: Madam Meng’s dowry was to remain within the Meng household.

But if it were merely the dowry, a negotiation could be managed. The truly difficult matter was something else entirely — otherwise Madam Meng would not have gazed at Ye Qinglan with such tenderness mingled with guilt, and Ye Qinglan would not have come so late.

Madam Meng wished to entrust an orphan to her care.

The concubine in the Meng household was a formidable woman with no shortage of schemes, and Master Meng was a man of spineless temperament. Yet Madam Meng, being the legitimate daughter of the Lin family, possessed a streak of fierce resolve that no one had anticipated: in the final months of her life, she had taken in a young orphaned girl from her own maternal grandfather’s family and raised her as her own flesh and blood.

Since a wife’s dowry passed to her daughters and not her sons, now that she had a daughter, the law held that Concubine Su had no claim to that dowry.

But the law was one thing; putting it into practice was another matter entirely. The Meng household was a deep compound, the Old Madam held authority over the house, Master Meng’s career was flourishing, and Concubine Su had both sons and daughters and enjoyed his full favor. To walk out of the Meng household with that dowry intact would be harder than ascending to heaven.

And so Madam Meng did not press the point. Once everyone else had withdrawn, she took Ye Qinglan’s hand and said nothing of these practical matters, only letting the tears fall first.

“Qinglan… it is I who have delayed you.”

“Auntie, please don’t say such things.” Ye Qinglan held her hand and spoke earnestly to comfort her. “After my mother passed away, I was left to raise my two younger sisters with no one to lean on. If it weren’t for Auntie’s constant care, how could we have grown up safe and well? I am the one who is grateful, more than I can say…”

“You are too kind-hearted, child — always thinking of others in everything you say and do. Your mother has been gone seven years, and I have been ill for those same seven years. What care could I offer you? You’ve managed on the strength of your own character — steadfast, yet gentle with everyone. These seven years, you have suffered more than anyone knows. I only hate that this body of mine was too weak, that I could not watch over you as I wished, and now at the very last, I am a burden to you still…” Madam Meng wept again as she spoke.

“Though Auntie could not be there in person, having Auntie here in this great capital gave the three of us something to hold on to in our hearts. Please don’t speak such words of despair — once you’ve recovered your health, we will still be counting on Auntie to look after us.” Ye Qinglan smiled as best she could and offered what comfort she could.

Only Lin Niangzi remained in the room with them. She brought in a bowl of ginseng broth, and Ye Qinglan moved to spoon-feed it to Madam Meng — but Madam Meng only waved her hand away again and again.

“There is no point wasting it. I know I will not outlast this winter.” Madam Meng caught her breath with difficulty, looking into Ye Qinglan’s eyes, and could not bring herself to say the words of entrustment no matter how she tried.

Ye Qinglan was not young, truth be told. Come the new year, she would be twenty-four — an age so startling among the unmarried young ladies of the capital that it might as well have shattered the heavens. Almost all her childhood friends of the same age had long since married and had children of their own. A young woman’s beauty faded quickly; though her fair, oval face was still smooth as jade and her brows and eyes still as lovely as a painting, her best years had been spent waiting in vain.

The hidden ache in Madam Meng’s heart made her even less able to speak. She could only weep.

“Qinglan, Qinglan, what will become of you…” she cried, clutching her hand. “How can I face your mother when we meet again?”

Ye Qinglan only stroked her hand and soothed her, then said gently: “Auntie, please don’t dwell on such things now. Focus on resting and regaining your strength. As for our little cousin, I will take care of her — please set your heart at ease.”

It was the mention of that “little cousin” that did it — Madam Meng’s worry only deepened, and seeing her distress, Ye Qinglan quickly added: “Auntie, trust me. I will find a way…”

“But you are so young. How could you possibly hold your own against them?” Madam Meng gripped her hand anxiously.

“The road will open when we reach the mountain. Auntie, please don’t worry — focus on getting well, and a way will present itself.” Ye Qinglan coaxed her into drinking the ginseng broth. “Rest now, and when you wake, we’ll think it through together.”

Madam Meng did not rest peacefully. What passed for sleep was little more than a deathly hovering. The second half of the night was the worst — she was trapped in a state of nightmares, starting awake again and again, murmuring in her sleep. One moment she was crying, “A’Cuo, run — they mean to harm you,” and the next, “Qinglan, I have wronged you, I have ruined your life,” until at last she began calling out for “elder sister.”

Lin Niangzi kept watch over her mistress with two maids at her side. Ye Qinglan did not sleep at all through the night, keeping vigil at the bedside, soothing Madam Meng through her nightmares, and whenever she jolted awake calling her name, clasping her hands and saying softly: “Auntie, I am here. Qinglan is right here.”

By the fourth watch of the night, the darkness lay heavy and still, and the entire Meng household had sunk into silence. Ye Qinglan sat quietly in the room, and at some point, Ye Lingbo appeared.

“I couldn’t sleep.” She was four years younger than Ye Qinglan, yet she too had grown up quickly. Girls without mothers, raised within the deep walls of a household like the Ye family’s, matured faster than others.

Ye Qinglan said nothing — she simply lifted the quilt and made room for her on the sleeping couch. The two sisters huddled close together and kept watch over their aunt side by side.

“What about Yanyan?” Ye Qinglan was always thinking of her youngest sister.

“I’m here.” Ye Yanyan was only fourteen, nimble as a flash — she wriggled herself right under the quilt, and the three sisters sat wrapped together like a nestful of fledglings.

Ye Qinglan had always been the one to look after her younger sisters, and they felt safest at her side. With their aunt hovering at death’s door, none of them could sleep alone in their separate rooms, yet curled up beside her, one by one they began to doze off. Yanyan fell asleep first; Lingbo was not far behind, her head drooping onto Ye Qinglan’s shoulder, stifling a yawn.

Ye Qinglan tucked the quilt around both of them, then glanced once more at Madam Meng lying in her final repose — and in sweeping her gaze past the curtained alcove, she gave a start.

Standing there was a girl about Yanyan’s age. She was strikingly beautiful — the kind of beauty one only saw in paintings — with a delicately tapered face and eyes as luminous as autumn water. She was very thin, slender as a willow branch, her hair not pinned up but loose, as though she too had risen from bed. She stood there timidly, watching her, and when she realized she had been seen, her instinct was to shrink back.

But Ye Qinglan smiled at her.

Ye Qinglan was not only beautiful but possessed a warmth and dignified grace that made everyone who encountered her feel an instinctive closeness — she was, by nature, the very image of an elder sister. The girl could not help but stare. When Ye Qinglan beckoned to her with a small gesture, she found herself walking over without quite meaning to.

“What is your name?” Ye Qinglan asked her.

The girl still looked wary, her eyes darting uneasily toward the sleeping Lin Niangzi and then toward the bed where Madam Meng lay.

“My name is Ye Qinglan. You can call me elder sister, just as they do.” Ye Qinglan told her softly. “Lin Niangzi and Auntie are both asleep — we mustn’t disturb them.”

The girl had clearly heard her name before.

“My name is A’Cuo,” she replied, politely and quietly. “Elder Sister Qinglan.”

Ye Qinglan reached out and felt her clothing, then asked: “Are you cold? Why are you still awake?”

“I couldn’t sleep.” A’Cuo looked at her, and seeing only tenderness in her gaze — boundless and unhurried, the kind of gaze that seemed to understand everything and could always find a way forward — her eyes turned red at the rims. “I am frightened…”

Lin Niangzi startled awake to find the sky beginning to pale with the first light of dawn. She gave a fright and immediately turned to check on Madam Meng in the bed — finding her only in a deep, dreamless stupor, her condition no worse than before, and finally let out a breath of relief. Then she turned back to look at the sleeping couch, and her eyes went wide.

There on the couch, the three Ye sisters were curled up together, fast asleep. The sight was not entirely unfamiliar to her. Seven years ago, when Madam Ye had passed away and she had accompanied her own mistress to assist with the mourning rites, those three sisters had slept exactly like this — nestled close against one another, like three fledglings who had lost their mother. The sight of it could have moved even the stoniest heart to tears.

But now, seven years later, there was a fourth on the couch.

A’Cuo — the little orphaned girl her mistress had taken in, the strikingly beautiful child who spoke to no one, keeping herself apart from the world — had somehow, at some point during the night, come to nestle among the three Ye sisters like a small bird seeking warmth, curled up in Ye Qinglan’s arms, sound asleep without a sound.

The Meng family held a grand mourning rites.

She had been the principal wife, after all — and though she had borne no children, the ceremonies had to be conducted with proper splendor, for the occasion concerned not only Madam Meng’s passage into the afterlife but the entire Meng family’s standing and dignity.

The mourning period lasted half a month and shook the capital — beginning with all the flourish and ceremony one could expect, then quietly coming to its end. After Madam Meng had been escorted to her burial place on the mountain, the most critical hour arrived. Madam Meng had come to the Meng household as a legitimate daughter of the Lin family, and the dowry she had brought with her had been considerable — its value, far from diminishing over the years, had only grown. Lin Niangzi had been shrewd about it: from the moment of her mistress’s passing, she had snapped a copper lock shut over the storeroom and waited for this day — when all three parties would gather and settle, together, the matter of the dowry’s rightful disposition.

The Lin family was the family of the deceased’s birth. The only representative was Lord Lin — who did not share a mother with Madam Meng but had inherited the family estate — and of course at such a critical juncture, he came accompanied by his wife. The Meng family was the household of her husband, the party in whose home this all took place. Madam Meng had left behind no sons or daughters of her own; although she had taken in A’Cuo as an adopted daughter, the child was not of Meng blood, and being only fifteen years old, she was deemed too young to appear at the negotiating table.

In the main hall of Madam Meng’s quarters, Meng family members and Lin family members filled the seats. Lin Niangzi sat in the side chamber, key in hand, casting worried glances at her young charge, A’Cuo. The maids were all in a state of anxiety — A’Cuo alone sat with her hands folded in her lap, eyes lowered, saying nothing.

“They’re reading out the mistress’s dowry inventory in there…” Lin Niangzi pressed herself against the wall, listened for a few lines, and frowned. “Young Miss, we ought to go out too — we can’t leave them to talk among themselves.”

A’Cuo shook her head.

“But what are you waiting for, Young Miss…” Lin Niangzi grew anxious. “If we wait much longer, I fear Madam’s dowry will all be divided up before we’ve said a word.”

A’Cuo would not speak. Her eyes remained fixed on the courtyard outside the window, as though the quarreling voices from the next room did not reach her at all. A heavy snow was falling in the courtyard. They said this year was a cruel winter — the plum tree looked as though it had been damaged by the cold. Snow lay thick on every branch, and not a single bud could be seen.

A sparrow was hopping through the snow, scrabbling at the ground with its claws. In such bitter cold, wherever would a sparrow find anything to eat…

But the sparrow suddenly took wing.

For the gate to the courtyard had opened.

Through the swirling snow, the Meng family’s servant called out in a carrying voice: “The eldest Miss of the Ye family, the second Miss, and the third Miss have arrived to call upon the second Miss of the Meng family!”

The visitors had come asking specifically for A’Cuo — this so-called “second Miss of the Meng family.” Lin Niangzi looked toward the gate in joyful surprise, and there, coming through the snow in fox-trimmed cloaks, were none other than Ye Qinglan and her two sisters.

By the customs of the capital, it was extremely difficult for unmarried young ladies to appear in public. Not only Ye Lingbo, Yanyan, and A’Cuo, but even Ye Qinglan herself — as the eldest Miss of the Ye family — had no sooner taken a seat in the main hall than Concubine Su of the Meng household offered a remark: “How very peculiar the Lin family’s manners must be — an unmarried young lady sitting as an equal alongside the lord and the ladies of the house. I wonder what reasoning lies behind that.”

Ye Qinglan’s expression remained perfectly composed.

“My father is at court today and could not come. My mother and my aunt were first cousins on the same side of the family. When my mother passed away, my aunt handled the mourning rites for our household — now that my aunt has passed, I could not stay away. I hope the Old Madam will forgive the impropriety.” She cast a sidelong glance at Concubine Su. “Besides, I confess I do not understand why a concubine is present at a discussion of the principal wife’s dowry. Uncle, would you care to weigh in?”

The Lin family had been slow to divide its branches — the main house and the second house had long shared the same compound. Madam Meng and Ye Qinglan’s mother had been first cousins; and because that branch had no male heirs, everything had ultimately been consolidated, so it was entirely proper for her to address Lord Lin as “Uncle.” Lord Lin, seeing that she was offering him support, quickly agreed: “Indeed — my niece speaks with reason.”

“Uncle-in-law.” Ye Qinglan turned next to Master Meng.

Master Meng could only give an awkward smile and shoot a restraining look at Concubine Su. In truth, Ye Qinglan had never expected anything from him — her only aim was to rein in Concubine Su’s insolence.

But Concubine Su was not about to back down. She had entered the household early, had known poverty and humility in her time, and had witnessed with her own eyes the commanding bearing of Madam Meng in her prime — dressed in silks and jewels, the undisputed mistress of the house. She had stood in attendance and served her for a spell. Though she now enjoyed prosperity, with both a son and a daughter to her name, the hunger she had felt for that splendor in those early years had never left her — and so the dowry’s value mattered to her all the more. Master Meng’s glance, far from deterring her, sent her seeking the Old Madam’s support instead: “Ancestress…”

“Miss Ye.” Old Madam Meng’s face was serene, her emotions unreadable. In a tone that was equal parts admonishment and suggestion, she said: “You are a young lady of good family — fine as gold and jade. Even an old woman like myself finds these squabbles over property tedious. Why should you trouble yourself to make a garment for another’s benefit?”

“I was entrusted by the dying, and I am obliged to fulfill that trust. I had no choice but to come. I hope the Old Madam will understand.” Ye Qinglan replied calmly.

The Old Madam let out a long sigh.

“Though you are the niece of my late daughter-in-law, she did leave behind children of her own. A wife’s dowry passes to her daughters — one portion to the daughter by the concubine, one portion to the adopted daughter. Would you consider that fair?” The Old Madam put the question to her in an inquiring tone.

Concubine Su’s face lit up at the mention of a share for the concubine’s daughter — but when she heard that the adopted daughter also received a share, her pleasure soured, and she burst out: “That adopted daughter belongs to her own maternal family — she isn’t even entered in our clan register. How can she be treated the same as my Yun Cui? No, the adopted daughter should receive nothing!”

“Uncle.” Ye Qinglan turned to Lord Lin.

Lord Lin had barely managed to begin, “Let me offer an impartial word here,” when Concubine Su cut in quickly: “By rights, the mother’s family stands above all others — if this dowry were to be divided equally between my Yun Cui and the uncle here, that would make sense. How could it be given to an outsider? Uncle, don’t you agree? Isn’t that the proper reasoning?”

With one sentence she had Lord Lin shrinking back in his seat. No matter how pointedly Ye Qinglan looked at him, he did not make another sound.

Ye Qinglan glanced at Master Meng, who also averted his gaze. She knew that today she stood entirely alone — but she had anticipated this long ago and was not in the least surprised. She simply lifted her teacup and took a measured sip.

“What the Concubine says does have a certain logic to it, yet there is one matter I feel compelled to raise.” She addressed Concubine Su in an unhurried tone: “Since Sister Yun Cui has recognized my aunt as her principal mother, it follows by law and custom that she is entitled to half the dowry. However, that same law and custom has another provision: a daughter born of a concubine must observe three years of mourning for her principal mother. Sister Yun Cui is seventeen this year — just the right age to attend the Flower Festival Banquets. Three years of mourning would put her at twenty. I should hate to think of her missing her most eligible years.”

Concubine Su was struck speechless. She managed a single “You—” before turning to Master Meng for rescue.

Ye Qinglan continued.

“Of course, I have also heard it said that Master Meng and Concubine Su share a deep and abiding affection, and that it has already been arranged — the moment my aunt passed away — to elevate the Concubine to the status of equal wife. If that is the case, she would be considered a co-wife, and Sister Yun Cui would need only to wear mourning clothes without observing the full mourning period, allowing her to attend the Flower Festival Banquets as usual. In that event, however, I imagine there would be no grounds for claiming any portion of my aunt’s dowry at all?”

Concubine Su was cornered by the question and, collecting herself, shot back: “By your reasoning, does the little adopted daughter not need to observe mourning either?”

“A’Cuo is young — only fifteen — and alone in the world with no one to rely on and little experience of society. My aunt always intended to keep her for a few more years, to be properly educated and polished before attending the Flower Festival Banquets. I have already asked her, and she is willing to observe three full years of mourning for my aunt. The question is only whether Sister Yun Cui is willing to do the same.” Ye Qinglan met every thrust with a parry.

Her every word was grounded in propriety, and her command of ceremonial law was precise — she had left Concubine Su with no reply. Neither Master Meng nor Lord Lin could well insert themselves into the matter of the Flower Festival Banquets, and so it was the Old Madam alone who had been watching Ye Qinglan with a complicated expression throughout her exchange with Concubine Su — and when she finished speaking, the Old Madam let out a long, deep sigh.

“Then in your view, what would be the proper way to handle this?” the Old Madam asked.

“Since the Old Madam asks, and since my aunt entrusted this to me on her deathbed, I have indeed thought of a solution.” Only now did Ye Qinglan speak, with unhurried composure. “My aunt’s dowry, though not insignificant, is to a scholarly household like the Meng family not something to be weighed too heavily against all else. Furthermore, to claim that dowry is to accept the obligation of three years’ mourning — and Sister Yun Cui, in the prime of her youth, can hardly afford to squander those years. It seems to me that all parties might benefit from a mutual concession. Rather than passing the dowry to a daughter, let it be divided between the husband’s family and the birth family as follows: of ten parts, two portions shall go to Sister Yun Cui as betrothal gifts for this year’s Flower Festival Banquets — she need not be burdened with observing the mourning period and her time will not be wasted. One portion shall go to Uncle, as modest recompense for any future trouble he may take in watching over A’Cuo. The remaining seven portions shall form A’Cuo’s dowry. She may attend this year’s Flower Festival Banquets as normal — but after a match is agreed upon, she will observe three years of mourning before marrying. This way, both propriety and dignity are preserved, and no one can say that when so illustrious a lady as Madam Meng passed from this world, she left behind not a single daughter to observe mourning. That would reflect poorly even upon Master Meng’s own reputation. Old Madam — what do you think of this arrangement?”

Concubine Su had not followed the more intricate points, but she grasped well enough that her daughter was to receive only two portions. Displeasure rose in her face, and she was just about to say “Old Madam—” when the Old Madam silenced her with a frown: “Do you truly want Yun Cui to observe three years of mourning? Two portions is quite enough — hold your tongue.”

Concubine Su had no choice but to close her mouth. Lord Lin, on the other side of the room, was also somewhat dissatisfied: “How is it that I only get one portion…”

“A’Cuo is now alone and friendless in the world. If Uncle were willing to take her into his household, bear the cost of her Flower Festival Banquet preparations — her clothing, hairpins, powder and rouge, the various fees for invitations and entertainments — and allow A’Cuo to attend the banquets under the Lin family’s calling card, then two additional portions would be entirely reasonable…”

Lord Lin clicked his tongue. He knew well enough that the costs of the Flower Festival Banquets were no small matter — and he had always harbored a certain wariness of his composed and formidable niece. He could only give an awkward laugh and say: “Who has the time for all that.”

“Very well then — the matter is settled.” Ye Qinglan had not expected otherwise from him, and said calmly.

“One moment.” Concubine Su spoke up again. “In that case, A’Cuo cannot be counted among our Meng family. She may not attend the Flower Festival Banquets under our Meng family’s calling card — all expenses shall be Miss Ye’s responsibility.”

Ye Qinglan pressed her lips together slightly.

She had always been the most composed of well-bred young ladies, never allowing joy or anger to show — and this was, for her, the expression of the deepest anger.

“Whether A’Cuo is considered a member of the Meng family is not for Concubine Su to decide.” She lifted her eyes to the Old Madam and said: “Old Madam, there is a saying — many children bring many blessings, and a prosperous household is a thriving one. A’Cuo is a gentle and sensible child. The Old Madam’s compassion, shown today in sheltering this orphaned girl, will be repaid in kind in days to come. For the Old Madam, this is no more than a small effort; for A’Cuo, it is warmth offered in a bitter winter. I ask the Old Madam to consider carefully.”

The Old Madam was silent for a long while.

After what seemed like deliberation, she said slowly: “If she were willing to sit out this year’s Flower Festival Banquets, and let Yun Cui have her year undivided…”

Ye Qinglan smiled — not with bitterness, but with the look of someone who had seen through everything.

“In that case, A’Cuo will come home with me.” She lowered her eyes, her expression serene. “As for all the expenses and the calling cards, I will arrange everything myself. I will ask Uncle to serve as the witness, and I will act as guarantor — let us put today’s agreement down in writing and settle it properly, with clear handover. I will take A’Cuo back with me tonight.”

Note on the Flower Festival Banquets:

In ancient times, five days constituted one weather interval, and three such intervals made one of the twenty-four solar terms, dividing the year into twenty-four solar terms and seventy-two intervals. The Song poet Xu Fu wrote: “One hundred and five days of Cold Food rain; twenty-four breezes bearing flower tidings.” Folk saying held that “flowers and trees mark the seasons, and birdsong heralds the farming times” — all living things in nature moved in accordance with the rhythm of the seasons. Among these, across the eight solar terms from Minor Cold to Grain Rain, there were twenty-four weather intervals — the season stretching from winter into the warm flowering of spring, when plants and trees burst into abundance. And so the ancients chose, for each of these twenty-four intervals, the one flower that best embodied that moment in time. With flowers blooming one after another throughout those twenty-four intervals, the breezes that blew as each flower opened came to be called “flower-tidings winds,” and those twenty-four intervals came to be known as the Twenty-Four Flower-Tidings Winds.

The Twenty-Four Flower-Tidings Winds: Minor Cold — first interval: plum blossom; second interval: camellia; third interval: narcissus. Major Cold — first interval: daphne; second interval: orchid; third interval: Chinese sweetleaf. Start of Spring — first interval: forsythia; second interval: cherry; third interval: magnolia. Rain Water — first interval: rapeseed flower; second interval: apricot blossom; third interval: plum flower. Awakening of Insects — first interval: peach blossom; second interval: kerria; third interval: wild rose. Spring Equinox — first interval: crabapple; second interval: pear blossom; third interval: magnolia lily. Clear and Bright — first interval: paulownia flower; second interval: wheat flower; third interval: willow flower. Grain Rain — first interval: peony; second interval: sea rose; third interval: chinaberry flower.

The capital was prosperous, and its people followed the rhythm of the Twenty-Four Flower-Tidings Winds to appreciate blooms and stroll through gardens. The noble families went further, hosting banquets in their own gardens to admire the flowers over wine and receive relatives and friends, giving rise to grand social occasions. The daughters of noble households lived in deep seclusion within their inner quarters and only ventured out during the flower-tidings season to attend these gatherings — and so, gradually, the custom had taken hold among noble families of using these banquets to arrange matches and marriages. In time this evolved into the established tradition of the Twenty-Four Flower Festival Banquets.

Each year beginning from Minor Cold, the most respected noble families in the capital would select one of the twenty-four flower-tidings intervals, hold a banquet in their homes, and extend invitations throughout the capital to all eligible young ladies of noble birth and unmarried young men of princely or official family. The gentlemen attended the outer banquet while the ladies attended the inner one; they viewed the flowers, walked the gardens, competed at riding and archery, and observed one another — with the matchmaking conducted primarily by the elder generations. Should a suitable match catch anyone’s eye, the elders would arrange the betrothal then and there. With only one such gathering each year, the Twenty-Four Flower Festival Banquets had become the foremost avenue through which the capital’s official and noble families arranged marriages for their children. Even officials posted to distant provinces would travel thousands of miles back to the capital when their children came of marriageable age, unwilling to miss the grand spectacle of the Twenty-Four Flower-Tidings season.