Minglan had not always been so lax in her duties. Back in her previous life, she had been a hardworking, conscientious child who upheld the five virtues and four beauties. She had joined the Young Pioneers, then the Communist Youth League — always among the first batch. Though she had never been class president, she had frequently been elected to various committee and representative roles throughout her school years. As Publicity Committee member, her blackboard newspaper had won awards. As Organization Committee member, she had led classmates to visit an ailing teacher. As English Class Representative, she had organized daily morning readings. As Study Committee member, she had even successfully orchestrated a systematic homework-copying operation. Aside from the fifth grade incident when she had been removed midway through her term as Entertainment Committee member, she had generally been the kind of good student that teachers liked and trusted.

Who could have imagined that in this life, Minglan’s fortunes would take such a dismal turn? This time, when she moved from Wang Shi’s quarters to the Old Madam’s residence, only one girl — Xiaotao, who was even simpler-minded than Minglan herself — had been willing to follow her. The other maids, upon hearing they would be going to Shòu’ān Hall, all found excuses — some pleaded illness, others requested leave, and yet others had family members come to intercede on their behalf. As for the supervising Nanny, she had started complaining of backaches and fatigue several days beforehand.

“Xiaotao, why were you willing to come with me?” Minglan asked hopefully.

“Could I… have said no?”

Like watching the sea transform into mulberry fields, a hollow feeling of utter desolation washed over Minglan. She took Xiaotao by the hand and departed, disheveled and defeated. She felt this was no fault of hers — it was as if she had been assigned to a family enterprise run entirely on nepotism, where no matter how hard she worked, she would always be a second-class citizen. So why bother striving at all? She sighed. Well, she might as well go see her new workplace.

Shòu’ān Hall’s main building had five upper rooms. The center room was called the Main Hall, and on either side were the side rooms and adjacent rooms in succession. At the front and back were several smaller annex rooms where maids and nannies stood watch or rested. This was a typical ancient-style courtyard dwelling. The Main Hall was somewhat like a modern living room; the side rooms and adjacent rooms served as leisure spaces or bedchambers. The Old Madam slept in the left side room and had settled Minglan in the left adjacent room. Because the two spaces were separated only by a carved pear-wood lattice screen, Minglan’s room was also called the Pear Blossom Chamber.

Nanny Fang had just tidied the room the previous evening. The furnishings were simple and understated, done entirely in cool tones — slate blue, crow-feather black, navy blue — with only the warm alcove where Minglan slept adorned in bright apricot yellow.

No sooner had Minglan settled in than Cuiping, one of the Old Madam’s maids, came to pass word that the Old Madam wished to see her. Minglan followed her over. She found the Old Madam reclining on a heated brick bed, draped in a thick brocade coat of black fabric embroidered with eight medallions of ruyi flowering motifs. On the bed table rested a scroll of scripture and several strands of sandalwood prayer beads, along with a small white jade chime inlaid with gold wire cloud motifs.

Upon seeing Minglan, the Old Madam beckoned her over. Minglan had learned the proper forms of address by now and understood etiquette; she first performed a proper greeting, then naturally positioned herself beside the brick bed, standing at a forty-five-degree angle before the Old Madam, head raised, awaiting instructions. Seeing the little girl standing there with such prim, grown-up formality, the Old Madam smiled and pulled her up onto the bed, saying warmly: “You are the fourth child I have raised. The first three and I were not fated to be close — I wonder how you and I will fare? Come, let us have a talk. You need not stand on ceremony. Say whatever comes to mind; it does not matter if you speak wrongly.”

Minglan opened her large eyes wide and nodded. She had not planned on telling any lies either — compared to these ancient women who had spent their entire lives within the inner quarters, whatever schemes she possessed were not even enough to tie their shoes.

“Have you studied books?” the Old Madam asked.

Minglan shook her head and said softly: “Elder Sister was going to teach me the ‘Primer on Phonetics and Rhymes,’ and had just gotten through the first two lines when she was shut away to embroider her trousseau. Nanny Liu keeps a strict watch, so Elder Sister cannot slip away.”

A flicker of amusement crossed the Old Madam’s eyes. “Can you write characters?”

Minglan laughed inwardly at herself. In her past life she could certainly write, but here it was a different matter. She said in a small voice: “I only know a few characters.”

The Old Madam had Cuiping bring paper and brush so Minglan could write a few for her to see. The ink had already been ground; Minglan rolled up her sleeves along her short little arms, extended her small hand, and took hold of the brush with a slight tremor. In her childhood she had attended a calligraphy class at the Youth Palace for two summers, which had left her with terrible penmanship but at least a proper brush grip.

She used her five short fingers in the correct position — pressing, supporting, hooking, propping, and bracing — and steadied the brush firmly, then wrote on the plain paper a lopsided character for “person,” followed by a few simple characters: “of,” “also,” “not,” “already,” and so on.

The moment the Old Madam saw Minglan’s form, she quietly admired it within herself. Though the child was young, her arm and wrist posture was very correct — the brush held suspended, the wrist resting lightly, the back and waist erect, the gaze focused. But because she was small and lacked strength, the characters were not particularly elegant to look at. After writing all the two-stroke characters she could recall, Minglan finally wrote a messy ink-blotted cluster; the Old Madam leaned in to make it out carefully, and discovered it was the character “Sheng” — a complex, many-stroked character.

“Who taught you to write?” the Old Madam asked. She recalled that Wei Yiniang was illiterate.

Minglan finished writing with sweat on her brow and wiped her forehead with the back of her small hand. “It was Fifth Sister. She taught me to trace characters in red.”

The Old Madam laughed aloud. “Taught you to trace? More likely she had you write for her so she could go off and play.”

Minglan’s face flushed red; she said nothing, thinking to herself that these ancient women were truly formidable.

“And who taught you this ‘Sheng’ character? There cannot be a tracing sheet for it.” The Old Madam pointed to the unrecognizable ink blob.

Minglan thought for a moment. “It’s everywhere at home — on the lanterns, on the envelope seals, and… on Elder Sister’s trousseau chests.”

The Old Madam nodded in satisfaction and reached out to touch Minglan’s small face. The moment she did, she immediately frowned. A child of this age, as long as she had enough to eat, should have plump, chubby cheeks — but there was not a pinch of flesh to be found on Minglan’s face. So she put on a stern expression and said: “From now on, living here with me, you must eat your meals properly and take your medicine. No shirking.”

Minglan felt she must offer a defense of herself and said quietly: “I do eat, and I never leave food behind. I just cannot seem to put on weight.”

The Old Madam’s gaze was warm, yet she maintained her stern expression. “I have heard that you frequently spit out your medicine.”

Minglan felt deeply wronged. She twisted the hem of her robe and protested softly: “I do not wish to spit it out — but my stomach does not listen to me. I cannot help it. Anyone who has ever retched knows what I mean!”

The amusement in the Old Madam’s eyes deepened. She reached over and opened Minglan’s small clenched hand, smoothing out the rumpled hem, and said evenly: “Not only does your stomach refuse to listen to you — it seems your very maids refuse to listen to you as well. I heard only one little maid came along with you this time?”

The Old Madam had been lonely for a very long time; today she had been moved to laughter twice in succession, and she could not help but tease the child a little. She had not expected that the frail little figure before her would answer with perfect seriousness: “I heard Elder Sister say that water flows to low places, but people must strive toward higher ones. Wherever I go, there are not many people willing to follow me.”

“Then why were you willing to come? I eat vegetarian food here — there is no meat to be had.” the Old Madam asked.

“What does it matter about meat? As long as I can eat in peace.” Minglan shook her head emphatically.

The words were spoken in a child’s treble, yet carried within them a weight of unspoken longing. The Old Madam looked at the little girl for a long while, then also shook her head, pulled Minglan close, and sighed: “Nothing but skin and bones. We had better have some meat after all.”

What the Old Madam was thinking, deep in her heart, was: they were alike, the two of them.

The Old Madam assigned Minglan a new nanny, a woman surnamed Cui — a round-faced woman of few words who appeared gentle and kindly, and who held Minglan with great tenderness. Seeing that both Minglan and Xiaotao were as simple-minded as each other, the Old Madam also gave Minglan one of her own little maids, Danju. From the moment Danju arrived, Xiaotao immediately felt inadequate by comparison. Though Danju was only a year older than Minglan, she was composed and attentive, and attended to every detail of Minglan’s daily life with thorough care. Xiaotao had been purchased from outside; Danju, however, was a household-born servant. Her parents managed farmland and estates outside the mansion; with so many children at home, they could not keep watch over all of them, so she had entered service at a very young age, later been noticed by Nanny Fang, and brought to Shòu’ān Hall to serve.

The Old Madam was of aristocratic stock — born into a Marquis’s family — and though she lived simply, she maintained very strict rules. Every word and action followed set forms, and the maids and nannies here seemed more orderly than those elsewhere. Minglan possessed the soul of an adult and naturally would not behave in any childish or mischievous way; Nanny Cui had barely taken charge before she told Nanny Fang that the Sixth Young Miss had a docile and easygoing temperament and was a pleasure to serve.

That evening before bed, Danju had already used a bed warmer to heat the quilt through; Nanny Cui helped Minglan change into her inner garments, then carried her directly into the warm, toasty bedding. She patted Minglan gently to lull her to sleep. During the night, if Minglan was thirsty or needed to relieve herself, she had only to call out and someone would come to attend to her. The next morning, the moment Minglan opened her eyes, a warm towel was already prepared; in the warming cabinet sat a cup of gently heated red jujube and golden thread tea. First the warm towel was used to press lightly against her forehead and cheeks to rouse her senses; then, after Nanny Cui had nestled the drowsy Minglan close and helped her drink the tea down, she washed Minglan’s face, dressed her, and combed her hair, while little Danju attended to the side, fastening ribbons and helping on with socks and shoes — and then they proceeded out to pay respects to the Old Madam.

The whole sequence flowed like water, natural and seamless, without the slightest awkwardness. Xiaotao stood by watching with her mouth agape, unable to insert herself at a single point. By the time Minglan stood before the Old Madam’s brick bed to perform her morning greeting, she still had not quite come back to herself — she only felt a warmth in her stomach and a solid thickness to her clothing. Rising early on a deep-winter morning, she did not feel the slightest bit miserable.

Dear heavens above — in all the time Minglan had been in this world, this was the very first time she had enjoyed the privilege of not having to lift a single finger. Ah, such moral corruption! Minglan repented deeply for her own decadent existence.

After paying her respects to the Old Madam, the latter pulled Minglan back up onto the bed and had her wait warmly and comfortably while the rest of the household came to pay their morning respects. Before long, Wang Shi arrived with the children — though Molan and Changfeng were absent, reportedly ill. Wang Shi wore an expression of great concern, but when Minglan stole a glance at the Old Madam, her countenance had not changed in the slightest.

“Both of them fell ill at the same time — could it be a chill? This sort of illness spreads so easily. I have already sent for the physician. I can only pray that the Buddha protects them and that both children come to no harm.” Wang Shi said with a worried look.

Minglan quietly gave a mental thumbs-up. Over the past year, Wang Shi’s acting skills had improved considerably — that look in her eyes, that expression on her face. Anyone who did not know better would think that Changfeng and Molan were her own children.

The Old Madam suddenly said: “Have the Master go to see them himself. If two children fall ill together, it is easy for the sickness to spread. Feng Ge’er is getting older — it would be better to separate them sooner rather than later.”

Wang Shi was startled, but inwardly a wave of delight rose within her. She was alarmed that the Old Madam, who had not concerned herself with such matters for many years, should suddenly take an interest; she was pleased that the Old Madam would be the one to put Lin Yiniang in her place — far more proper than doing it herself. She hastily said: “The Old Madam is quite right. Feng Ge’er and Mo Jie’er are the Master’s favorites; now that they have both taken ill at the same time, the Master really ought to go see them.”

The Old Madam glanced at her mildly, lowered her head, and drank her tea. Wang Shi turned with a smile to look at Minglan and saw that she was dressed in a brand-new peach-pink feather-silk padded jacket, standing neatly to one side. She exchanged a few warm words with her, asking how she was settling in. Minglan said a few words about moving to the new quarters; Hualan chimed in with a few lighthearted remarks; everyone laughed pleasantly for a moment and then departed.

Once they had gone, Nanny Fang immediately led a row of maids carrying octagonal food boxes in from outside. She herself supported the Old Madam as she descended from the brick bed, while Nanny Cui led Minglan into the right side room, where the maids had already laid out breakfast on a six-sided carved black lacquered table. After the Old Madam sat down, Nanny Cui lifted Minglan up onto a round stool; the moment Minglan took her seat, she caught sight of what was on the table and nearly fell off in astonishment — could this be right? Such a transformation!

A bountiful spread covered the table: richly red date-paste cakes, deep purple yam cakes, a plate of steaming sugar-frosted millet cakes fragrant with warmth, golden-crisp fried sesame oil fritters, little steamed buns kept warm in a bamboo steamer — and there was even a bowl of buckwheat skin wontons scattered with chopped coriander. Set before Minglan was a sweet, glutinous, fragrant congee of dates simmered with japonica rice; beside it sat more than ten small dishes of various pickled accompaniments.

Minglan held her chopsticks and stared, somewhat at a loss. The memory of that sparse breakfast during her one previous visit to Shòu’ān Hall was still vivid. She looked up at the Old Madam and said softly: “…So much.”

The Old Madam did not even look up; she began slowly ladling her congee. Nanny Fang beamed and answered for her: “Yes indeed! Today the Old Madam suddenly had a craving.” She had spent years urging the Old Madam to no avail; now it seemed this was all thanks to the Sixth Young Miss — the Old Madam had finally consented to cease her austere way of living.

Touched in her heart, Minglan looked at the Old Madam again; her small mouth moved. She lowered her head, then raised it again and peeked at her once more, saying in a low voice: “Thank you, Grandmother. Your granddaughter will be sure to eat plenty and put on weight — to grow lots of flesh for you.”

When the Old Madam heard the first half of the sentence she only smiled quietly to herself; at the second half, she could not help but break into a gentle laugh. “Grow lots of flesh for me?” — as though she were raising a little pig? Nanny Fang had to turn her face away and cover her mouth.

After breakfast, the grandmother and granddaughter returned to the brick bed. The Old Madam took out a copy of the Character Classic and asked Minglan to recite a passage so she could gauge how much she knew. Minglan took it with great unease and decided to deliberately underperform — so she opened her mouth and produced: “People’s knife, born of wood and sheep, born of wood and axe, practice wood and origin…”

The Old Madam nearly spat out a mouthful of tea and coughed repeatedly. Minglan was alarmed; she scrambled around the bed table and began patting the old woman’s back to help her breathe, and in all innocence and distress asked as she patted: “Grandmother, did I read it wrong?”

The Old Madam drew several deep breaths before recovering and, looking at the granddaughter’s blank-faced puzzlement, braced herself and said: “You read it… very well. Only a few characters were wrong — it is of no consequence. It will improve with time.”

Out of twelve characters she had gotten only one right — a twenty-five percent accuracy rate. Minglan felt deep sorrow inwardly. Just how easy did people think it was for a university graduate to pretend to be illiterate?

On that day, Minglan was not the only one feeling sorrowful. That evening, when Sheng Hong returned home from his official duties, Wang Shi immediately recounted the Old Madam’s exact words along with her own interpretations. Sheng Hong, without even changing out of his official robes, set off for Lin Yiniang’s quarters with a darkened face. Once the door was shut behind him, no one outside knew what transpired within — only the muffled sounds of weeping and shouting, and the sharp crack of porcelain shattering could be dimly heard.

About half an hour later, Sheng Hong came out with a greenish complexion. When the maids went inside to attend to Lin Yiniang, they found the room in complete disarray; Lin Yiniang herself was prostrated on the brick bed, weeping so bitterly she resembled a crabapple in the rain, and had nearly fainted dead away.

Upon learning this, Wang Shi, invigorated in spirits, downed several cups of strong tea in succession, then offered a stick of incense each to the Supreme Venerable Sovereign and to the Buddha Amitabha, murmuring prayers under her breath. Even the knowledge that Sheng Hong had gone to sleep in his study did not dampen her good mood. As the saying goes, the enemy of my enemy is my friend — Wang Shi resolved to show twice the filial devotion to the Old Madam from that day forward.