Though Xiāo Wéi’ān harbored his little fantasies, he truly didn’t dare intrude on the master, whose presence alone was enough to make ordinary people instinctively keep their distance.

Simply put: great wealth commands involuntary deference.

The next morning, the master actually came downstairs, walked a circuit of the place, and appeared somewhat dissatisfied before retreating upstairs again.

Of course she was dissatisfied. Having lived at Zuìlínglóng — Cháng’ān’s most celebrated establishment, lavishly appointed — she naturally felt the contrast keenly. As the Vice Minister’s exclusive tea master, she’d had attendants to see to her every need at Zuìlínglóng, treated as gently as a daughter of a great house. This quietness was a blow.

Xiāo Wéi’ān drew all the wrong conclusions: the heavenly creature had come downstairs, unable to suppress the yearning to catch a glimpse of him.

But having looked around, she’d clearly grown displeased, and when her eyes fell on him, she seemed to come very close to retching.

Even Xiāo Wéi’ān’s remarkable self-assurance could not, in the face of this, sustain the fantasy that she’d taken a fancy to him.

He was polishing the tables and chairs when the handmaid called Yuè’ér came downstairs and addressed him with cool indifference: “Come upstairs. The master wishes to speak with you.”

Xiāo Wéi’ān froze — then thought again: perhaps I was wrong? She hasn’t dismissed me after all?

He quickly said yes and followed the handmaid upstairs. The girl’s manner toward him was, if anything, not quite contemptuous — simply glacially impersonal.

“Master, you wanted to see me?”

Xiāo Wéi’ān bowed.

Zhāo Shīshī gave a quiet affirmation, then asked: “I hear that Minister of Personnel Lù Dàren often comes here to buy tea. Around what days does he tend to come?”

Xiāo Wéi’ān’s face fell. So it’s Minister Lù she’s after.

Of course. She bought my teahouse just to find an opportunity to get close to Lù Dàren. A high official like that — talented, prominent — naturally he’d attract the admiration of someone this beautiful.

“In truth, master, there’s no fixed pattern to when Lù Dàren comes. Sometimes twice in a month, sometimes not even once.”

Hearing this, Zhāo Shīshī’s disappointment was visible.

Guān Mò had sent her here against her will. She’d told Guān Mò she had no interest in approaching Lù Chónglóu. Guān Mò, who had always been kind to her — even deferential, though everyone could see he was fond of her — had never pressed her nor asked anything improper. On his visits to Zuìlínglóng, he’d always only had her brew tea.

Yet the moment she refused, his manner changed entirely.

“Is this the sort of thing you refuse because you don’t want to do it?” he’d said. “Your whole family lives under Zuìlínglóng’s roof. Without me, why would Zuìlínglóng support them? One word from me and your entire family is in prison — I could give them any charge I like and have them exiled a thousand li from here.”

Those words had truly frightened her.

Her father had once served as the tea master for Zēng Líng, the military governor of Jìzhōu, and she had learned the art of tea from him from a young age. She’d also taken a liking to reading and writing, and her family had lived in relative comfort.

But when she was in her teens, Zēng Líng died, Jìzhōu changed hands, and her father brought the family back to their old home in Cháng’ān. Later, when Cháng’ān became the capital, their circumstances actually grew harder.

Her father’s health was failing, the household had no income, and there wasn’t even money for medicine.

When Zuìlínglóng put out a call for a tea master, she’d thought naively that her father’s teachings might finally be of use.

What she hadn’t anticipated was that Zuìlínglóng’s owner cared nothing for her skill in tea — only for her face and figure.

At the time, Zuìlínglóng’s owner was currying favor with Guān Mò, so she was kept on.

And Guān Mò, in the beginning, had genuinely liked her — even entertained thoughts of taking her as a concubine.

But Dàníng was newly founded, and imperial standards for officials’ conduct were strict. He hadn’t dared risk making himself a target of the Censorate at such a time.

So the matter of concubinage was set aside. Then, after Xú Jì’s prompting, Guān Mò had made his choice quickly.

Girls like her are easy to find. I can always find another later. But if she can help bring down Lù Chónglóu — that’s the real prize.

Guān Mò’s plan: control Zhāo Shīshī and gradually lure Lù Chónglóu into spending more and more silver at the teahouse.

That, of course, was only the first step. If it succeeded, it would prove that Lù Chónglóu was already enthralled by her.

In his youth in Jìzhōu, Guān Mò had seen this pattern play out too many times among people of similar means. Once someone fell into that kind of trap, they couldn’t get themselves out — and no one would pull them free.

He’d once had a decent friend, from a slightly better-off family, well-regarded for his generosity. A mutual acquaintance had introduced this friend to a celebrated beauty at a pleasure house. Within three months, the friend had poured in over ten thousand taels — most of it stolen from his own family home.

In the end, the pleasure house took his family’s land deeds and threw him out, laughing.

Generations of his family’s accumulated wealth — built up across decades of commerce — consumed in less than four months.

Guān Mò had watched it all unfold at close range. He’d shaken his head. That was all he’d done.

What became of that friend afterward, he didn’t know. Likely dead somewhere in the chaos of those years.

Now Guān Mò’s scheme was exactly this: let Lù Chónglóu become infatuated with Zhāo Shīshī, and the moment Lù Chónglóu spent money on her, the crack would be exposed.

With the Emperor cracking down so fiercely on official conduct, this one thing alone could bring Lù Chónglóu down from his post as Minister of Personnel.

He didn’t need Lù Chónglóu harshly sentenced — just removed from the Ministry.

Once Guān Mò took that seat — with Xú Jì backing him — placing people in the court or dispatching them to regional posts would be effortless.

Zhāo Shīshī had no wish to do it. But she was genuinely afraid of Guān Mò imprisoning her family.

Her father’s health was poor; without medicine, he couldn’t hold on much longer.

Now, hearing that Lù Dàren had no fixed schedule, she felt relief and disappointment in equal measure — her feelings hopelessly tangled. She didn’t want to harm anyone, and yet she wanted this to be over, to be free.

The days passed without Lù Chónglóu appearing. Her inner conflict deepened.

Xiāo Wéi’ān noticed her melancholy and, by now somewhat acquainted with her, struck up a casual conversation to ask what was weighing on her.

Zhāo Shīshī said only that she admired Lù Dàren’s poetry and had bought the teahouse hoping to receive a piece of his calligraphy.

This gave Xiāo Wéi’ān an idea.

“If Lù Dàren’s tea supply hasn’t run out, he might not come, and even if it does, he may have been gifted some by His Majesty or taken his business elsewhere.”

He said, “Just sitting and waiting isn’t the way.”

Zhāo Shīshī asked on impulse: “Do you have a better idea?”

“I do,” he said. “Lù Dàren often passes by the door but doesn’t come in — because aside from tea, there’s nothing here to draw him. What if you remodel the entrance, change the signboard? If he passes and sees something different, it’ll pique his curiosity.”

He smiled. “When he comes in to look around, you greet him personally and ask for his calligraphy. That shouldn’t be too much trouble.”

Zhāo Shīshī thought this made sense, and nodded. “Then I’ll leave the renovation to you.”

Xiāo Wéi’ān shook his head. “I can’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“I have no money.”

“The money is no concern of yours. I’ll provide it.”

“Don’t say ‘later’ — later is never good. Give me the money and I’ll hire craftsmen tomorrow.”

Zhāo Shīshī told Yuè’ér to fetch silver from Gù Cóngcháo, then asked Xiāo Wéi’ān how much was needed.

“At least five hundred taels.”

Without hesitation, Zhāo Shīshī told Yuè’ér to ask for five hundred taels.

Yuè’ér went and returned. Hearing this, Gù Cóngcháo came straight to the teahouse that evening and looked Xiāo Wéi’ān dead in the eye: “Have you been feeding the master nonsense? Trying to swindle her?”

Xiāo Wéi’ān shrugged. “If you don’t believe me, ask the master yourself. The idea was mine, but the decision was hers.”

Gù Cóngcháo demanded furiously: “You got over two thousand taels for this shop and you can’t produce five hundred yourself?”

“I could,” said Xiāo Wéi’ān reasonably, “but the teahouse is no longer mine. Why would I spend my own money on it?”

He looked at Gù Cóngcháo evenly: “If you’re worried I’ll pocket the master’s silver, handle it yourself. I’m only too happy to stay out of it.”

Gù Cóngcháo, thinking that speed was more important than anything, gritted his teeth and handed over five hundred taels.

Xiāo Wéi’ān, money in hand, moved with impressive speed — that very evening he climbed up himself and took down the Wàngdòngtíng signboard.

And then — nothing. No craftsmen appeared.

Zhāo Shīshī summoned him and asked what was happening.

“This is enough,” said Xiāo Wéi’ān. “Why waste money on craftsmen? If Lù Dàren doesn’t show up within three days, I’ll spend the money on a proper renovation. But if he does — why not save it?”

Then he leaned slightly forward: “If the master truly loves Lù Dàren’s calligraphy so dearly, and doesn’t know when he’ll return — I happen to have a few characters written in his own hand. I came by them at some expense. Would the master like to have them?”

Zhāo Shīshī dared not say no — that would look suspicious.

She nodded. “Then gift them to me.”

“Gift them?” Xiāo Wéi’ān shook his head. “I paid a great deal for these. I can’t give them away for nothing — not even to the master. You want them? You’ll have to buy them.”

She sighed and said fine — how much?

Five hundred taels, said Xiāo Wéi’ān. He’d paid that himself and wasn’t looking to profit from the master; five hundred was all he asked.

Zhāo Shīshī sent Yuè’ér to Gù Cóngcháo again. Gù Cóngcháo, when he heard, was furious.

Nothing had even been done yet and several thousand taels were already gone. He’d given five hundred yesterday and now five hundred more today.

He rushed to the teahouse and tried to warn Zhāo Shīshī she was being cheated. But Zhāo Shīshī said: I told him I wanted Lù Dàren’s calligraphy. If I don’t take it now, won’t that seem suspicious?

Gù Cóngcháo, seeing the logic in that, could only harden his heart and produce another five hundred taels.

Xiāo Wéi’ān took the silver with a grin, said “just a moment,” and walked off.

Before long, he came back staggering under the weight of the very signboard he’d taken down from the door — the one reading Wàngdòngtíng — and thudded it down on the ground with a bang.

“That’s it!”

—