After receiving his mother’s permission, Pei Yunci dashed back to the study in a flash, retrieved his scrolls, and began reciting them aloud.
Listening to the delicate, childlike voice drifting out from the study — the pauses in the verses already measured and steady — Yang Shiyue smiled and wound the silk thread around her fingers, then passed the sewing basket to the maidservant beside her.
Nanny Chen, who was sitting nearby, chuckled and offered a compliment: “Our Ci Jie’er is just like the young mistress was in her youth — both so eager to learn.”
The Yang Family was a household of scholars in the capital, and among the younger generation, both boys and girls alike were taught their elementary studies by private tutors.
Nanny Chen’s words drew Yang Shiyue’s thoughts back to the days before her marriage. When it came to learning, she had indeed approached it with reverence — she had put in both effort and hardship in reading and practicing her calligraphy, and even her grandfather had once praised her poetry as carrying a certain innate spirit.
Yet upon honest reflection, Yang Shiyue admitted to herself that even in her most diligent moments of study, she had only read refined and elegant poetry, learned of historical events from ages past, and sought within them an understanding of virtue and refinement — she had never once considered delving into the classical texts and essays for the imperial examinations, or pursuing scholarly honors and official titles.
For one thing, her aspirations lay elsewhere. For another, official titles and honors were an impossible dream for women.
And it was not only her — among the women of the Yang Family, she had never heard of a single one who had set her heart on the Four Books and Five Classics.
“Xiao Feng takes after her father more,” Yang Shiyue replied.
Though it was mostly Yang Shiyue who disciplined and guided them day to day, both little ones had grown in their ambitions and temperament toward their father.
“That is true,” Nanny Chen agreed. “When Ci Jie’er is a bit older, it won’t be too late to start learning needlework and embroidery.”
But Yang Shiyue said, “Let us see what Xiao Feng likes. She has a good nature — if she wishes to learn, she will come to it on her own.” Her two children were not the sort who needed strict discipline or restraint. She added, “And if she does not wish to learn, that can be set aside as well… In the future, I as her mother can keep a few things in reserve for her sake.”
On the stone table, several potted jasmine plants stood with their blossoms full and pale — small petals carved, it seemed, from jade.
A gentle breeze stirred, and their fragrance came drifting over again and again.
Yang Shiyue smiled, and with a tone of quiet meaning, she mused: “There are always those who, though they know spring has come, choose not to bloom — those who have no desire to vie for splendor with the other flowers.”
……
Before nightfall, Pei Shaohuai returned from the prefectural office, and the pair of children immediately came before him to compete in reciting their poems.
Xiao Feng had put in considerable effort that day and recited seven or eight poems in one breath, edging slightly ahead of her brother, earning their father’s praise.
After the evening meal, the hot water for bathing had already been prepared, and a soft mist of steam filled the room. As Yang Shiyue helped her husband out of his outer robes, she recounted Xiao Feng’s words from earlier in the day.
She said, “The ambition is admirable, but I also worry she is trying to catch the moon’s reflection in a basket.”
Pei Shaohuai, dressed in his plain inner garment, paused for a moment, then after a brief thought, understood — the two children were already four years old, right at the age when their curiosity and desire to learn were at their keenest.
“I understand,” Pei Shaohuai replied, and offered his own view: “If she has no inclination toward learning and no natural aptitude for it, we as her parents cannot push her too hard. On the other hand, if she does have the desire and gives it her all, we cannot hold her back either.”
“People are inevitably constrained by the world,” he continued, “but they must not be constrained by their own hearts. Xiao Feng is still young — she may not yet fully understand what the imperial examinations are, or what it means to attain official honors.”
In a world governed by imperial authority, opening a separate examination system for women was an exceedingly difficult thing to do — the prospects were close to none. Yet Pei Shaohuai had no wish to simply close off his daughter’s aspirations.
“I feel exactly the same as you, my husband.”
As she helped him remove his inner garment, Yang Shiyue noticed two dark, purplish bruise marks pressed into his shoulder. Her heart ached, and she asked with concern, “How did those two marks come to be on your shoulder, my husband?”
Pei Shaohuai had not even noticed them himself. He turned his head to look, and said with a self-deprecating laugh, “It seems I truly am not cut out for manual labor.” It turned out that during his visit to the countryside that day, while at an old man’s home, he had been caught in an early summer downpour. Everyone had pitched in to help the old man carry the dried bundles of firewood into the woodshed, and Pei Shaohuai had lent his shoulder to the task as well.
He was lean in build, though still solid, but having never carried loads before, and with skin that was rather fair, the marks had left their mark.
Yang Shiyue reproached him gently, “You know perfectly well you’ve never done heavy labor, yet you still had to show off.”
“As the people’s official, the work of the yamen must be done — and so must the everyday work of the common people,” he said.
Yang Shiyue fetched a thick cloth, wrung it out after soaking it in hot water, and carefully applied a warm compress to his shoulder for quite a while. Noticing it was his right shoulder, she added, “We’ll see how proudly you hold your tongue when you’re trying to write official documents.”
……
Frogs croaked at the start of summer by the pond; sparse stars reflected against the vermilion-latticed windows.
After washing and changing, Pei Shaohuai went to the study as usual to read for a while and attend to some official matters.
Before long, Xiao Feng poked her little head in and called out, “Father.”
Pei Shaohuai set down his ledger and put aside his brush before responding, “Come in then.”
Xiao Feng climbed up on the chair and hopped onto the writing desk, sitting across from her father — the motion fluid and practiced, as though she had done it many times before.
It had begun as ordinary evening conversation between father and daughter, but Pei Shaohuai recalled what his wife had told him earlier, and so he asked, “Xiao Feng, tell Father — your wish to wear the Zhuangyuan’s flower in your hair: is it because you wish to study and broaden your knowledge, or because you wish to sit the examinations and become the Zhuangyuan?”
The little girl swung her legs and asked, “Father, is there a difference?”
“Of course there is,” Pei Shaohuai explained. “Reading and studying is a matter for oneself. With Xiao Feng’s cleverness, so long as she works hard, she will surely build a fine store of learning and knowledge — and if she writes well, her literary name may even spread beyond these walls. But if she wishes to become the Zhuangyuan, she must sit the imperial examinations, advancing step by step through each level.”
Xiao Feng thought for a moment, then said, “I want to study alongside my brother, and become the Zhuangyuan just like Father.”
In this world, the path of the imperial examinations was closed to women.
Having understood his daughter’s heart, Pei Shaohuai softened his tone and told Xiao Feng the truth of their reality. At the end, he said, “Whether it is a matter of making your name as a gifted woman, or of opening a special examination in your honor so that your talents may have a place to shine — none of those things are too difficult to achieve on their own. What is truly difficult is for all the women in the world to have their wish granted — for you to sit the examinations openly and with your head held high.”
Pei Shaohuai did not expect his daughter to understand all of this, but he said it nonetheless.
“I just want to become the Zhuangyuan. I clearly just beat my brother at reciting today,” Xiao Feng said, her eyes glistening with tears. “Father, can it not be changed?”
“It can be changed,” Pei Shaohuai nodded. “But it will take a very, very long time.”
“How long?”
“Until Father’s hair has gone white and Father is gone from this world — and then until Xiao Feng’s hair has gone white too — and still further beyond that.”
Xiao Feng could hold back no longer and began to cry. There was much she could not understand, but she understood clearly enough that becoming the Zhuangyuan was beyond reach.
Watching his daughter’s tears fall, Pei Shaohuai’s heart softened, and he nearly opened his mouth to make a promise — but he held himself back. He lifted Xiao Feng down and placed her on his knee, and began to tell her about the things his Third Aunt and Fourth Aunt had done when they were young.
Xiao Feng sat quietly in her father’s arms, traces of tears still on her cheeks, listening to the “story.”
By the time it was done, she did not fully understand everything she had heard — but her spirits had lifted considerably. She praised her father, saying, “Father becoming the Zhuangyuan is still the most impressive thing of all.” This made Pei Shaohuai burst into warm laughter.
“Your father merely walked very far along a path that the world had already laid down,” Pei Shaohuai said, gently guiding his daughter’s thoughts. “But your Third Aunt and Fourth Aunt — they walked a path that no one in the world had walked before.”
Seeing that the night outside had grown quite late, Pei Shaohuai carried his daughter back to her room, coaxing her gently, “It is late at night — Xiao Feng must go to sleep.” He tucked the corner of her blanket in carefully.
The words spoken tonight could not wait until Xiao Feng was old enough to understand before being said. They should be said to her now, and then slowly, over time, she would come to understand them.
……
The very next morning, Pei Shaohuai was still in his room putting his hair up and getting dressed, when he heard Xiao Feng come knocking at the door.
He saw her walk in holding several scrolls to her chest, lips pursed, and she said to him, “Father, I have made up my mind. I still want to study.”
These words threw Pei Shaohuai’s composure into disarray at once, and a surge of private emotion rose within him — why had fate given him such children, and yet placed them in a world such as this?
After Xiao Feng had gone out, his wife helped him fasten his official robes and straighten his black gauze cap, and only then did he gradually settle himself.
On the road to the prefectural office, Pei Shaohuai came to understand one thing clearly — this was his daughter’s answer, and in truth, it was also his answer.
From ancient times to the present, what people have sought in the great harmony of the world: even by the time Pei Shaohuai’s hair had gone white and his body had returned to the earth, even when his own children and grandchildren had grown old and gray, perhaps the faintest shoot of it might only just be beginning to show.
Was that a reason not to try?
……
……
The southerly winds could not be expected before autumn at the earliest, and so the Southern Patrol naval fleet had yet to arrive.
The fleet had not come — yet the imperial edict had.
That day, Yan Chengzhao rode in on horseback and came to the prefectural office, striding into Pei Shaohuai’s official chamber with broad steps. He pulled a rolled imperial edict from his sash and tossed it onto Pei Shaohuai’s desk.
Pei Shaohuai made no move to open the edict. Instead, he said, “Commander Yan is already well past thirty, so how is it that his conduct has become less measured than it once was?”
Yan Chengzhao was living proof of one truth: no matter how cold and impassive a man may be, he has another side to him when among those he knows well.
Pei Shaohuai continued, “As I recall, Commander Yan used to be a man of great circumspection — even when scaling the palace walls to leave unannounced, he would insist with a straight face that he was on duty outside the palace walls and most certainly not out for a leisurely stroll.”
“I only just turned thirty — how does that become ‘well past thirty’?” Yan Chengzhao raised an eyebrow, then added, “The imperial edict comes from His Majesty himself — I will spare myself the reading of it. Pei Zhizhou may see for himself.”
Pei Shaohuai still did not open it. He ventured a guess: “His Majesty is summoning us back to the capital in early autumn?” Early autumn would bring the last of the southerly winds.
“You already guessed it?”
“At the start of the year, when the court transferred Official Li from Changzhi in Shanxi to take up the post of Deputy Prefect here, I had already guessed as much,” Pei Shaohuai said. By the beginning of that year, the various matters had been settled, and the opening of maritime trade had entered a smooth and stable phase.
Changzhi County derived its name from the phrase meaning “lasting peace and stability.” Its terrain was strategically critical, and since ancient times it had been a place that military strategists had always striven to hold. Only a man of exceptional ability could serve as its chief official.
For the county magistrate of Changzhi to be promoted, the next step was either to the position of Prefect of Lu’an Prefecture, or a return to the capital — and yet the court had seen fit to transfer such a capable man thousands of li away to Shuang’an Prefecture in Fujian.
If the only purpose were to find Pei Shaohuai a deputy official, Jiangnan was filled with officials of the sixth or seventh rank — there was no need to reach so far and bring someone all the way from the north. This matter had already revealed the emperor’s intentions.
Judging from the time he had spent working with Deputy Prefect Li, the “successor” the emperor had chosen for Pei Shaohuai was indeed well suited and reliable.
Furthermore, officials posted outside the capital underwent a performance review every three years, while capital officials were reviewed every six. The end of this year happened to coincide with a capital official review cycle, and the emperor perhaps harbored some measure of personal consideration for Pei Shaohuai — and so had recalled him to the capital one or two months early.
Otherwise, the next capital review would be six years away.
Since there was still some time before the return to the capital, Pei Shaohuai had not yet felt any particular sorrow at parting, and his mood was rather calm. He asked, “Will Commander Yan also be returning with us?”
Yan Chengzhao gave a nod, but then added, “However, once we reach Yingtian Prefecture, we will need to travel upstream by water and make a stop at Wuchang Prefecture.”
Pei Shaohuai’s expression sharpened. Wuchang Prefecture was precisely the fiefdom of the Prince of Chu — and the one being sent was Yan Chengzhao. It was naturally a matter concerning the imperial clan.
He did not ask what the matter was.
Yan Chengzhao saw the thought in Pei Shaohuai’s eyes and chose to speak of it himself. “Though it is not a particularly glorious affair, it is no great secret either — there is no harm in telling you.” He then recounted the matter briefly.
It turned out that ever since the incident at Taicang Prefecture, the emperor had discovered that the Prince of Chu’s ambitions for the throne had never died. He had severed all of the prince’s privately cultivated connections and influences, leaving him with the desire but no means to act. He had then replaced every single official within the Prince of Chu’s household, inside and out, keeping a firm watch over the prince.
The Prince of Chu, Yan Song, had been effectively confined within Wuchang Prefecture, his power entirely spent. And so the years had passed in relative quiet.
The emperor had not gone out of his way to trouble the Prince of Chu further — but what he had not anticipated was that the prince’s heir apparent turned out to be a thoroughly disreputable man, and within the household troubles arose entirely from within.
The Prince of Chu had a palace woman named Liu Qi’er — a woman of exceptional beauty, greatly favored by the prince. The debauched heir apparent, taking advantage of the prince’s absence, had his subordinates lure Liu Qi’er to his own hall, where he violated her. This was the first matter.
The second: at the Dragon Boat Festival, while watching the dragon boat races, the heir apparent became infatuated with a woman from a pleasure house named Lian Yao’er. He concealed this from the prince and had his servants secretly bring her into the Prince of Chu’s household.
When the prince learned of the heir apparent’s misconduct, he flew into a rage and summoned the officials of the Household Administration, declaring his intention to petition the Imperial Clan Court to strip his heir apparent of his title — and from that point on, father and son were estranged, their hearts filled with mutual hatred.
The Prince of Chu sought to punish the villainous servants within the heir apparent’s quarters, but they learned of this before he could act. Goaded on by them, the heir apparent made plans to poison the Prince of Chu on the night of the Lantern Festival — while the Household Administration was not paying close attention — and then pretend that the prince had died of a stroke.
When that night came, the Prince of Chu was dining within a snow lantern grotto in the courtyard. After tasting just one bite of a dish, he found the flavor strange and set down his chopsticks, intending to summon the kitchen staff for questioning.
Seeing that things had gone awry, the villainous servants bound the Prince of Chu to his chair and beat him about the head with a bronze mace.
By the time the prince’s attendants cried out for help and the household guards and Household Administration officials came rushing in, the Prince of Chu had already died beneath the blows of the bronze mace.
What chilled the blood even further was this: when the crowd burst into the snow lantern grotto, the heir apparent was standing there, long whip in hand, lashing the corpse of the Prince of Chu.
Pei Shaohuai listened to the end and felt a chill run through his entire body. People often said there was no true familial feeling within the imperial clan — but what had unfolded within the Prince of Chu’s household went far beyond mere absence of feeling. Even enemies, one would think, might not be capable of such cold-blooded cruelty.
“Is this truly what happened?”
“Does Pei Zhizhou find it hard to believe?” Yan Chengzhao said. “The officials within the Prince of Chu’s household were all replaced men — they would not dare to conceal this. The matter is most likely true.”
After composing himself somewhat, Pei Shaohuai asked further, “Is this visit to handle solely the matter of the imperial clan?”
“It is all written in the edict — why does Pei Zhizhou not open it and take a look?”
Only then did Pei Shaohuai unroll the edict. When he read that the emperor was directing Yan Chengzhao to take this opportunity to conduct a thorough investigation of the Prince of Chu’s household lands, and to return to the local common people the fields that had been unlawfully seized, he understood at last why this task could only be entrusted to Yan Chengzhao.
Yan Chengzhao added, “The men from the Board of Revenue have already set out from the capital — they should arrive at Wuchang Prefecture before I do.”
As for the various princely fiefdoms, none of the richest and most productive lands of Jiangnan had been granted to any prince. Going down the list, Wuchang Prefecture — where the Prince of Chu was enfeoffed — was the most prosperous and resource-abundant of them all. The upheaval within the Prince of Chu’s household was indeed an excellent opportunity to audit and reclaim the seized lands. If even the Prince of Chu’s household was being subjected to such an audit, then the various princes of first rank and second rank would surely have their turn as well.
This made it plain that the emperor had resolved upon a course of great determination.
Thinking further of how Pei Shaojin had memorialized the throne to reform the horse administration policy and reclaim the grazing lands — a matter the emperor had entrusted to the Board of War and the Court of the Imperial Stud to handle — Pei Shaohuai’s respect for the reigning sovereign’s wisdom grew a few degrees more.
Pei Shaohuai rolled up the edict, rose to his feet, and said to Yan Chengzhao, “Then let the two of us follow His Majesty’s imperial command — each attending to our respective unfinished affairs here in good order — before setting out for the capital.”
“As it should be.”