A’Cuo woke in the Wutong Courtyard to a sky already bright with full morning light.
Not only Lin Niangzi, but even A’Cuo herself was somewhat surprised. Since coming to the capital, she had not slept so soundly — not even at Madam Meng’s side. Perhaps, somewhere in the back of her mind, she had always known: the Meng household was full of watchful eyes, Madam Meng’s health was failing, and what looked like a place to rest was nothing more than a lily pad floating on water, liable to be swept away at any moment.
But this modest courtyard of the Ye family belonged to the sisters themselves. However deep Concubine Pan’s schemes ran, there was always Qinglan at the front and Lingbo at the rear — no storm could find its way inside these walls.
That was why Yanyan could sleep sprawled in every direction without a care in the world.
Yanyan had not stirred, but A’Cuo felt she ought not to linger in bed, and quickly rose to wash and dress. Then Ye Lingbo’s maid Xiao Liu’er appeared in the doorway with a smile: “Cousin Miss is up so early? Our young miss says there is no need to do your hair just yet — breakfast comes first.”
The night before, Ye Lingbo had called yesterday’s Eight Treasures Feast poorly prepared. True enough — today’s breakfast was even more impressive. A small round table, draped with a warming cage underneath; the little room gathered warmth around it, making everything feel snug and close. At the center, a copper pot bubbled cheerfully with chicken broth, silver thread noodles simmering inside. Around the table sat a spread of toppings — ham, fish, meatballs, tripe strips — all to be expected, but what drew A’Cuo’s eye was a bunch of bright green vegetables that looked strikingly familiar.
“Come, sit.” Ye Lingbo waved her over. “Qinglan was just saying — yesterday’s feast was thrown together in a hurry, and she did not think to account for what you like to eat. Today’s breakfast is especially for you. We heard that in Yangzhou, mornings call for silver thread noodles, and they must be paired with a certain wild green — clover shoots, I believe? That in chicken broth is said to be the finest combination.”
A’Cuo’s eyes went wide.
“These really are clover shoots — how ever did Elder Sister Qinglan find them?”
“Don’t ask. Yang Niangzi went to several vegetable sellers, and every last one of them said there were no Jiangnan greens to be had. In the end, it turned out that Marquis Wu’an’s household — old family friends of the Shen family — has a farm estate. The Old Madam there followed her husband to the capital for his post, and being a Jiangnan native herself, she loves these greens, so they grow them on the estate. They sent some over this morning, barely in time for breakfast.” Ye Lingbo smiled and lowered a pair of chopsticks-full into the chicken broth for her. “Try it — is it the right taste?”
A’Cuo quickly reached over to take the bowl and chopsticks herself, lifted the greens out on her own, then ladled a bowl of the broth and passed it first to Qinglan.
“Clover shoots cook quickly — you only want to blanch them through, then lift them right out.” She served Qinglan’s portion first, then began preparing Lingbo’s noodles. “Does Elder Sister want an egg?”
Ye Qinglan laughed: “All this was arranged especially for you — and now you are the one serving us?”
A’Cuo smiled too.
“Elder Sister does not know — silver thread noodles are something you eat together as a family, behind closed doors. Not just good to eat — they are also quite fun to make. My mother used to make them for me often. She never let me near the pot for fear I would burn my hands. When I was small, I longed for the day I could make them myself — I even played at it with friends, pressing mud into pretend noodles.”
“Whoever would have thought,” Ye Lingbo said with a laugh, “that someone as quiet as you was once a champion mud-presser, just like Yanyan. She was still at it just a few days ago — fourteen years old and playing with mud. No one would believe it if you told them.”
“Who is talking about me now?” Yanyan came stumbling out, arms stretched in a yawn. She caught sight of the unfamiliar spread on the table and perked up at once: “Ooh, give me a bowl too — I want it with meatballs. The meatballs that Elder Sister Han sent over the other day were wonderful. I polished off two or three pounds of them in a single day, but Second Sister is so stingy she locked the rest away.”
Ye Lingbo laughed and scolded her immediately: “You have the nerve to complain about that? Those were a New Year gift — made by a cook who trained in the imperial palace, no less. There were not even that many to begin with. And there you were, gulping them down like a pig eating ginseng fruit, as if they were ordinary rice. All that effort Elder Sister Han put into them, completely wasted on you.”
“It’s fine — Elder Sister Han said I can just ask her for more if I run out.” Yanyan sat down with a cheerful grin. “Besides, with the friendship between Elder Sister and Han Sister, what comes to her will come to us too. No need to hold back.”
A’Cuo kept her eyes quietly on the pot, tending the noodles, but inside she found herself increasingly curious about this Elder Sister Han. She herself was sharp-witted by nature, and had been considered a remarkable young woman back in Yangzhou — perceptive, deft-handed, and possessed of no small looks. But coming to the capital, she had learned there was always another heaven beyond the one you knew. Ye Qinglan was extraordinary in every sense — graceful before elders, impeccable in propriety, capable in negotiation, at ease in any formal setting; and at home she managed the household with equal mastery, overseeing food and clothing and all the particulars of domestic life in a way that was thorough and effortless. Every one of these things, even a lifetime of dedicated practice might not be enough to acquire.
This Elder Sister Han, though A’Cuo had yet to meet her, seemed from every passing glimpse to be a woman of equal standing with Ye Qinglan. The daughters raised by the capital’s noble families were built on ten years of unrelenting, solid foundation. That was not something a girl could match on cleverness and quick wits alone.
The Elder Sister Han they spoke of had married into the Shen family of the capital. The Shen family held no marquisate, but Minister Shen of the Board of Rites was a man of real current authority, in the prime of his working years, with two sons and two daughters — a son and daughter by his principal wife, and a son and daughter by his concubine — all of them accomplished and well-regarded, a picture of prosperity. The Shen family’s eldest son, Shen Yunze, had married the principal daughter of Vice Minister Han’s household — Han Yueqi, the Elder Sister Han the Ye sisters spoke of. They had been married just over three years, had a daughter, and by all accounts were well-matched, their home a harmonious one.
A’Cuo had also heard Madam Meng remark that the Flower Festival Banquets of recent years had been somewhat subdued. Four years ago had been something else entirely — the principal daughters of the Ye, Han, and Lu families had appeared at the same banquets, none of them eclipsing the others, though in many hearts Ye Qinglan was quietly acknowledged as the finest of the three. Yet when the banquets ended, she had no betrothal to show for it, and that brilliance had gradually dimmed. The Han and Lu girls had both found exceptional outcomes. Han Yueqi’s was the most enviable of all: she had married well above expectations — her husband young and accomplished, passing the imperial examinations at third place the following year, and then a daughter born on top of that, twin blessings at once, a most glorious outcome.
And yet beneath all that glory, she had maintained her friendship with Ye Qinglan through all these years. That alone made her remarkable.
A’Cuo was genuinely surprised. Even in the depths of winter, Han Yueqi had arranged for attendants to be waiting at the side gate well in advance. Female visitors, especially unmarried young ladies, naturally entered through the side gate; but they were received in the outer courtyard by the steward himself, and at the inner gate, a middle-aged woman with an oval face was already waiting — dressed considerably more grandly even than Yang Niangzi — with a warm smile and her hands extended to personally help each young miss down from the carriage. The regard shown was unmistakable.
“The Madam has been saying for the past two days — the year-end is busy, and still the young miss hasn’t come. When would there ever be a good time to visit properly? Thank heavens you are here today, or I would certainly have been sent to fetch you.” The head housekeeper, Han Niangzi, said with a laugh, then turned to give Yang Niangzi a mock reproach: “Sister Yang, shame on you too — knowing full well our Madam has been counting the days, and you still didn’t urge the young miss to come sooner. And then you had the cheek to ask me to go hunting for those Yangzhou vegetables. Were they to your satisfaction? I went to considerable trouble over those.”
Everyone laughed at that. Ye Qinglan said: “I had only just finished with the business at Auntie’s — I knew Yueqi was thinking of me.”
Yang Niangzi added: “They were excellent. The young miss was very pleased, and the cousin Miss also asked me to pass on her thanks for your thoughtfulness.”
Han Niangzi was sharp-eyed, and while she guided Ye Qinglan forward, she took a moment to study A’Cuo carefully and remarked with admiration: “This must be the cousin Miss from the Meng household — what striking looks. Yangzhou really does produce beauties.”
“You are too kind,” A’Cuo replied, eyes lowered, with proper deference.
Sensing that A’Cuo might feel self-conscious, Ye Lingbo stepped in smoothly: “Han Niangzi, I suspect it is not Elder Sister Qinglan that Han Sister has been missing — it is our rose wine, is it not?”
Everyone burst out laughing. Han Niangzi said: “It is not only the Madam who has been missing it — I certainly have. Let me say it plainly now, Sister Yang — today no one goes home sober. The Madam has the guest rooms ready and everything; she is counting on staying up through the night with the eldest Miss. Second Miss, no excuses from you either — a certain person has made her way back, and she has an account to settle with you.”
In warm, laughing conversation, they made their way into the inner courtyard. The Shen family was a large household; though they had not divided into separate establishments, each branch occupied its own section. The master and his wife lived in the main courtyard; the son and his wife had a small courtyard of their own to the side. Seeing that this was A’Cuo’s first visit, Han Niangzi offered an introduction: “Cousin Miss, this is the Chenxiang Pavilion where our Madam resides, just beside the main courtyard. The young Master is presently serving in the Hanlin Academy — he comes home to stay only ten days of each month, and the next rest period is still some ten days away. In the meantime, the courtyard is entirely for the ladies of the household, so please consider yourself free to move about as you please.”
Though she addressed Han Yueqi as “the Madam,” she bore the surname Han and spoke of “our” with every breath. A’Cuo quickly deduced that she must be one of Han Yueqi’s personal attendants who had come with her as part of her dowager household — capable and perceptive, quick and thorough in everything she said and did, clearly someone the Han family had cultivated specifically for Han Yueqi from early on, in preparation for the day she married into her husband’s household and took charge of it.
And from her current position as the Shen family’s head housekeeper, it was plain to see that Han Yueqi’s life had played out exactly as that preparation intended: principal daughter of a high family, raised with care from childhood, presented at the Flower Festival Banquets after coming of age, betrothed and wed, husband outstanding, respectful of her in-laws, managing the household, bearing children, and then in due course inheriting the full authority over the estate. A life that could serve as a model for any young woman of a noble house.
If nothing had gone differently — would Elder Sister Qinglan’s life have followed exactly the same path?
The complex feeling already stirring in A’Cuo’s heart swelled further the moment she laid eyes on Han Yueqi.
The lady awaiting them beneath the gallery pavilion wore her hair pinned up, adorned with gold and jade, her brocade robes in deep, settled colors that only heightened her composed and gracious bearing — an egg-shaped face of porcelain complexion, brows and eyes as lovely as a painting, her early twenties worn with a warm and radiant smile. In A’Cuo’s eyes, she and Ye Qinglan were cut from the same cloth — but for sheer quality of spirit, Elder Sister Qinglan rose above even that, somehow more ethereal and unconstrained.
Of course, such comparisons had no place between lifelong friends. True intimates — though one was now a madam and the other an unmarried young miss — fell back into easy sisterly affection the moment they met. Han Yueqi lifted her skirts and came down the stone steps herself to greet them, laughing: “You are finally here. Any longer and I would have sent the housekeeper to fetch you by force.”
“Surely it has not come to that.” Ye Qinglan was always measured and composed, easy with everyone — which was precisely why the warmth she showed toward Han Yueqi was so striking. She reached out and took her hand, and together they went up the steps. “How is your back? Did you use the ointment I sent?”
“All used up, and completely healed long ago.” Han Yueqi laughed. “It was only a minor strain — it just happened to coincide with the household birthday celebrations, which is why it dragged on half a month. Otherwise it would have been nothing at all. My constitution is far sturdier than yours — but you, on the other hand — have you lost weight? You have been exhausted by all the business at the Meng household, haven’t you?”
“There was not much to be done, really. It has simply been cold, and I have eaten less.” Ye Qinglan said.
The two of them had already entered the inner chamber hand in hand. Han Yueqi had in fact already cast several quiet glances at A’Cuo — seeing how Ye Qinglan sheltered her, and seeing too that A’Cuo showed no discomfort at being looked at, her manner remaining quiet and composed, Han Yueqi formed a favorable impression. She smiled: “This must be the sister from the Meng household. Truly lovely.”
“I am grateful for your kind words, Elder Sister.” A’Cuo replied deferentially, eyes lowered. “My surname is Yu, and my given name is Yaoqing. Please call me by my pet name, A’Cuo — that is what First and Second Elder Sister call me.”
There were no secrets among the capital’s noble families — and certainly not in the presence of a lady like Han Yueqi, who already presided over her own household. Even the strictest of gates could not prevent the servants of neighboring households from exchanging news. One had only to look at Yang Niangzi and Han Niangzi — head housekeepers who saw more of each other than their mistresses did, trading favors as a matter of course, through which information flowed as naturally as water.
The story of what the Meng household had done — nearly swallowing up an orphaned girl’s entire inheritance — was known to most of the capital’s comparable families by now. Some pitied A’Cuo, but far more felt that Ye Qinglan had been reckless with her own reputation: an unmarried young lady of a different surname meddling in another family’s domestic affairs was, in the view of many, simply brazen overreach.
But in Han Yueqi’s eyes, the matter looked quite different.
“What a pleasing nature — no wonder you were willing to carry this blame for her.” She smiled warmly at A’Cuo, then said: “Since Qinglan has taken you in, you are my little sister as well from today. This is a small token to welcome you — think of it as a contribution toward your Flower Festival Banquets wardrobe.”
Her household was evidently well-ordered; at a single gesture, Han Niangzi was already stepping forward with a tray. On purple satin embroidered with scrolling vines rested a pair of jade bracelets — their clarity exquisite, green as pooled water. Madam Meng’s dowager jewelry was fine enough, but it was twenty years old; the gold pieces could be recast, but jade could not be so easily altered. And with the current fashion favoring narrow sleeves, at the Flower Festival Banquets — taking tea, doing needlework, playing the qin, pinning flowers in one’s hair — one needed exactly this kind of delicate, elegant bracelet. Clasping a handkerchief, peeking from a sleeve cuff, set against slender fingers: beautiful, refined, and not ostentatious.
A’Cuo did not dare accept on her own, and looked instead to Ye Qinglan, who gave a slight, smiling nod — she was to take them.
But A’Cuo hesitated.
“And you accuse me of jealousy,” Ye Lingbo laughed. “Look at Han Sister herself — barely through the door and already presenting such an extravagant gift. Afraid that A’Cuo won’t become close with Elder Sister, are you?”
Han Yueqi laughed too: “You and your sharp tongue.”
“All right, since A’Cuo is too shy to accept, I will accept on her behalf.” Ye Lingbo said it as a joke, but once she took the bracelet, she passed it directly to Lin Niangzi — as was proper. Ordinarily the young misses had their personal maids to attend them, and the housekeepers all had their own affairs to manage; when they gathered to talk, it became its own world. A’Cuo had only just arrived and had not yet been assigned a personal maid she was comfortable with, so Lin Niangzi had stepped in to fill that role for now.
Han Yueqi did not give A’Cuo much further attention after that. She and Ye Qinglan had not seen each other in quite some time, and with the tea and refreshments brought in, the two of them settled into quiet conversation — primarily Han Yueqi talking, and Ye Qinglan listening. For all that Han Yueqi presented herself in public with the composed bearing of a proper young matron, in Ye Qinglan’s company she reverted entirely to a younger sister’s manner. As she recounted the inner household matters of the past two months, her expressions were remarkably lively — nose wrinkling here, a disdainful smile there — almost as though she were filing a complaint, her tone running to things like: “I had Han Niangzi go and drag out the ringleaders for a proper scolding — our Old Madam has too gentle a temperament, and the Master spends so much time on that side of the house that the whole wing has grown utterly ungoverned. Grown people with children about to attend the Flower Festival Banquets, still playing these games — it is both infuriating and absurd…”
Ye Qinglan listened with a soft smile, interjecting now and then to offer a suggestion or smooth the edges of her feeling: “The Old Madam naturally cannot say anything directly — it all falls on you to manage. Some things cannot come from you as a junior, which is why I wonder — does the second young miss understand the situation clearly? A mother and daughter are generally more willing to listen to each other.”
“Certainly not. That one is stamped from the same mold as her mother—” At this point, Han Yueqi glanced sidelong at Ye Lingbo with a small smile, and let her voice trail away. A’Cuo gave no sign of noticing.
Sure enough, a moment later, Ye Lingbo came over to collect her.
“Come — let us go inside by the fire. Han Sister’s needlework is the finest I have seen, even better than Qinglan’s. She has been wondering who to pass it on to, since neither Yanyan nor I have any patience for embroidery. Let her show you.”