Cheng Qing raised her head and saw a man of about forty, in a brown robe, seated in the central place of honor — a square-jawed face, authority restrained but present. Beside him sat a middle-aged woman in a pale short jacket and a silver-and-purple long skirt.

If we’re ranked by age, then my name must be A’Luo. Cheng Qing studied this unfamiliar father carefully. This father and her own real father back home seemed cut from the same cloth — stern and rigidly proper. The principal wife beside him had a somewhat plump face that looked amiable at first glance, but her eyes held a sharp, calculating gleam.

The middle-aged man spoke slowly from his seat: “A’Lei, come stand before me.”

Cheng Qing watched the ten-year-old girl step forward at the words, walking to the center of the hall with a composed expression, though her hands, hidden in her long sleeves, could be seen clenched into fists. Cheng Qing almost laughed and lowered her head to hide the smile threatening to escape — so A’Lei really is afraid after all. Still just a child underneath it.

The middle-aged man asked in a low voice: “A’Lei, what have you mastered best these past three months?”

A’Lei answered in a soft, delicate voice: “Reporting to Father, it is zither playing.”

The man waved a hand, and servants brought in stools and set up a zither before withdrawing.

A’Lei sat beside the zither and, with an air of calm composure, plucked the strings twice. “A’Lei will now play ‘Three Variations on Plum Blossoms.'”

The melody rose at once, its cool freshness winding through the hall without pause. Through three graceful turns, the notes rang out clear as ice striking a mountain stream. Cheng Qing silently applauded. She had heard “Three Variations on Plum Blossoms” performed on the guqin back in the modern world, and this was nearly identical — only this was the first time she had heard it played live. She reconsidered this ten-year-old A’Lei with new respect: her expression calm, her delicate melon-seed face carrying a hint of refined, elevated bearing. Cheng Qing thought — only ten years old, and her skill on the zither is already this remarkable. Truly impressive.

She recalled how, as a child, her own parents had dragged her kicking and screaming to piano lessons, which she had refused outright. Now that she’d ended up like this, she wished she’d been made to learn the guqin, the guzheng, the flute, or the xiao instead — at least she’d have some skill to fall back on now! Thinking of her bizarre transmigration, misery crept over her again, and her hands curled unconsciously into fists.

Seventh Madam noticed and patted her gently, her expressive eyes telling her: it’s alright if you can’t do it, don’t worry.

Cheng Qing suddenly felt that Seventh Madam truly did treat this daughter well. A warmth rose in her chest. Having become like this, the very first person she’d encountered was treating her so kindly — she supposed that counted as lucky.

Just then a final note drifted out, and as the sound faded, A’Lei stopped, lifting her small face to look at the middle-aged man.

The father smiled and nodded. “A’Lei, why did you choose this piece?”

A flash of pride crossed A’Lei’s eyes as she answered clearly: “A’Lei saw the plum blossoms scattered thinly in the courtyard. Though it is already early spring, the second month, I recalled the pure white fragrance of their full bloom in winter, and I especially admire their character — proud and unyielding even against frost and snow.”

The middle-aged man stroked the beard beneath his chin. “Good. My daughter ought to have a character like the plum blossom! You may step back. Tonight Father will come to the plum garden to admire the blossoms with you!”

At these words, Cheng Qing saw a flash of smug satisfaction cross the face of the wife to the left — presumably A’Lei’s mother — before she lowered her eyes and answered in a soft, deferential voice: “A’Lei is still young, her skill not yet refined. My lord flatters her.”

Cheng Qing’s gaze swept the hall. Apart from her own mother, Seventh Madam, who showed no expression at all, the other wives’ eyes all betrayed some measure of envy. Cheng Qing thought — all these women vying for their husband’s favor; people in the old days really did find their entertainment this way. With nothing else to do, they turn to competing with one another. How endlessly amusing it must be to scheme against each other.

A’Lei retreated to stand beside her mother, and A’Fei stepped forward. She had an oval face and a pair of large, dark, lively eyes. She showed no sign of nervousness, and said loudly: “Father, A’Fei has made some progress in calligraphy these past few months.”

Servants brought in a low table and set out brush, ink, paper, and inkstone. A maid stepped forward to roll up A’Fei’s sleeves for her. A’Fei focused for a moment, then began writing a couplet with both hands moving with vigor, her brushstrokes flowing like a dragon in motion. She finished in one continuous stroke, glanced it over, set down the brush, and said crisply: “Please give your correction, Father.”

Cheng Qing looked at the rich, fluent ink strokes on the paper — a fine hand of running-regular script! Both left and right lines were perfectly matched. Thinking of her own chicken-scratch handwriting, she felt a flush of shame.

The middle-aged man examined it carefully for a long moment, then said to A’Fei: “Fei’er’s handwriting has indeed made great progress. At your age, your brush strength still has room to grow, but with more time, you will surely become a great talent!”

A’Fei beamed, turning to her own mother with a look inviting praise, utterly adorable. Cheng Qing thought — A’Fei is already like this at such a young age. Who knows how many hearts she’ll break when she grows up!

Just as Cheng Qing was lost in her observations, she heard the middle-aged man call out: “A’Luo, come here!”

Cheng Qing froze for a moment. Seventh Madam glanced at her with worry and said softly: “Third Miss, your father is calling you!”

Cheng Qing’s heart lurched with panic — she’d nearly forgotten that this A’Luo also had to take part in the monthly exam. She couldn’t play the zither, couldn’t write calligraphy — what could she do? She didn’t even know what dynasty this was, or what place. Cheng Qing steeled herself and walked to the center of the hall.

The father asked her: “Your two elder sisters excel — one at the zither, one at calligraphy. A’Luo, three months ago you couldn’t even complete your assignments, and your mother took ten strikes of the rod on your behalf, swearing that within three months your skills would surely improve. What have you learned these past three months?”

Cheng Qing had no choice but to recite some poetry she’d once memorized, hoping it wouldn’t be something already known here. If they accused her of plagiarism, she’d claim she simply liked the poem; if no one recognized it, she’d let it pass as her own unique creation. She lifted her head and said softly: “I have learned poetry. May I recite one for you to hear?”

The middle-aged man’s eyes widened, staring at Cheng Qing in disbelief. Seventh Madam’s brow furrowed slightly. Then the father laughed. “Good, good — so our Third Miss can recite poetry after all. Let’s hear it.”

A low ripple of stifled laughter spread through the hall. Cheng Qing turned to see Seventh Madam’s face had gone pale. She sighed inwardly and recited: “For two months alone in the empty courtyard, day after day of wind, the spring chill lingers, and I fear for the garden’s lord. The crab-apple does not spare its rouge-red hue, standing alone amid the fine, misting rain.”

This was a poem by the Song dynasty poet Chen Yuyi, titled “Spring Chill.” Cheng Qing had changed two characters and recited it in this unfamiliar, childish voice. She watched the whole hall freeze in stunned silence, expressions ranging from shock to envy on every face. She thought to herself — even I’m startled hearing this child’s voice recite such a poem. Still not used to it — the words come from my own mouth, yet sound like someone else speaking.

The middle-aged man sat stunned for a long moment, then cast a meaningful glance toward Seventh Madam. Cheng Qing turned back and saw that Seventh Madam’s eyes had welled with tears, a mixture of tenderness and sorrow on her face.

Cheng Qing let out a breath of relief — this isn’t the Song dynasty after all. It seems no one here has heard this poem before.

The father gave a hearty laugh. “Excellent. For A’Luo to produce such a verse at only six years old — your mother must have worked hard with you. The rod is forgiven. Father will come to the crab-apple garden one day to hear you recite.”

At these words, countless sharp glances shot toward them from around the hall. Cheng Qing lowered her head, mulling over the weight of what the father had just said — your mother must have worked hard with you. He clearly assumed Seventh Madam had taught her this. Well, that was fine too — after all, it would seem strange to anyone that a girl who couldn’t even finish her assignments three months ago, and nearly got beaten for it, could suddenly produce a poem like this. Hadn’t Seventh Madam herself said that this A’Luo disliked poetry and hadn’t learned it well? Cheng Qing retreated to stand quietly beside Seventh Madam, thinking she would need to find a chance, once they were back, to put Seventh Madam’s suspicions to rest — Seventh Madam certainly hadn’t taught her daughter this poem.

The father continued: “Our Li family is also considered a distinguished house in Ning Guo, a family of scholars. From now on you must work even harder, so as not to invite ridicule!” His tone had turned stern by the end.

Everyone in the hall hastened to murmur agreement, and slowly the gathering dispersed, each returning to her own residence.

Seventh Madam took Cheng Qing’s hand and let the other wives go ahead, walking out of the hall last, heading toward the Crab-Apple Garden. Cheng Qing noticed Seventh Madam seemed quite agitated now — her grip on Cheng Qing’s hand was tighter than on the way there, and her steps had visibly quickened. It seemed that poem had unwittingly touched something deep in her heart. Piecing together what Seventh Madam had said earlier with what she’d just witnessed at the exam, Cheng Qing concluded: Seventh Madam clearly was not favored here.

As she walked, Cheng Qing looked around at the antique corridors and pavilions and thought — Ning Guo? An unknown world? These wives hostile toward Seventh Madam, that father who looks every bit the cunning old fox, two spoiled but genuinely talented elder sisters — another wealthy household’s tangled feud! What am I supposed to do? I’ve read plenty of transmigration novels — can I really move through the world with the same ease as those characters do? Might I die young without anyone noticing? Might I wake up tomorrow and find myself back home?

Cheng Qing thought — this A’Luo before must have been quite introverted, rarely speaking up. Well, introverted is fine; it happens I’m the type who grows calmer the more trouble I’m in. Better not to cause a scene — otherwise I might lose even this beautiful mother of mine. I’m only six — wouldn’t I starve? Though starving would be the lesser evil; losing one’s honor is worse — what if I got kidnapped and sold into some brothel? I’d rather die.

Cheng Qing glanced up at Seventh Madam — her face had returned to normal, seemingly unaware that anything was off about A’Luo. Cheng Qing thought — since I’ve been mysteriously brought here for no reason, perhaps it’s simply fate. And A’Luo is only six — if she were older, would I really have had to fake amnesia?

On the way back, Cheng Qing began to take in her surroundings more carefully. This was clearly a wealthy, powerful household, with extensive grounds. That father evidently ran a strict house — every servant they passed bowed to Seventh Madam and herself, not daring even to lift their eyes. Better to be born into a wealthy family or a poor one? Cheng Qing wondered. Probably wealthy, after all — in ancient times, common people could die without anyone even noticing, never having enough to eat or wear, crushed under endless harsh taxes. Run into a cruel landlord, or a famine year, and you could be sold off for nothing more than a stalk of straw. A wealthy household may have its scheming and its power struggles, but at least I have two officials as parents — I’ve seen and heard plenty about political infighting and the complexities of human relationships already. Probably every era is more or less the same. In the end, it’s all just people scheming against each other.

With that, she took Seventh Madam’s hand firmly. Home we go!