Early autumn morning, a cool breeze brushed the strings of red flowers lining both sides of the official road on Baiquan Mountain. The blossoms weren’t especially beautiful, but they’d rarely managed to spread so thoroughly that they crowded out every other color beyond the old street, leaving nothing but their own thriving abundance.
The days passed without a ripple, drifting casually from spring straight into autumn. Lately Grandmother had taken to remarking that the little troublemaker’s appetite was so good she could eat three times what the old lady herself managed.
Hearing this, Qiqian’er had measured herself against the doorframe several times, and sure enough, she’d grown taller than ever before—even her small chest was no longer inferior to Zhang Wanru’s.
The night before, Qiqian’er had received a full set of caterpillar-fungus silver cloisonné jewelry that Chen Dasheng had gone to some trouble to procure from the capital. At sixteen, in the full bloom of youth in this lifetime, she wasn’t about to let it go to waste—if she didn’t dress up properly now, she’d regret it sooner or later.
So today Qiqian’er changed into a new plain purple silk skirt, layered with a sheer pale gauze overlay. She styled her jet-black hair simply, in a slightly elevated young-married-woman’s chignon, with a delicate floral comb tucked into the center. On the left she added two silver butterflies, and on the right a single butterfly with folded wings perched among the flowers.
Beneath her ears she wore plain floral silver cloisonné earrings, with a matching pair of caterpillar-fungus cloisonné bangles on one wrist, and finally hung a matching silver girdle ornament at her waist. A touch of fragrant balm, a dab of rouge for color, and once dressed, she twirled twice by the heated platform.
The whole household’s eyes lit up—even the old lady, who loved to grumble endlessly, pursed her lips and said: “I told you so, at sixteen or seventeen, in the flower of youth, this is exactly how you should dress.” Then, thinking of something, she added: “When I was sixteen, I was far prettier than you—just pluck a flower down the hill and stick it in my hair, and I was fresh as dew, your grandfather couldn’t take his eyes off me…”
Qiqian’er paid the old woman’s wistful envy no mind—old people started resenting youth once their own had faded, she understood that well enough.
After selecting a plain silk-tapestry folding fan from a row of brocade boxes by the platform, one that matched her outfit, Qiqian’er fanned herself though she wasn’t hot, and winked at the old lady: “Off we go, off we go! Out to play!”
The old lady snorted and waved her over: “Come here.”
When Qiqian’er approached, she said: “No sense of style at all—lower your head!”
Qiqian’er lowered her head, and the old lady reached up to tilt the small butterfly hairpin slightly forward, saying: “There, that’s more elegant. You really don’t know how to dress yourself! Hmph—go on! Go on!”
Watching Qiqian’er bounce off toward the door and glance back, the old lady shooed her away irritably: “Get going already! Having you underfoot all day drives me to distraction. Go play—I’m not staying home either! I’ll head up the mountain to see my old sister in a bit.”
The “old sister” the old lady spoke of was none other than Empress Dowager Jiang, who’d left the palace and now lived on Baiquan Mountain—she’d become the unofficial leader of the incense-burning circle among the old ladies of Quanhou Street.
In fact, every so often she’d even disguise herself and come calling on Quanhou Street. The old lady’s house, Madam Gao’s, even old Madam Xu’s—she’d visited them all.
No one dared imagine the reigning Empress Dowager wandering about so freely, so everyone simply assumed she was some wealthy old lady, wise in Buddhist teachings and easygoing by nature, and treated her with great respect.
Empress Dowager Jiang had never in her life managed to make friends her own age through her own position, and once she’d started slipping out like this, there was no stopping her—every few days she was hosting incense-burning gatherings, tea parties, storytelling circles about immortals.
Her life being this content pleased the Emperor immensely, and he didn’t dare expose her either, quietly having people protect her from a distance, all the while feeling grateful toward Grandmother Chen in his heart.
Qiqian’er, with Siyue and Wuyue in tow, left the old courtyard and found Zhang Wanru waiting for her at the gate.
Zhang Wanru looked lovely today too—not yet a hundred days a bride, she wore a vivid peach-blossom red jacket-and-skirt set, her hair done in a “spirit snake” coil, adorned with flower-shaped dangling ornaments. Behind her trailed her two dowry maids, Xuemei and Meihong.
Seeing Qiqian’er emerge, Xuemei and Meihong hurried to help their mistress down the steps, then bowed in greeting: “Greetings, Eldest Madam.”
Zhang Wanru looked Qiqian’er up and down, then teased with a smirk: “Little sister-in-law usually looks like a boy—what’s gotten into you, dressing up like this today?”
She bowed with a hand on her knee as she said it, and Qiqian’er returned the bow before saying smugly: “Since people go out of their way to send me nice things, I might as well show off a little. That piece you’re wearing is quite fine too—part of your dowry, isn’t it? I didn’t get a proper dowry myself, so I have to rely on others thinking of me. You should have your fool learn a thing or two from his elder brother about how it’s done, so he knows what real thoughtfulness looks like and buys you something too.”
Zhang Wanru put on an exaggerated look of misery and sighed: “Oh, we can’t afford it, we simply can’t! The whole household survives on my husband’s five hundred coins a month. Don’t bully us honest, poor folk—we’re destitute! Even wanting an egg to eat, I have to stand guard in the back courtyard and beg favor from our few chickens.”
Zhang Wanru was fond of raising white chickens for painting; white chickens also went by a certain crude nickname.
Qiqian’er snorted, waved her fan at her, and said: “Take your account books and get out of here, I don’t have the patience to manage them!”
But Zhang Wanru wasn’t fooled by the joke—her maiden family, though holding only a minor official post, was an old established family with generations of officialdom behind it. Her mother alone had set aside five hundred mu of land for her dowry, plus ten thousand strings of cash as a hidden reserve, and they still owned old shopfronts in the capital—she had no interest in her husband’s modest holdings.
The two sisters-in-law chatted and laughed their way to the front of the lane, where Little Dun, watching the gate, spotted the two ladies heading out and hurried inside to spread the news.
Before long, Ding Yuniang, dressed in a vermillion cotton jacket-and-skirt set, wearing a gold hairpin and a gold bracelet, was helped out by Yu Daniu, who wore a shimmering silk skirt, her hair done in twin maiden’s buns ringed with small palace flowers.
In just a few months, mother and daughter had both filled out and grown fair-skinned—though traces of their original bone structure remained, happiness had smoothed away whatever awkwardness lingered.
Dressed in gold and silver, in a riot of colors, they truly looked lovely.
The sisters-in-law got along well, and exchanged greetings first. Old Madam Yu stood in the courtyard, supported by Granny Shi, eagerly watching the gate as well.
Qiqian’er and Zhang Wanru bowed to the old lady first, then said, gesturing behind them: “Grandmother, please wait a bit—my own grandmother isn’t finished dressing yet. I’ve had the carriage prepared for you, so don’t worry—we certainly won’t leave you behind, we’ll take you out for sure.”
Old Madam Yu looked a little embarrassed and hurried to explain: “I know, I know! You girls go have your fun, go on—I’m not in any rush, not at all…”
Even as she said this, she kept glancing eagerly at the gate—her little sisters-in-law had already arrived, and that old lady of hers was being much too slow.
As the three sisters-in-law and their eldest niece walked off, they hadn’t gone more than a few steps before the old lady leaned worriedly out the doorway to call: “Daniu! Did you bring money? Don’t you dare let your aunties spend money on you again!”
Daniu, now studying books and etiquette, knew this sort of talk from Grandmother wasn’t quite proper, but she also knew to follow her little aunt’s guidance and not restrain the elderly woman too much—just let her be.
So without any impatience, she turned with a smile, patting the small purse at her waist, and called back loudly: “Grandmother, I brought some!”
“How much did you bring?”
“Two taels!”
“What? That, that much? Now, now don’t you go spending it carelessly!”
“Mm, understood.”
Everyone truly had their own companions, their own circle of friends and family—Imperial Guard Lane, though only a dozen-odd households, lived together as intimately as a single family.
Every household in the other six ministry lanes envied them for it—even blood relatives weren’t always as close as these women were to one another.
Add to that the circle of minor officials’ wives from before—Madam Lü, Madam Gao, and the rest—who often gathered elsewhere to gossip, and not a word was ever said against the ladies of Imperial Guard Lane.
In this world, men’s slander never carried much weight—what one truly had to fear was women’s jealousy. Show your head above the crowd, and they wouldn’t tolerate it, always finding something to criticize. That none of the old ladies or young wives here ever spoke ill of them was exactly why their good reputation held.
Incidentally, at the far end of Imperial Guard Lane there was still Madam Qiao. This group of women, out of regard for the old lady and Qiqian’er, didn’t judge her too harshly—they simply said she was frail and didn’t like going out, and since no one asked after her, no one mentioned her either, treating her as though she didn’t exist. So Madam Qiao had oddly faded into invisibility on Quanhou Street, seen by no one.
The sisters-in-law had real business to attend to on their outing today. Zhang Wanru’s mother, Madam Dong, had served as matchmaker, arranging an introduction to the tenth daughter of Censor Pan of Huayang Circuit in the Censorate—Pan Shiqiao. The group was headed to the Small Immortal Garden in the capital to look over a potential bride for Second Uncle Ma.
Qiqian’er had gone to considerable trouble over this Pan Shiqiao. She had no connections in the capital, nor any circle among civil officials’ families, but in her previous life, this “Miss Abacus” had earned the respect of every official in the Ministry of Works in Great Liang, and Qiqian’er was determined to bring her into the family no matter what.
The story behind Pan Shiqiao was a long one. Her family came from merchant stock—eight generations of ancestors so shrewd they’d bend eight different ways rather than lose a single strand of hair’s worth of advantage.
Yet from this very family of merchants—the sort who’d pick up their own farts off the ground, dust them off, and eat them back rather than waste anything—had somehow emerged a son with the talent to sit for the imperial examinations and become an official.
For the sake of this promising son, Censor Pan’s father had donated his entire family fortune to Commander Yang’s army, buying his son a civil post in exchange. The son proved worthy of the investment, rising steadily until he became a seventh-rank Censor.
Don’t dismiss the seventh rank as insignificant—the Censorate held real power, carrying considerable prestige. The Pan family, being of merchant origin, wouldn’t ordinarily have been permitted to enter officialdom at all; it was only because Commander Yang was short on funds that the Pan family got this one leap into a new status, and the whole family was thrilled beyond words.
But with the new dynasty, the Pan family ran into an unprecedented predicament of their own making: they’d grown poor, yet had twelve daughters.
After Censor Pan was born, old Master Pan had hoped for a brother to support him—but instead, between his principal wife and three concubines, it took ten years to produce, one after another, daughter after daughter, until they’d added a full dozen younger sisters to Censor Pan’s family.
With so many daughters to raise, and having actually raised them all to adulthood, the calculating old Master Pan started looking to recoup his investment. And indeed, once in the capital, he stuck stubbornly to his ways—not only refusing to provide dowries when his daughters married out, but withholding half the betrothal gifts as well.
This meant his twelve daughters married progressively lower and lower in status, until the year Censor Pan, then overseeing water conservancy in Huayang Circuit, ran into trouble and was falsely accused and imprisoned. Old Master Pan, desperate to save his son, beat the petition drum to lodge an imperial complaint, while Pan Shiqiao herself stepped out from behind the women’s quarters and, using a few account ledgers her brother had left behind, cleared her brother’s name before the court.
She sat right outside the Ministry of Works, working the abacus with her own two hands, and single-handedly stripped more than twenty officials of the Ministry’s Water Bureau of their posts.
That was how she earned her nickname “Miss Abacus”—when it came to bookkeeping and account management, this young woman was formidable; even ten veteran accountants with decades of experience combined couldn’t match her.
Naturally, a Pan daughter was already a difficult match to begin with, and once the lovely Pan Shiqiao displayed this kind of skill, she picked up a reputation for being calculating and formidable—and in the end, became an old maid no one dared marry.
As for the family’s Second Uncle Ma—well, he wasn’t a bad sort, kind-hearted even, but hopelessly muddle-headed! After all these years of study, he still got confused counting past a hundred.
To Qiqian’er’s mind, pairing a muddlehead with an abacus was a match made in heaven. So the sisters-in-law had set out from the lane full of resolve, determined to pry that Pan family abacus loose no matter what.
Qiqian’er had big ambitions and too many matters to manage—so long as Ding Yuniang sat quietly and lived a long life, everyone would be satisfied; Zhang Wanru handled hospitality and social affairs for the eight households of Imperial Guard Lane; as for the wealthy widow Meng Wanquan had been courting in Qingfeng City, that hadn’t come to anything yet, so no one was counting on it.
Thinking of the several estates she’d quietly acquired in outlying prefectures, Qiqian’er felt she couldn’t rest easy until this “Miss Abacus” was secured.
Silently renewing her resolve, as they left the lane Qiqian’er idly lifted the carriage curtain and glanced out—hm?
She thought she glimpsed Madam Qiao, carrying her son on her back, leading Xique, and lugging a large basket? The boy wasn’t even a hundred days old yet—what was this woman doing running around so much?
Seeing the carriage carrying the group she resented most approaching, Madam Qiao stepped aside from the road, lowering her head and pretending to fix her daughter’s hair, acting as though she hadn’t noticed.
Qiqian’er let the curtain drop and raised an eyebrow, thinking: well, at least she’s someone trying to better herself. Too bad her ex-husband’s family still hadn’t sent the divorce papers, and kept writing letters demanding money in the name of the child left behind from that marriage.
Madam Qiao feared Qiqian’er’s sharp tongue too much, and with a guilty conscience besides, didn’t dare scheme in front of the old lady—so she was left to swallow her own bitter fruit, stripped of any warmth left in her.
Whether she regretted it or not made no difference now.
Hmph… there was still plenty of time left in this life.
These days, Chen the Fourth could no longer skim profit off his nephews as he once had. Now he labored bitterly up in the mountains, and earning even a little silver wasn’t easy. Madam Qiao’s days weren’t comfortable either—she couldn’t even afford to hire a helper for her month of confinement after childbirth.
But she was resourceful all the same. With old Madam Tao no longer around to guide her, she’d worked her way, through the opera stage at the Tang family’s event, into an acquaintance with Madam Wen, third daughter-in-law of the Yang family on Ministry of Rites Lane.
And this Madam Wen happened to be the one enemy Qiqian’er, across two lifetimes, could never let rest easy.
It seemed fate had arranged this meeting between two kindred schemers—however things unfolded from here, there was still plenty of time left…
Madam Qiao stood by the roadside, waiting until the carriage procession had gone far before daring to look up. In her heart, naturally, jealousy burned like wildfire, nearly driving her mad.
But there was nothing to be done about it.
In her mind, of course, the wretched creatures next door held their heads far too high, while Chen the Fourth was a useless failure of a man—guilty conscience and all, unable to carry himself with any dignity before his own nephews. If his nephew so much as coughed, he’d lie awake half the night wondering what it meant.
With no hope of relying on her husband, and having finally gotten a son, Madam Qiao doted on the child beyond reason, and redoubled her quiet scheming.
Madam Qiao and Madam Wen, third daughter-in-law of Assistant Prefect Yang’s household in Qingfeng, had grown increasingly close.
Had this been her old temperament, with a lady of such high standing willing to socialize with her, she’d surely have broadcast it everywhere to set herself apart from others. But ever since she’d learned her status was in question, Madam Qiao had written repeatedly to her old home, only to have them respond solely with demands for money, never once mentioning the divorce papers.
With her status uncertain, she found herself lesser in every situation, not daring to let anyone know of her connection to the Yang household, for fear that gossip would make them look down on her.
Carrying her son on her back, leading her daughter, basket in hand, Madam Qiao slipped furtively into Ministry of Rites Lane, making her way to the end of the lane, where the young steward of the Yang household’s third branch rose with a smile at her approach.
He trotted over to meet her, taking the basket from her hands and saying: “Fourth Madam has arrived! Our Madam sent word out this morning that you’d be coming.”
The basket was heavy, and handing off the burden brought Madam Qiao real relief—not yet a hundred days past childbirth, she felt wronged at every turn, and Madam Wen’s kindness in this regard left her overwhelmed with gratitude.
As Madam Qiao entered, the two or three gatekeepers seated on the bench by the Yang family’s gate all rose, bowing and smiling.
Madam Qiao, carrying herself with some airs these days, breezed past with barely a glance, going straight inside.
Once she’d passed, one steward who’d remained seated in the corner stood up, his face full of resentment, and spat on the ground after her, muttering: “What kind of creature is that!”
Had Qiqian’er been present, she’d have recognized him at once—this was the very steward she’d once driven off from the chessboard courtyard.
That steward, having lost the chessboard courtyard that day, had turned around and seized two adjoining courtyards at the end of Ministry of Rites Lane instead.
When his master, Assistant Prefect of Qingfeng Yang Shisheng, later moved his three generations of family from Shaoshang, he was pleased to find two ready courtyards waiting, and even rewarded this steward, praising his resourcefulness.
Madam Qiao followed the young steward from the main courtyard’s side gate—a grand five-bay front hall—into a side courtyard. As she walked, she couldn’t help but envy what she saw, thinking: just look at this fifth-rank Assistant Prefect’s household, such grandeur, such an army of servants…
She herself had nothing. Even glimpsing the old lady’s courtyard back home required sneaking up a ladder to peek in secret, and she’d been caught doing it once, earning herself a thorough scolding.
Once that household too had gained its own matrons and maidservants, Madam Qiao, too proud and too fond of appearances, no longer dared even look.
And so, she’d never once seen what the courtyards of Qiqian’er and the others—the people she feared most—actually looked like.
The grandest wealth she’d ever witnessed in her life was this Assistant Prefect Yang’s household. Every visit here left her burning with envy and endless longing.
The Yang household’s courtyard was a pair of five-bay, two-courtyard compounds—actually quite substantial in size.
Madam Qiao was headed to the rearmost courtyard, seeking out her friend, Assistant Prefect Yang’s third daughter-in-law, Madam Wen.
The moment she entered the courtyard, she heard a furious scolding ring out: “That shameless little wretch of a concubine’s spawn, running to his sister-in-law’s room to flirt with his brother’s bed-servant, no less…”
Hearing the word “concubine’s spawn,” Madam Qiao’s heart lurched—but then a man came running out of the courtyard, his sleeve covering his face, and she let out a breath and stepped aside.
The man was quite tall, dressed in jade-green robes, his face unrecognizable, moving fast—he vanished around the corner in an instant. Right after him, two matrons came chasing out of the courtyard brandishing laundry pounders, looking utterly fierce.
Xique burst into frightened tears, and the young steward leading the way looked thoroughly mortified too.
By the time Madam Qiao entered the courtyard, she found a heavily pregnant woman with almond eyes and sharp brows standing on the steps, hands on her hips, pointing down at a kneeling maidservant, scolding away merrily: “Are you a corpse with no breath left in you, you shameless little— letting that thing paw at you just because he asked?”
The maid kneeling on the ground was crying so hard she looked about to faint, but the woman showed no mercy, calling out: “Someone, drag her out to the well and scrub her clean, inside and out! Can’t have her filthy self stinking up the place!”
Having said this, the same two matrons with laundry pounders came back in to drag the girl off, at which the woman added: “Scrub carefully now—don’t go scrubbing out whatever filth she’s carrying in her belly, or the Master will be heartbroken and blame me for it…”
Madam Qiao had never witnessed a proper great lady in action before—Qiqian’er’s side would never let her see punishments dealt out.
She thought to herself: so this is what it means to have real presence, to be a proper lady of the house.
Once the courtyard had been cleared, this third young mistress finally noticed Madam Qiao and laughed: “Oh my, what a scene—how embarrassing, letting Fourth Madam witness such a mess!”
Madam Wen’s husband held a seventh-rank post in the county seat and had once dined with Chen the Fourth; afterward he’d come home and mocked Chen the Fourth to his wife as an upstart nouveau riche with no proper bearing at all—he’d asked several times for an introduction to his wealthy nephews, but Chen the Fourth had refused every time.
But what sort of person was Madam Wen? A shrewd, calculating creature with eight hidden schemes to her name—after just a few probing questions, she’d figured out there must be some rift between this fourth branch of the Chen family and the rest.
Not that it mattered to her in the least. If someone wanted to come curry favor with her, she certainly wouldn’t refuse—it was as good as entertainment.
Having just witnessed such a shocking scene, Madam Qiao kept her face carefully blank, playing the part of someone worldly and unbothered, and followed Madam Wen inside, taking the son off her back and settling into a chair with him in her arms.
The young steward who’d led the way handed the basket to a matron, who carried it in and set it on the table beside Madam Qiao. Madam Qiao suddenly remembered something and exclaimed: “Look at my memory!”
She pointed at the basket and said to Madam Wen: “My husband had this sent down from the mountain. I saw it was fairly rare stuff, so I picked out the best to bring you a taste—you’re expecting now, you should be eating well.”
Seeing that Madam Qiao hadn’t come empty-handed, Madam Wen laughed: “Oh, sister! Honestly, you didn’t need to bring anything at all, just visiting would have been enough—do you think our household is really short on this sort of thing?”
Madam Qiao, quietly taking notes, composed herself and put on a brisk, capable air: “Whatever your household has is yours—these things aren’t worth much, but you can’t even buy them around here these days. Go on and look—if you don’t like it, I’ll just take it back…”
Madam Wen laughed and nodded to the matron beside her.
The matron came over smiling, opened the basket, and unwrapped the three bags inside, exclaiming with delight: “Oh my! It’s been ages since I’ve seen peach gum this fine! Madam was just saying the other day how, close as Qingfeng is to the capital, the goods here never match up—Madam, look at this!”
With that, she carried the basket over to show Madam Wen.
Madam Wen looked down and was genuinely delighted.
Inside were three cloth bags of mountain delicacies—peach gum, monkey head mushroom, and bamboo fungus—not things one could buy for just a coin or two, and these three bags were clearly top quality; even the old established shops in the capital might not easily find goods this fine.
Thanks to Qiqian’er, Master She, and Chen Dasheng’s arrangements, Chen the Fourth had been sent up the mountain to do hard labor, but he’d ended up in charge of surveying tree species—a position with a bit of real authority.
Besides, with him constantly poking around the mountains, Chen the Fourth had eventually found his own way to make money—using the court’s laborers under his authority, he’d started gathering and selling mountain delicacies. In under half a year, he’d built up a decent nest egg, and seeing his nephews’ grandmother now owning land and living in comfort had only made him and his wife burn with envy—though they didn’t dare reach for it themselves. They too wanted some real benefit for themselves and their descendants, but upon asking around, they learned that good farmland, which had gone for five hundred coins a mu just last year, had already risen to one tael two this year.
Chen the Fourth kept a tight grip on the money now, refusing to give Madam Qiao any cash outright, instead having her use fine mountain goods to curry favor with Madam Wen, hoping to arrange some land purchases in the county her husband oversaw.
Watching her personal matron pack away the delicacies, Madam Wen asked Madam Qiao with a smile: “The other day, I had them send some things over to you, sister—did you like them?”
Madam Qiao’s face immediately showed gratitude. She reached out and pushed forward her reluctant daughter Xique, forcing the child to turn in a circle to show off, saying: “You really do think of her! Look, she’s already wearing it!”
Her money was split two ways—one portion to support her former family, the other for everyday expenses—so with funds tight, the burden inevitably fell on the children. Xique was dressed quite shabbily; the daughter of a seventh-rank official’s household, yet always in a few old cotton hand-me-downs.
The old lady did feel for Xique, but wouldn’t show it in front of Madam Qiao—whenever Xique came by the door looking for her, she’d slip the child something to eat, but never more than that.
Seeing Xique dressed worse than a servant’s child, Madam Wen, for whatever reason, had gathered up several of her own daughter’s gently-used silk outfits and sent over a large bundle to Madam Qiao.
Both households technically held seventh-rank posts, so this gesture from Madam Wen was, strictly speaking, rather condescending—like handing down cast-offs to a servant. But Madam Qiao, coming from such humble means, hadn’t picked up on the slight at all, and had even dressed Xique in the clothes today.
Watching Madam Qiao’s obliviousness, Madam Wen couldn’t help but smile. She reached for some dried fruit on the table and pressed it into Xique’s hand, saying: “Say what you will about my four daughters, but none of them are half as pretty as our little Xique!”
Then she looked up and instructed: “Someone come take Xique to play with her sisters!”
A maid answered and led the reluctant Xique away.
Once the child was gone, Madam Wen reached for a soft cushion and said to Madam Qiao: “Quick, hand over my little nephew—let him have a good long piss in my lap. This time I’m determined to have myself an immortal-child son!”
Madam Qiao, lacking any worldly sense, couldn’t detect the barb in Madam Wen’s words. Reluctant as she was to part with her son, she handed him over anyway, driven by her own private ambitions.
Madam Wen took the plump little boy, cooing and bouncing him with a smile, and as she rocked him, said to Madam Qiao: “Sister, don’t take this the wrong way, but what kind of impression are you making, going back and forth like this? Not even past your hundred days yet, and here you are carrying him on your back, hauling him in your arms—it really doesn’t look proper. Our Fourth Master is an official of the court out there, whatever the circumstances, shouldn’t there at least be a helper hired for the household? I don’t believe for a second that old lady next door couldn’t spare a bite from her own bowl for you.”
These words struck right at Madam Qiao’s sore spot, and her tears welled up instantly. Dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, she said: “I knew others could see it, that people would notice—but how am I supposed to say it? Third Madam comes from a proper family, you have your own troubles, and my household has things I simply can’t speak of either. As much as it pains me, I can’t say a word against my mother-in-law… ah, in the end, it’s just that I’m clumsy with words, too plain to be liked, and my husband’s far too honest for his own good…”