Qiqian’er looked at the row of fresh-faced girls seated by the artificial rockery and water’s edge in Late Fragrance Return, and couldn’t help smiling rather awkwardly.
Her memory was hazy—she hadn’t known how old Pan Shiqiao actually was. It was only once the girl arrived that she realized Pan Shiqiao was still practically a child, only fourteen this year.
Above her were three older sisters, all still unmarried, starting with Seventh Daughter Qiqiao.
Because Qiqian’er’s description had been so vague, and the Pan family was genuinely eager to secure this match, they’d sent over four girls in a neat row today, the implication being: pick whichever one you like, and this time they wouldn’t dare withhold a single coin of the betrothal gift.
The Pan family had even hinted that marrying Seventh Daughter Qiqiao would be the ideal match—age and family circumstances both suited perfectly.
But Qiqian’er wanted Tenth Daughter Shiqiao.
Late Fragrance Return was one of the sixteen courtyards of the Small Immortal Garden, among its handful of chrysanthemum gardens—this particular one grew only the golden-bell variety, taking its name from “Late Fragrance,” one of the elegant epithets for the chrysanthemum, gentleman among flowers.
As for the Small Immortal Garden itself, it had been built by Ping Shen, a wealthy merchant in the city. The garden dated back to the end of the previous dynasty, an elegant estate built around an entire hill.
Within it were sixteen separate courtyards, sustained by renting them out to scholars, poets, and cloistered ladies for pocket change. The Ping family certainly didn’t need the money—what they lacked was the refined, cultured air that came with hosting men of letters.
Put plainly, it was a place where merchant money bought reputation.
This merchant Ping Shen was remarkably shrewd, his methods clearly sophisticated, though outsiders couldn’t know the details—what was known was that his business dealings were substantial, and the Small Immortal Garden had survived from the previous dynasty into the new one, which said something about the man’s ability.
Even the wrestling arena Chen Dasheng and the others had once frequented belonged to this same Ping Shen, established back in Shaoshang under the previous dynasty.
After the new Emperor’s ascension, he’d simply relocated his businesses accordingly.
Qiqian’er had no way of knowing any of this tangled backstory—she’d simply wanted the novelty of the place. After all, in two lifetimes combined, her family had only now become respectable enough that she could actually send out invitation cards. She’d known of this garden before, of course, but given her circumstances back then, she’d never have been able to set foot in such a place of wealth and privilege.
A person only lives once—not experiencing something you could have was a genuine loss!
So she’d sent a card on a whim, hoping to rent a small courtyard for some fun. And what do you know—the Chen household of Imperial Guard Lane in Qingfeng turned out to carry quite a reputation. The moment her card went out, word came back immediately: everything was prepared for the young mistress, she need only come.
So they’d come—and only upon arrival did she realize this was no small courtyard at all. What they’d been given was Late Fragrance Return, the finest of the mid-tier courtyards, matched to the season.
“Mid-tier,” they called it—yet as Qiqian’er looked around, she found herself secretly gasping. This courtyard could easily host two hundred guests without strain.
Their party—the Chen, Yu, Dong, Tong, and Pan households, six families of women in all—counted sixty or seventy people between mistresses and servants, yet couldn’t fill even half the seats on the mountain-viewing terrace where they’d watch the chrysanthemums and opera.
This was an extraordinary show of hospitality, extravagantly spacious.
Every noble and official family in the capital and Qingfeng knew that courtyards at the Small Immortal Garden had to be booked a month or two in advance.
After strolling once around the garden, when they climbed up and settled themselves on the terrace, the head of the opera troupe performing opposite had already brought over the program list, asking Qiqian’er and her party to choose their plays.
Qiqian’er had never handled such matters before, so she smilingly passed the list to Madam Dong, who in turn smilingly passed the tile to Madam Song, wife of Censor Pan.
Madam Song, timid by nature, offered only a few polite words before passing the list on to Qiqian’er after all. Qiqian’er, at a loss, glanced sideways at Zhang Wanru.
This time Zhang Wanru didn’t decline. Smiling, she selected “The Small Banquet” and “The Grand Banquet” from The Chain Stratagem.
Once she’d made her choice, her mother Madam Dong began glaring at her, but Zhang Wanru said: “Mother, I’m already married off—must you still manage me? Even my husband defers to me at home now, and it’s finally my turn to have a say… When you used to take me to banquets, whatever they were performing, that’s what I had to listen to, and never the whole thing either—I’d come home so frustrated I’d go hunting for playbooks just to read, and even that I had to do in secret! I’ve been scolded for it more times than I can count. It’s a shame—ever since I was seven and first came to understand opera, I’ve wanted to see the complete Chain Stratagem, and today I’ve finally caught my chance! Ladies, please indulge me…” She pressed her palms together, bowing all around with a smile. “Just these two scenes, and I’ll have seen the whole thing.”
Ordinary performances only put on one scene a day, which was exactly why cloistered young ladies never got to see a complete play.
Everyone laughed together, and the two scenes were confirmed, with the troupe leader sent off to prepare. He’d gone a good ten paces already when Zhang Wanru was still calling after him: “You there, troupe leader! I can tell your company’s newly relocated to our capital here—today you’d better give it your all! Keep the pacing sharp and seasoned, understand?”
The troupe leader turned back to bow, saying with a smile: “Naturally! Today our voices are well warmed up, we’ll give all you ladies and young misses the finest performance these sixteen gardens have ever seen.”
Zhang Wanru beamed: “Good! Just sing your best! I’ll have several baskets of reward money sent your way later!”
The other ladies laughed at this, urging the troupe leader to hurry and prepare—there would certainly be rewards waiting.
Once certain no outsiders remained, Yu Daniu quietly came up behind Qiqian’er and tugged at her sleeve. When Qiqian’er turned to look, she asked: “Auntie? I didn’t understand what Third Auntie was saying just now?”
Qiqian’er laughed at once, not bothering to lower her voice, pointing her fan at Zhang Wanru: “Don’t you go learning from this opera-house savage. She won’t teach you anything good—I don’t even know how she grew up talking like this? Her whole mouth is full of troupe jargon—’relocated’ means a newly arrived company, ‘pacing’ means the effort they put in, ‘warmed up’ means their voices are ready. Listen to her, how many plays has she sat through to pick all that up?”
Everyone burst out laughing again.
Zhang Wanru blinked and shot back: “Hey now, listen to this, how unfair! I’m just an honest, straightforward soul, I hide nothing—say something and it shows right on my face. But just because I showed my hand, does that mean you get to catch on so fast?”
Qiqian’er froze for a beat, then dropped her fan and lunged to tickle her.
Everyone laughed again, and after a good while of this commotion, Madam Dong turned to the shy young girls and said: “We’re all old ladies here, and the opera won’t start for a while yet—why don’t you girls take Niu’er and go pick some flowers? Do look after your little sister, this is her first time here.”
The Pan sisters rose obediently at this, bowing their farewells, and taking the small flower baskets they’d brought from home, led the fidgeting Yu Daniu, unsure where to put her hands, off to pick flowers.
The five girls made their way down the steps, playing nearby for a while before wandering farther and farther off.
Watching them enjoy themselves, the older women grew restless too. Madam Dong, though she’d visited the Small Immortal Garden before, had never experienced it this lavishly, with so few people occupying an entire mid-tier garden—she pulled Madam Song along to go look around nearby, leaving the flower baskets behind.
So the mountain-viewing terrace was left with only Ding Yuniang—who understood none of what was said—Zhang Wanru, and Qiqian’er.
Zhang Wanru leaned close to Qiqian’er’s ear with her fan and said: “I don’t know where you got your information, but isn’t that Shiqiao not even grown yet?”
Qiqian’er’s face flushed red instantly.
Zhang Wanru continued: “I actually think their Eighth Daughter is rather good.”
Qiqian’er blinked and turned to look at her.
Zhang Wanru set down her fan, smiling. “Down there, that eldest one, Seventh Daughter, seems quite attentive to our Daniu on the surface. But watch how she picks flowers—I’ve been here before too, and back then people would pick a flower or two to bring home as a token. Look closely at her, though—she’s genuinely digging up whatever she can get her hands on, greedy to the root. She’s already switched out two baskets.”
Qiqian’er didn’t understand the finer points here at all. Puzzled, she craned her neck to look too, but couldn’t spot anyone anymore.
When it came to sizing up young ladies for a match, she had to admit she was nowhere near as sharp-eyed as Zhang Wanru. Some things were simply a matter of the environment you grew up in—no way around it, you had to learn slowly over time.
A cool breeze carried the fragrance of flowers to them; the scenery here truly was lovely. After waiting a while longer, they saw two rows of some twenty-odd servants from Late Fragrance Return come up carrying wine, dishes, pastries, and various fruits onto the terrace, arranging everything silently and in perfect order before withdrawing.
This kind of pampered treatment—simply sitting here, one couldn’t help but feel like an empress herself.
Zhang Wanru picked up the wine jug, lifted the lid, sniffed, and laughed with delight. She poured herself a cup without waiting for Qiqian’er and took a sip before saying: “Oh, this is genuine ten-year chrysanthemum wine from Three Family Ditch—I’d only ever heard of it, and now I’ve finally tasted it.”
Well, this one wasn’t just an opera fanatic—apparently a wine lover lived inside her too.
Married now, Zhang Wanru got along beautifully with Tong Jintai. Though he’d only just learned to read, he treated his hard-won wife with complete devotion, deferring to her in everything—and with Qiqian’er having kept him under such strict discipline before, Zhang Wanru discovered after marrying in that her husband was even more fastidious about cleanliness than she was.
Zhang Wanru had her own quiet pride. Though the match had been arranged by her parents through a matchmaker, she was clever enough to know Tong Jintai’s background was rough, a coarse soldier fresh from the barracks, and she’d braced herself for a stormy adjustment.
Who could have guessed it would turn out to be nothing but happiness the whole way? The man was handsome and spirited, honest besides, and following his elder brother’s example, utterly devoted to his wife. She’d started to wonder why she’d taken so long to marry at all—it was clearly because she’d been waiting for her Jintai to come claim her.
Thoroughly relaxed now, Zhang Wanru leaned back against a cushion, languid as a tipsy immortal—even without drinking, she’d have been endearingly dazed. Qiqian’er poured herself a cup too, listening to Zhang Wanru’s analysis and sipping along, feeling she was learning something new with every word.
Zhang Wanru said matter-of-factly: “Little sister-in-law, your instincts are sound enough. Our family isn’t suited to some grand noble house, so since we’re already marrying beneath our station, we should naturally pick the best among the options available. Everyone knows the Pan family is poor, and we don’t expect anything from them—but look at that Seventh Daughter, so eager she’d practically uproot the whole garden and haul it home with her. That won’t do at all…”
Qiqian’er thought about it and realized it was true—Pan Qiqiao had indeed gone down with scissors in hand, briskly filling two baskets’ worth of flowers.
A bit petty, that.
“Whether it’ll work out, I couldn’t say—that’s entirely your call, sister-in-law! But as for that girl’s character, I do know something. Tonight when she gets home, she’ll be handing out favors to relatives and sisters left and right, dropping names like ‘the golden-bell chrysanthemums of Late Fragrance Return at the Small Immortal Garden’ every other sentence, probably digging up some gilded bookmarks she’d normally never use to write a few verses of poetry to show off her talent—won’t that make quite an impression? Pity, though, that leaves us paying three hundred coins a stem for flowers we’re out here handing to her, and who knows how much more it’ll cost us before we’re free of this connection.”
Qiqian’er had never had her eye on Pan Qiqiao to begin with, so she laughed and took a sip. “That’s a bit too obvious, isn’t it. Well, it’s only natural for a young girl to feel a little vain—who hasn’t wanted to show off at some point?”
Zhang Wanru glanced at her sideways, thinking, and how old are you yourself, calling other people “young girls”?
She continued: “As for Ninth and Tenth Daughters, they vanished the moment they went down there—too fond of play, honestly. Girls grow up differently from boys, you know—a boy matures gradually, but a girl can wake up one morning and find she’s grown up, body and mind both, overnight. Those two, they seem better on the surface than their elder sister, but they’re not there yet—one step short of waking up, still very much children. If we bring one of them in to slowly train up for Second Uncle Ma, I worry we’d end up making an enemy of them instead, with them going around saying we treated them harshly…”
That left only Eighth Daughter. Qiqian’er thought back to the least remarkable of the four, Eighth Daughter, and tried hard to recall her from her past life—but came up empty.
A very plain, unremarkable girl.
So she asked: “Don’t tell me you’ve taken a liking to Eighth Daughter?”
Zhang Wanru sighed and nodded. “Mm, I have! Steady, honest, doesn’t need to be especially accomplished to run a household well—just being solid and dependable is enough.”
She turned to Qiqian’er. “Who doesn’t learn account-keeping and household management at their mother’s knee from the age of three or four? If her sisters know it, there’s no way she hasn’t learned it too. Our Second Uncle Ma, with that scatterbrained temperament of his, bouncing around so much you can’t even trust him not to somersault off the roof—he’s like a restless monkey who needs no grand stage, just a good-natured audience willing to applaud him. Don’t you think, sister-in-law?”
Qiqian’er was someone who could take in other people’s opinions well. She thought it over carefully and said with a wry smile: “I really was just going on hearsay—my thinking was too shallow. Your reasoning holds up. Second Uncle Ma just needs someone patient enough to put up with him, and Eighth Daughter suits that perfectly.”
With that, she turned and held up eight fingers toward Ding Yuniang, who’d been straining to read their lips the whole time.
Ding Yuniang, naturally anxious about her daughter while out and about, hadn’t taken her eyes off her the entire time. She hadn’t cared for the eldest girl at all—the moment Qiqiao had made her own daughter help carry the basket, Ding Yuniang had bristled; the two younger ones were nowhere to be seen at all… but the eighth-ranked one had quietly stuck close to her daughter, looking after her.
When Qiqiao had made Daniu carry a basket, Eighth Daughter had stepped in and taken over, carrying one in each hand herself, glancing back now and then to check on Daniu. Ding Yuniang, quite taken with Eighth Daughter, gave Qiqian’er an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Just then the gongs and drums sounded from the opera stage, and the guests who’d wandered off came streaming back.
The four Pan sisters returned too, settling down shyly, looking as charming as little flower fairies. Qiqiao, ever so attentive, even brought Qiqian’er a basket of the prettiest flowers she’d personally selected.
But she didn’t notice her own sister-in-law forcing a strained smile behind her, looking apologetically at Qiqian’er.
Every plant in that garden was a prized variety, worth several hundred coins a stem—this was mortifying in the extreme.
But Qiqian’er accepted the flowers cheerfully, even praising Qiqiao’s fine eye.
Since they’d already invited the girl out to enjoy herself, she might as well be generous about it and let it go.
Once the opera began, the Small Immortal Garden’s steward brought up four baskets of copper coins for Qiqian’er to distribute as rewards to the performers.
Zhang Wanru pursed her lips, tilting her head at Qiqian’er: “I was only teasing before, but why is this garden’s steward showing off so hard today?”
Qiqian’er, keeping up appearances, smiled and pressed her fan against Zhang Wanru’s mouth to shush her: “Don’t even start. We’ve clearly fallen into a den of thieves today—I doubt we’re getting out of here for less than several dozen taels!”
Zhang Wanru glanced at her, then slowly held up two fingers, teasing: “Renting the garden, picking the flowers, the opera troupe, four baskets of reward money, plus the tips for all these servants attending us—I was wondering just the other day how you could afford to come to a place like this at all. And you rented Late Fragrance Return, no less! Sister-in-law, your family must be sitting on quite a fortune!”
Qiqian’er, heart shattering into pieces inside, froze for a moment, then suddenly burst out laughing. She tapped Zhang Wanru’s shoulder with her fan and said quietly: “When we get back and Grandmother asks, say it cost ten taels at most, alright? And don’t let your mother catch wind of the real amount either, or none of us will hear the end of it!”
Zhang Wanru’s expression cracked at this, but she nodded seriously all the same. She’d brought money along mainly to tease Qiqian’er, never expecting this younger sister-in-law to actually be so steady and composed about it.
She raised a cup of light wine to Qiqian’er: “Well, since we’re here.”
Qiqian’er clinked cups with her, laughing softly: “Settled, settled. Grandmother doesn’t need to know, just keep it quiet…”
They dissolved into laughter together again.
Sitting off to the side, Pan Qiqiao, who’d never experienced a day like this in her life, lifted her own wine cup and took a small sip. Having never lived this way before, and now further saddened by the sight of an entire garden of fine chrysanthemums bestowed so casually, she felt an inexplicable melancholy well up, listening to the opera singing: “A thousand sorrows, ten thousand worries, drowned in wine…” She felt an unaccountable urge to cry, and stole a glance toward the two ladies at the head table, surrounded like stars around the moon.
Before leaving home, her father had told her that at the Small Immortal Garden, you couldn’t get away with spending less than a hundred strings of cash in any single courtyard.
He’d also told her that her good days were coming.
If—if she really were chosen today, she’d have to bid farewell to her maiden years and live out the rest of her life drowning her sorrows just like this.
Was this how her whole life would be decided? After all, the other side was a contract-servant-born soldier of rough origins—whatever she said, he might not even understand her. The thought was unbearably sad.
Qiqian’er had no idea Qiqiao was thinking so much. Having been set straight by Zhang Wanru, she found herself involuntarily glancing over at Eighth Daughter instead.
Heh—now there was an interesting child. Of the four sisters, she was clearly the plumpest and fairest. In front of her sat a plate of unshelled dried fruit; perhaps enjoying it so much she wanted to share the moment, she tried to chat with the others, but they were absorbed in the opera and paid her no mind. She didn’t seem disappointed in the least, though—
She simply pulled the plate over, claimed it for herself, and began shelling the fruit.
Once shelled, she divided the kernels into little piles, handing them out to everyone around her without being asked.
Sadly, her sisters, each lost in their own thoughts, simply took what was offered and ate without a word of thanks or praise for her efforts.
Perhaps this was how things went at home too—Eighth Daughter seemed used to it, and threw herself wholeheartedly into shelling more, until at some point Daniu happened to glance down, saw a pile of kernels in front of her, and picked a few up to eat.
Having a half-deaf mother who couldn’t speak clearly, Daniu had grown used to giving a thumbs-up whenever something tasted good, and she did so now, enthusiastically, gesturing at Pan Baqiao.
Pan Baqiao’s eyes lit up at once, instantly claiming this girl as a kindred spirit. Zhang Wanru had just praised her as steady and honest, but who could have guessed this same girl would then reach out and reclaim all the kernels she’d shelled for her other sisters, dividing them instead into two piles—one for herself, one for Daniu.
Becoming friends could happen in an instant like this. The two guileless girls, snacking away, ended up holding hands, as though they could never be parted again.
At one point, Pan Shiqiao tried to reach in and grab a share, only to get glared at by her elder sister and smacked on the back of the hand.
Pan Shiqiao promptly behaved herself.
Qiqian’er tilted her head and asked Zhang Wanru: “Mm—steady and honest, you said?”
Zhang Wanru burst out giggling, and called out to Siyue with the wine jug: “We’re celebrating today—your mistress says switch to the bigger cups.”
Siyue, never suspecting Third Madam would deceive her—sharp as she was—turned right around and brought back agate cups twice the size.
And so Qiqian’er, half-persuaded, half-resigned, drank her way through half a jug of the ten-year chrysanthemum wine.
But neither of them knew that the girl called Qiqiao had already, in her own mind, mapped out the rest of her life—enduring beatings and scoldings she could never speak of to anyone, forced to swallow all her bitterness alone.
Coming and going through such a noble household, but with a husband who understood nothing of romance, spending his days drinking and gambling, forever carrying on with other women outside—he would wear her fragile constitution down to nothing, until one day she’d cough up a mouthful of blood and collapse among the yellow chrysanthemum petals of some October garden.
Body and spirit broken, she’d still have to force herself upright to manage the household’s affairs, and here she was now, socializing with these two outrageous women, being plied with wine—how could she possibly refuse? Should she drain the cup in bitter, righteous anger? Or should she play it off with false indifference, like Diaochan on the opera stage, urging: have another cup, my lord, let this one glass wash away the knots in your chest…?
Someday, once she’d been tormented to death, they’d finally realize how good she’d truly been, weeping with regret before her grave…
Pan Qiqiao, thoroughly miserable, drank another cup through tears.
Pan Baqiao felt a chill beside her, turned to look, and saw her sister starting up again, so she scooted closer to Yu Daniu instead.
Curious, Daniu asked her: “What’s wrong?”
Pan Baqiao remembered what her mother always said—that young men and women of seventeen or eighteen tended to catch these fits of lovesick melancholy, and they’d grow out of it eventually.
Though she privately wondered why she herself never seemed to catch this particular malady, she was willing to cover for her sister anyway, and told Daniu: “Nothing’s wrong. A full stomach cures all ills—are you going to finish that or not?”
Seeing Daniu shake her head, she happily snatched up her chrysanthemum cake and dug in with relish.
Her mother had been right about that too—even if the sky came crashing down, you still had to eat your fill first.
Each unmarried girl had her own private drama running. Meanwhile Qiqian’er had had a bit too much to drink—not that she got drunk easily, it was more that her stomach simply couldn’t hold any more liquid.
This visiting troupe truly did sing well—everyone on the terrace besides her was watching with rapt attention. Well, no matter, the money was already spent, so let everyone enjoy themselves.
Qiqian’er braced herself against the low table and stood. When Siyue moved to help her, she waved her off, not wanting company either, and gathered up her skirts to head down the steps and stroll along the garden’s edge by herself.
On the way in, the steward-matron who’d shown them around had specifically pointed out the location of the privies.
By the time she emerged from there, the stage had already moved on to “The Grand Banquet.” Qiqian’er had never much cared for this particular scene, so she wandered off along the pebbled garden path instead, taking her time admiring the flowers.
She hadn’t gone far when, her hearing being sharp, she caught the sound of voices from the large garden next door—a stretch of words that struck her as oddly familiar:
“Protector of the Nation upholds the pillar of heaven, three sticks of incense before the north-south hall doors, long robe or short coat, round collar, shoulder blade struck flying off the head—if you don’t want to eat a dark dart in the dark, best start counting your dots. Whose robe is this? Whose incense-stick number? Whose family’s altar sent you scrambling over here to our doorstep?”
A few gusts of wind brushed past her ears—someone flitting over the flowers and grass—landing atop the rockery in the neighboring courtyard, and an elderly man’s voice offered an apology: “Little one, don’t make a fuss. This old man was merely passing through your fine establishment. The accounts between the north and south halls were settled long ago—no one’s altar burns for me anymore. Heh, all because some worthless junior stumbled at his post the other day, his spirit scattered, his form dispersed, so this true dragon incense-master came seeking the root cause of it all… didn’t expect to catch the scent of wine, though—might this be the old Three Family Ditch chrysanthemum recipe?”
Silence fell on the other side for a moment, then several people emerged, and a young man spoke up: “Ah! Forgive my poor eyes, no wonder you came flying over my wall, old sir! How many years has it been since you last came down from Yuegong Mountain? This place, I’m afraid, hasn’t been a branch outpost of Yuegong Mountain for quite some time now. I trust Elder Guan is well? This junior is Ping Shen, third son of this generation of the Baojintong family… my respects to you, sir. Please, come down—we have honored guests next door, but there’s a whole cellar of Three Ditch chrysanthemum wine, drink as you please…”
Qiqian’er couldn’t make heads or tails of this underworld jargon at all. She only recognized three characters: Yuegong Mountain!