By now the side hall had been laid out for the meal. All twelve of the wide-paneled hall windows were thrown fully open. The interior was not particularly adorned with ostentatious wealth — only eight-sided floor vases, half a person tall, in white with blue glaze, placed in the corners, filled with fresh flowers of every variety: antique and unhurried, yet not without a lively gracefulness.

Outside the windows, the warm and mild May light filtered gently in. From the direction of the lotus pool beside the hall, a quiet breeze carried the murmur of water, and with it drifted pale gardenia petals and a few emerald leaves falling from the surface of the pool. The hall was cool and refreshing, fragrant and pleasant; the assembled ladies all felt their spirits lift, and exclamations of admiration rose on every side.

The cold dishes and fresh fruit had already been arranged. Once Minglan had seen all the lady guests to their seats, she gave the order for the hot dishes and warmed wine to be brought out. For the unmarried young ladies, she had prepared lighter fruit wines and freshly-pressed fruit drinks. The servants’ wives then began sending out platters in a steady flow — one dish, then the next — and everyone lifted their chopsticks and began to eat.

This was the Gu household’s first time hosting a formal banquet. Madam Ge put forth her full effort and brought out every technique in her repertoire. Beyond the standard large dishes of chicken, duck, fish, and meat, there were more than a few rare mountain and seafood delicacies — a stir-fried dish of wild mushrooms, wood ear fungus, and duck gizzards; a sweet and sour dish of pineapple and spare ribs; a bamboo-tube dish of sesame and silver eel soup; and a double-mushroom soy-braised pork tenderloin. These were particularly savory and delicious, leaving the guests quite satisfied.

Unlike the men, the ladies had no occasion for drinking contests and finger-guessing games. With outside guests present, the Gu household ladies were also not in a position to pressure Minglan into drinking. With senior matriarchs and grandmothers at the table, the younger girls also maintained decorum and had not suggested composing poems or doing drinking forfeits. Everyone simply ate their food and chatted pleasantly.

After a little while, Minglan had a small eight-sided pavilion in front of the hall opened for a performance. A troupe of musicians filed in, carrying drum clappers, flutes, and stringed instruments, and several costumed female performers entered the pavilion one after another in a line. Once the senior lady guests had each chosen their preferred pieces, the instruments struck up — and the powder-painted performers began their lilting, melodic singing.

Between the dining hall and the pavilion lay a narrow channel of clear water. Only a short footbridge — five or six paces long and just two feet or so wide — of green stone slabs connected them. The water rippled softly. Seen through the haze of blooming branches and green foliage — gazing across the water at the distant performance — the scene was as faint and lovely as mist. Both the view and the sound were exquisite.

After listening for a while, the old Mistress couldn’t help but praise: “Those performers were well chosen, and the music is beautifully sung. And you’ve arranged this spot so well — giving us a feast for the ears and a feast for the eyes alike.”

Minglan rose and smiled to receive the praise. Beside her, Di Er sighed languidly: “It’s all thanks to the Emperor’s great kindness — receiving such a gift, sister-in-law is truly blessed.”

Xuan Da at the other side quickly took hold of the remark, laughing: “Even so, one has to have the good sense to make use of it! If it were me — give me such a fine place, and I still couldn’t think of an arrangement this lovely. Second Sister-in-law is truly from a reading family.”

Wang Shi felt quite gratified and could not suppress a smile. Minglan’s cheeks colored slightly. She demurred: “Xuan Da Sister-in-law flatters me too much. I didn’t think of this arrangement myself at all — it was the late Scholar Xiong Linshan, who occupied this property before us, who left behind a plan drawn up exactly this way. I’ve merely traced the picture he left.”

Xuan Da buried her face in her hands with exasperation: “You! How can you be so honest! I was right in the middle of complimenting you, and you go and let the whole thing out yourself!”

Everyone burst into laughter. Minglan lowered her head in embarrassment. Bing Er seized the moment: “Sister-in-law, I am so taken with this garden of yours I can’t bear to leave! It strikes me that this vast estate might feel rather empty — I wonder, might I be so lucky as to keep you company? If I moved in and we lived together, it would be far livelier.”

Minglan smiled mildly and glanced around at the Gu household ladies at the table. She could see that quite a few of them were visibly ill at ease, most of them shooting resentful glares at Bing Er — while Bing Er continued to pretend she hadn’t noticed, pressing on for Minglan’s reply.

Xuan Da’s face burned most hotly of all. She was inwardly seething: Bing Er was not just embarrassing the Gu family in front of outside guests — she was embarrassing their own Fourth Branch in front of the whole family.

She gave Bing Er a sharp tug on the arm and forced a smile, lowering her voice: “What are you going on about? With your parents-in-law still living, where exactly do you think you’d be moving to?” Bing Er — whether genuinely oblivious or just pretending — replied directly: “Well, we could just move our whole branch here, couldn’t we?”

Even the old Mistress was displeased now. She watched as the Fourth Mistress’ expression darkened with anger, and was just about to speak when — from the other side of the table — Rulan, who had been sitting next to Yuan Ying, leaned over to Yuan Ying and murmured: “Didn’t they already divide the household? So why are they still clinging on to live in the same place? Can’t be that they’re trying to save on food, can they?”

The moment she said it, Yuan Ying gave her a forceful shove and shot her a frantic look to get her to stop.

The words were pitched at just the right volume — not quite loud enough to address the room, yet perfectly audible to everyone in their vicinity. The outside lady guests were instantly diverted, smiling to themselves as they watched this piece of domestic drama play out within the Gu household. They privately reflected: even if someone were going to move in, it ought to be Madam Shao or Madam Zhu of the elder branch — what business was it of a sister-in-law from a divided branch?

Gu Tingyu was a Marquis; he naturally could not leave the Marquis’s household. Gu Tingwei was the old Mistress’s own child and must attend to his widowed mother — he could not leave either. Even the closest branches of the main line hadn’t stirred — yet here was the Fourth Branch, that had already divided from the household, casting their eyes on Cheng Garden. How extraordinary a display of brazenness!

The moment Rulan’s words landed, a ripple of embarrassment ran through nearly all the Gu household ladies at the table — all except the old Mistress and Madam Zhu — and they turned their eyes toward Bing Er with undisguised reproach. The Fourth Mistress most of all: just a short while ago, during the social mingling, several distinguished ladies had noticed how naturally composed and articulate Tingying was in conversation, and were quite taken with her. It seemed that good matches were beginning to take shape for her — and now Bing Er had gone and thoroughly humiliated them all in one fell swoop. The Fourth Mistress could have eaten Bing Er alive.

With such a concentrated weight of stares upon her, even Bing Er’s thick skin could not withstand the pressure, and she lowered her head.

Minglan turned away in silence. There was more to the matter of the divided household than met the eye — the full story she had only come to know recently.

When the treasury embezzlement case first broke, the Gu family elders, seeing themselves on the verge of ruin, had rushed to divide the household assets, hoping to salvage at least something. But a few months later, Bai Shi arrived and the disaster was averted. Since the old Marquis was also away on prolonged military service at the frontier, the Fourth and Fifth Branches had simply continued living in the Marquis’s household as before. When the old Marquis returned to the capital, the matter of moving out to live separately was never raised again.

Just at that moment, Old Madam Lu — who had been sitting at the head with her eyes half-closed, seemingly absorbed in the music — suddenly spoke. She said with an air of mild frailty: “Ah… I’m getting on in years, and my ears aren’t as sharp as they used to be. When all of you talk like this, I can’t even make out the words of the songs.”

The Fourth Mistress breathed a silent sigh of relief and quickly said: “It is we who have disturbed you.” She then fixed Bing Er with a severe glare, and with a firmly plastered-on smile, said heavily: “All of you, stop talking and listen to the music.”

At that, the room finally fell quiet. Minglan shook her head slightly inside, sighed, and turned away to look at the performance pavilion floating like a pavilion on the water — putting all the rest out of her mind and giving herself over, quietly, to simply listening and enjoying.

Since no proper stage had been constructed, most of the lady guests had been choosing individual scenes and excerpts to be performed.

Old Madam Lu chose the “Admonition” scene from The Single-Blade Meeting — it was said that her son, now past fifty, had been somewhat difficult to manage recently. The old Mistress chose the “Return to Justice” scene from The Window of the Eastern Chamber — a piece about a mother- and sister-in-law resolving a misunderstanding and reconciling. Wang Shi chose the “Return of the Pearl” scene from The Qin Terrace Record — a piece about a husband who, after much straying and dallying, finally comes to appreciate the worth of his wife, repents and reforms, and the couple lives harmoniously into old age. Then others continued to call out their chosen pieces one after another.

The piece that received by far the most requests was The Liuyun Qiao Story. Several ladies each called for a different scene from it; when Minglan tallied it up, between them all they had nearly called for the entire work.

This opera had been in continuous popular performance since the previous dynasty, and was especially beloved by women.

The plot, in brief, was as follows: In a certain mid-dynasty era, a renowned courtesan met by chance a young scholar who had placed first in the imperial examinations. Though their social stations were worlds apart, they felt an instant kinship and fell deeply in love. Though the scholar later redeemed the courtesan from her profession and restored her to civilian status, his family could not accept a woman of such origins. The courtesan, being a person of strong spirit, simply left him a letter and departed, urging him to marry a proper lady of good family.

The scholar searched for her everywhere and found nothing. He had no choice but to follow his parents’ wishes. Years later, newly widowed, the scholar was appointed as a border inspection envoy. During his inspection tour, the northern tribes launched a massive invasion. The scholar rallied the local garrison and civilians to resist with great determination. But the enemy vastly outnumbered them, and reinforcements were slow to arrive. Just as the city was about to fall and the scholar had already raised his sword to his own throat — chaos suddenly erupted in the main camp of the enemy’s rear. The scholar seized the moment, ordering the defenders to launch a surprise attack. It succeeded. The crisis was resolved.

Only after the battle, when accounts were being tallied, did the full story emerge: a woman had spent a vast sum to urgently procure five hundred oxen and horses, then set fire to their tails, and — mimicking Tian Dan’s famous fire-ox stratagem — sent the panicking livestock charging from behind through the unsuspecting enemy rear. The scholar grew suspicious and inquired further, only to discover with a shock that the woman was none other than the courtesan herself.

The ending was, of course, a joyful reunion: the talented man and beautiful woman played music together in harmony, grew old side by side, and were surrounded by children and grandchildren.

The story was rather hackneyed — yet deeply moving, for it was rooted in truth, drawn from a remarkable episode of the previous dynasty.

The scholar in question was named Gao Tan, a son of a distinguished family from the Jiangzuo region. He had been a prodigy in his youth, passing his examinations and being garlanded at sixteen. He went on to serve three emperors, living a life of great rises and great falls, and brought immeasurable blessings to countless common people. He was eventually enshrined in the official histories under the Biographies of Eminent Officials.

And his wife was an even greater legend — for she truly had been a singing courtesan on the banks of the Qinhuai River. She came to be known to later generations as “Lady Liuli.” One might think that such an unsavory background could at least be smoothed over in the formal record, even if it couldn’t be hidden from contemporaries — but Lady Gao was too famous, and their story had been too widely told, so that even if the official histories said nothing, the unofficial histories were overflowing with it.

At that moment, from the eight-sided pavilion came the sudden sound of a light drum — beginning slowly, then quickening in tempo. Four musicians together set their fingers flying across the strings with frantic speed, the music at once weeping and soaring, like a cascade of pearls scattering across a floor, sending a shiver through the heart. Minglan looked up and glanced at Madam Zhu sitting beside her, then at the other sisters-in-law — their faces were all lit with emotion, eyes shining. She knew the most celebrated scene had arrived:

After returning from the frontier, Gao Tan pleaded fervently with his parents to relent, and at last they agreed to take Lady Liuli into the household as a concubine. But Lady Liuli refused. She looked at her beloved, sighed gently, and spoke the famous line: “You love me deeply — yet I love myself deeply too.”

She told him that she had endured half a lifetime of contempt and scorn, and that since escaping her lowly station, she had resolved to spend the rest of her life standing straight and holding her head high. Accordingly, she had opened her own workshop, taken on apprentices, engaged in commerce and trade, and had already built for herself a life of dignity. She was, at present, living very happily.

Gao Tan was determined to marry her. Yet the Gao family of Jiangzuo refused absolutely. The matter became known throughout the realm; even the common people in the markets and alleyways were engrossed in the debate. In the end, Gao Tan resolutely abandoned his brilliant official career — gave up his post and title — and was expelled from the Gao family’s ancestral hall and driven from his family home.

And then, this couple — reviled by all the world — retreated into seclusion in the wilderness of Yongzhou. They lived in modest poverty, sustained by mutual devotion. Gao Tan immersed himself in reading, in writing books and works of scholarship, in tutoring students. Lady Liuli took the impoverished local people under her wing, opening the mountains for mining and building waterworks for farmland.

Ten full years passed. A new emperor came to the throne. Gao Tan, by virtue of several monumental works that swept away the prevailing Neo-Confucian orthodoxy, became once again famous throughout the realm. Scholars came from every direction seeking his teaching. The court issued an imperial edict recalling him to official service, and thereafter he rose steadily — commanding armies, serving in the cabinet — retiring to the countryside, returning again to court, ascending to the position of Grand Preceptor. He trained countless disciples and was ultimately enshrined in both the Biographies of Eminent Officials and the Temple of the Loyal and Worthy.

And as for Lady Gao — from courtesan to a first-rank imperially-titled noblewoman, Lady Liuli’s life was more extraordinary than any legend.

At the time, when Minglan had read this account — official histories combined with unofficial histories — she had puzzled over it and asked Master Zhuang: “Could one simply open a private mine? Wouldn’t the authorities intervene?”

“For most mines, no,” Master Zhuang had replied. “But Lady Liuli was an exception. For the mine she opened was not gold or silver, not copper or iron, not coal or salt — it was a peculiar substance called ‘quartz,’ which could be fired into glazed tiles and glass. The authorities had no idea what the material was even good for.”

Glass. Yes. Glass.

Minglan’s pupils contracted slightly. She glanced at the windows thrown open all around her, their panes filled with clean, brilliantly clear glass — some in entire large sheets of transparent glass, others in small pieces fitted together into patterns of birds and flowers in colorful glazed glass, glittering and translucent, filling the hall with light.

In an era of primitive technology, Lady Liuli had conducted experiment after experiment with meticulous precision. She began by firing small glass novelties to raise the initial capital, then after more than a decade produced convex lens pieces used as telescopes and magnifying glasses, and after another decade finally achieved a complete technological breakthrough — firing large, flat, and sturdy sheets of thin glass.

This Lady Liuli must have been a transmigrator, Minglan thought, gazing absently at the glass windows. Judging from the fragments of experimental notes that had survived, she had come from a scientific and technical background.

What an excellent specialty that was, Minglan thought, bowing her head with a sigh, feeling quite genuinely envious.

A soft ripple of appreciation rose through the hall. Then the female performer’s singing suddenly dropped to a deep, slow cadence, and the emotion in her eyes conveyed all the vast expanse of time and enduring devotion. Even Minglan — whose appreciation for opera was largely feigned — could not help but acknowledge: this truly was a fine piece of work.

For this opera had been written by a great literary talent of the previous dynasty — and he was a disciple of the Gao family. In the year of his seventieth birthday, he lay awake in the dead of night, his mind drifting back to his youth, to the days when he had often seen the white-haired Gao Tan and his wife, walking hand in hand along the riverbank, still deeply in love.

The old man woke with his face wet with tears, his heart overflowing with gratitude and veneration. He took up his brush and wrote this work that would be handed down through the ages — to memorize his late teacher and his teacher’s wife who had long since departed this world. A great talent’s pen is naturally of a different order: The Liuyun Qiao Story has melodies that are tender and moving, lyrics that are elegant and refined, with many phrases that could be lifted directly into poetry. It is, in every sense, a rare masterwork.

Minglan looked around again at the faces of the ladies in the room. Some wore expressions of longing envy; some of quiet reflection and melancholy — but most carried in them some measure of feeling. Beside her, Madam Zhu sighed softly: “Ah… to live a life as Lady Liuli lived hers — that is a life well worth the living.”

Lady Liuli’s existence had become a kind of symbol, a kind of legend — telling women that yes, such men of deep and faithful love truly did exist in this world. They had simply not had the fortune to encounter one themselves.

But for Minglan, Lady Liuli meant something different. She was a signal — telling Minglan that she had a fellow traveler out there somewhere.

From her grandmother, Minglan had over the years heard various accounts of the Empress Jing’an.

She knew that Jing’an had been born of illustrious lineage, naturally beautiful, and from childhood remarkably gifted — composing verse at age three, painting at five (she must have transmigrated into an already-existing soul). Her poetry and calligraphy were stunning in their brilliance (Tang and Song verse, naturally). At fifteen she was chosen as the Crown Prince’s primary consort; at twenty she was formally invested as Empress. When Old Madam Sheng was a young woman, she had once been received at court. But scarcely two years later, the seventeen-year-old Empress Jing’an had passed away.

“Why did she leave so early?” the young Minglan had once asked.

“Because she should never have entered the palace to become an Empress,” Old Madam Sheng had said, with deep and mournful nostalgia on her face. “Her character was like the snow lotus growing on a clifftop — pure and without blemish. It wasn’t that she was naive and easily deceived — it was that she dealt with people in genuine sincerity. It wasn’t that she didn’t understand cunning and schemes — she simply disdained them. And that place in the palace — all those dark and hidden corners — could only have soiled her. Hmph! Those treacherous wretches — did they really think they’d won? Not a single one of them came to a good end.”

It was the only time Minglan had ever seen her grandmother’s face show such a profound, concentrated hatred and bitterness.

The official account was: due to the scheming of treacherous consorts, a rift formed between the Emperor and the Empress. Thereafter, the Empress became absorbed in the craft of mirror-making, establishing a small workshop within the palace, spending all her days occupied there, no longer concerning herself with palace affairs, and no longer wishing to see the Emperor.

“Making mirrors?” Minglan had been startled.

“Indeed,” Old Madam Sheng had said. “Empress Jing’an said she had found a technique in an ancient text, which could make glass into a mirror — far superior to copper mirrors. She was gifted; within a year or two she was already well on her way. But sadly…” Old Madam Sheng’s face had darkened, and Minglan had not dared to ask further. Before the Empress Jing’an had managed to complete her mirror, she had already passed from this world.

“She once said that the greatest regret of her life was being a prodigy in childhood, her talents and beauty known throughout the realm.” Old Madam Sheng’s voice had been choked with sorrow. “Such is the burden of too great a name.”

According to Nanny Kong, before her death, Empress Jing’an had burned all her manuscripts of poems and technical drawings accumulated from childhood onward, refusing to leave behind a single word or page.

The rest of the story was Nanny Kong’s exclusive account.

When news of the Empress’s death reached him, Emperor Wu was as though his soul had left him. He refused to believe Empress Jing’an had died of illness. On the spot he had every imperial physician in the entire medical bureau arrested and ordered to examine her remains — if none could identify the cause of death, they would be killed one by one. By the time they reached the tenth physician, the toxin was finally identified, and it was determined that she had almost certainly been given a slow-acting poison — and that Empress Jing’an had been poisoned for nearly a year before her death.

In the Hall of Phoenix Splendor, Emperor Wu sat beside her body for a full day and a full night. Within a few short days, the once bold and magnificent Emperor Wu underwent a sudden transformation into a man consumed by violent rages and paranoid suspicion. From that point forward, his nature changed utterly — he trusted no one. He not only launched an exhaustive investigation of the palace but had nearly a thousand palace attendants and consorts beaten to death, and then ignited several major cases in which countless officials were thrown into prison and interrogated under torture.

The Imperial Noble Consort was ordered to die; her clan was exterminated. The Virtuous Consort and the Beautiful Consort were compelled to take their own lives; their fathers and brothers were put to death, their clansmen reduced to commoners. The Gracious Consort was sent to the Office of Punishments, tortured severely, then executed — her clan also exterminated. Every consort of second rank and above had virtually no hope of escape; those of particular ill fortune also implicated their families. Of the Four Consorts, only the Worthy Consort was spared, though she too died of fright a few years later. Of the Nine Imperial Concubines, only one — Royal Consort Wang — managed to escape, though she later lost her sanity. In one sweep, the rear palace was emptied of more than half its occupants.

Speaking in honest terms: among those who bore responsibility for Empress Jing’an’s death, many were genuinely guilty — but more than a few were truly innocent. Yet at that moment, Emperor Wu was like a maddened beast, biting at whoever came within reach, and no one dared remonstrate with him. Fortunately, Empress Jing’an had left behind a gentle little son — who would later become Emperor Renzong of the previous dynasty — and his appeals were among the few that Emperor Wu could still bring himself to hear.

This carnage of blood and tears lasted three full years. In the later years of the Wu Dynasty, the Emperor even fell under the influence of Daoist masters of dubious arts, conducting all-night ritual altar ceremonies to summon her spirit. But the Emperor was not a fool: he had a great many of those charlatans executed, and eventually fell into near-total despair.

One night, he woke suddenly from a dream, mounted his horse in the dead of night, and rode alone to the Filial Mausoleum. He found his way to Empress Jing’an’s coffin and there wept bitterly, murmuring all manner of incoherent things. Then at dawn he rode back and attended court. From that point on, it became a habit.

Hearing this, Minglan couldn’t suppress a sigh — had he only known then what he would come to know later…

The physicians had once concluded that, by all accounts of his health, Emperor Wu could easily have lived to a ripe old age of seventy or eighty. But even the strongest constitution could not endure nightly rides to the mausoleum to visit a dead wife. On one occasion, Emperor Wu caught a slight chill and developed a mild fever; despite the warnings of inner and outer court officials alike, he still insisted on making his nighttime ride to the mausoleum. When he returned the following day, the fever had turned severe and unrelenting, and before long he passed from this world.

This story always left Minglan with a sense of mournful wistfulness. But when Old Madam Sheng told it, she told it with great satisfaction.

It was on account of all of this that the appearance of mirrors had been delayed by several decades. Only a few years prior, when the new Emperor ascended the throne, were the long-sealed personal effects of Empress Jing’an finally unsealed. The Emperor had craftsmen from the Imperial Household Department follow the manuscripts left by Empress Jing’an, and before long they succeeded in producing clear mirrors in which one’s reflection could be perfectly seen. The process was still elaborate and could not be made widely available — but as a close aide of two emperors, Gu Tingye had promptly received one large floor-length mirror and two small hand mirrors trimmed with pearl, jade, and enamel.

Lady Liuli and Empress Jing’an — born into circumstances as different as sky from earth. Minglan believed they were both people she would have found deeply admirable. And yet one had succeeded, and one had not. These were, as far as Minglan could determine, two fellow travelers she had so far been able to identify with certainty.

Beyond these, some ten or more years ago, there had been a peculiar incident: the beloved daughter of a man who then served as Minister of Revenue had fallen severely ill and, upon recovery, begun behaving in a manner that seemed utterly unhinged — demanding day after day to open a shop and go into business. After coming of age, she became entangled with several princes, noble lords, and sons of great families; her conduct was erratic and unrestrained. She frequently used outrageous and provocative words to stir up the young men of prominent households.

Her reputation became thoroughly ruined, and respectable society avoided her as one avoids filth. By the time she was twenty, no one had come forward to discuss a marriage, and her behavior had cut off her father’s official advancement and rendered her sisters unable to find good matches. In the end she was confined to an ancestral temple and nunnery — but somehow contrived to escape. She then sold herself into a brothel, becoming its leading beauty, declaring aloud that “Lady Liuli could do it — why should I not?”

But she never encountered a Gao Tan. What she encountered instead were any number of men cut from the cloth of Yuan Zhen — men who used her and moved on, then went about boasting of their dalliances with this fallen daughter of a distinguished family, dragging the entire clan’s reputation further into the mud.

Under the clan law of ancient times, a woman with living parents and senior relatives possessed no legal standing to sell herself into servitude. Once her family tracked her down, they brought her back — and thereafter, nothing more was ever heard of her. She was said to have been drowned in a pond.

Minglan had often puzzled over this woman’s behavior — whether it ought to be classified as transmigrator-type recklessness, or simply the ordinary variety of recklessness found in those times. Since there was no definitive proof, she could not be certain whether this woman was one of her fellow travelers or not.

It seemed as though it was fated — she suspected she would never encounter a fellow traveler in person. Among those who might be like her, some had become famous throughout the realm, and some had passed without a trace. She herself most likely belonged to the latter kind.

Or perhaps — in other places, in this same era — there were others like her: living earnestly and carefully, not daring to make waves or push themselves forward recklessly, living fully, dutifully bearing their responsibilities, blending into this society, spending this lifetime in quiet, settled peace.

That, she thought, would be entirely all right.

At that thought, Minglan suddenly gave a soft laugh. That smile, as it fell in Madam Zhu’s gaze, seemed both unfamiliar and strange. In the moment Minglan’s eyes drifted and refocused, her lips were gently caught between her teeth, as though she harbored some amusing secret — concealing it, delighting in it privately — the corners of her eyes and brows carrying a peculiar, delicate charm: a little mischievous, and a little impish.

Madam Zhu lowered her head and thought quietly to herself: no wonder Second Brother has been so thoroughly captivated.