Early in the second month, the chill of late winter still lingered, but tender new green had begun to thread through the branches. Minglan was in a cheerful mood and resolved to write a few characters in a large hand to welcome in the spring. She spread out the writing table that had sat idle through the winter and had Danju carefully grind a full inkstone of rich, dark ink. She had just raised her brush and written the first line of a verse — beyond the bamboo, two branches of peach blossom — when Molan came to visit. Minglan quickly set down her brush and went to greet her with a smile.

After their pleasantries, Molan’s eyes fell upon the writing table of huanghuali wood carved with crabapple blossoms and inlaid with marble, where a sheet of snow-white xuan paper lay spread, ink still fresh. She smiled and said: “I’ve interrupted your diligent practice.”

Minglan waved her hand: “I’m only playing around with it — hardly diligent practice.”

Molan walked to the table and picked up the paper to examine it, offering a critical appraisal: “You call yourself capable enough to write with a large-tipped brush? Not the slightest control of force — when the stroke has no strength, the characters just clump together!”

Minglan was immediately subjected to a thorough critique and responded with sheepishness: “At least my small regular script can be shown to others — and even that I only developed from all those sutras I copied.” Fair enough — when you’re only squeezing in some practice to pad your exam scores, you can’t compare yourself to someone who has genuinely devoted themselves to the art day and night.

Molan cast a disdainful glance at Minglan, then without a word picked up the brush and in a few swift strokes continued the verse with the line: the river’s warmth is first felt by the ducks. The characters were full and rounded — demonstrably superior to Minglan’s. Though Minglan could not write at that level herself, she could see that these few characters, while impressive, still fell short of the Old Madam’s standard.

Of course, Minglan still called out enthusiastically in praise, lavishing compliments. Molan looked at her own characters with considerable satisfaction and continued writing. Just as she was finishing the last character, pressing a final thick dot onto the word time, Rulan also arrived. Seeing Molan there, she wrinkled her nose: “You’re here too?”

Before Minglan could finish praising Molan’s final brushstroke, she was already stepping forward to welcome Rulan inside. Yancao, who had learned long ago not to wait for instruction, had already gone to brew tea. Molan set down the brush and came around from behind the table with a smile: “You may come, but I may not?” Minglan quickly played peacemaker, making fun of herself: “It’s mainly because my place is so wonderful — the tea is good, the refreshments are good, and the hostess is especially good.”

Molan and Rulan both snorted at her simultaneously.

It had become a habit at some point — the sisters would frequently all gather in Mu Cang Studio. Truthfully, Rulan’s Taoyan Pavilion was the most comfortable and well-appointed of the three, but whenever Molan came, she would ridicule it as “vulgar and gaudy.” And Molan’s Shanyue Pavilion was the most refined and elegant, full of brushes, ink, paper, and inkstones — but whenever Rulan visited, she would goad: “Pretentious scholar.” Such exchanges rarely went two sentences before erupting into open conflict. Only Minglan had a thick enough skin to shrug it off.

Rulan walked around to look at the large characters on the table. She might not have been able to judge the quality herself, but she still had to say something: “Why not use the Yan writing paper? Didn’t Uncle bring you quite a lot of it over the New Year?” Minglan hugged her arms to herself and replied cautiously: “That’s so expensive — I wouldn’t want to waste it on ordinary practice.”

Molan gave a cold huff: “Calligraphy is about the method of the brushstroke. Even Wang Xizhi’s Preface to the Orchid Pavilion was written on ordinary paper, and yet it has endured for a thousand years. Was it the paper that made it so?”

Minglan quickly inserted herself: “Both of my sisters make excellent points. However, given my level of brushwork, this ordinary xuan paper suits me very well. In the future, should my sisters wish to practice calligraphy here, please bring your own fine paper.”

She didn’t actually fear their quarreling — but it was better if the battlefield wasn’t Mu Cang Studio. Last time the two of them had a falling out, Molan casually smashed a cloisonné incense case, while Rulan whipped around and knocked over a famille rose pale-green glaze Xi Shi cup. Neither could be compensated for, and Minglan had been deeply aggrieved.

Yancao came carrying a tea tray, with Danju behind her carrying a basket box of refreshments. Minglan immediately pulled the two sisters to the table: “These are the bean paste cakes Nanny Fang made just yesterday — I managed to bring some back from the Old Madam’s. Do try them, sisters.”

Molan, true to habit, offered a few remarks on the tea. Rulan, equally reliable, found something to critique about the refreshments. With that, the atmosphere settled into something more harmonious.

After a few exchanges, the conversation turned to the previous day’s visitors. Rulan said: “Mother mentioned that the He Old Madam is quite learned in medicine and came to visit the Old Madam as an old friend. Within a few sentences, she had taken the Old Madam’s pulse, and after that, she didn’t call us in to pay our respects.”

Molan stirred her teacup lid and said with a smile: “I’ve heard that the young He family gentleman who came along is also a physician. Practicing medicine is an honorable vocation, to be sure, but even if one rises within the imperial medical court, one can’t hope for a rank above the fifth or sixth.”

Rulan snorted: “If you’re so capable, go a lifetime without ever seeing a physician!”

Molan ignored Rulan, and cast a glance at Minglan with a meaningful smile: “Still… at least the family’s conduct is clean, and they have few household complications.”

Minglan lowered her head and drank her tea, saying nothing in response. Rulan, unaware of the undertone, changed the subject on her own: “The day after tomorrow we’re going to Guangji Temple — Sixth Sister, have you decided what to wear? I’m going to put on the filigree pearl-encrusted large phoenix hairpin that Elder Sister gave me. The jeweled shrimp-shaped ornament on it bobs up and down so delightfully.”

Minglan smiled: “I’ll wear my lotus silver filigree set with jade insets.” Rulan scrunched her nose in disdain: “So plain. Can’t you do your family any credit? If you don’t have anything fine, I can lend you something!” Her manner was imperious.

Minglan was unperturbed. She put down her teacup and said in earnest tones: “We’re going to offer incense and pray for blessings. If you go dripping in gold and flashing jewelry, you’ll dazzle the Bodhisattva’s eyes so badly she won’t be able to hear a word of your prayers. Do credit? You’ll more likely attract the attention of thieves — that would be quite a spectacle!”

Rulan glared: “Under the emperor’s own sky, who would dare commit robbery? I’ve been cooped up for so long — I intend to have a proper outing. I’ll wear my gemstone cluster gold hairpin and pearl drop chain too.” Her delight in showing off was entirely transparent.

“Heavens above, your ensemble alone could stock a jewelry shop. Fifth Sister, have mercy on your poor neck!” Minglan teased. Rulan reached over to pinch her cheek, and Minglan quickly dodged out of the way.

Molan, watching the two of them laugh and play, felt a little left out. She interjected with a cutting remark: “In past years, we always went to offer incense during the first month. This year we’ve put it off until now — what’s so enjoyable about that? And yet you’re still this cheerful.”

Rulan immediately turned back and countered: “The Old Madam said that the capital is full of all manner of people, and if we went during the height of the first month when crowds are largest, she couldn’t ensure our safety — and then who knows what trouble might arise! Do you think we’re still in Dengzhou, where they could clear the temple grounds of every stray passerby? What if some ruffian caught sight of us?”

Molan laughed lightly: “You’ve been watching too many dramas, worrying like this. During the first month, it’s mostly noble and prominent families who go — even if our supervision wasn’t tight, they’d have their own strict precautions. What is there to fear? The Old Madam is simply getting overcautious in her old age.”

Minglan felt distinctly uncomfortable hearing this. Her brow furrowed slightly, and she said: “Does it follow that there are no ruffians among noble families? Sister, with your beauty, you are admired wherever you go — it would be better to spare Father and our brothers unnecessary trouble.”

There was an unintentional cool edge to her voice.

Molan bristled and snapped: “What exactly do you mean by that?!”

Minglan smiled pleasantly: “What do you think I mean, Sister?”

Molan glared at her with fury. Minglan didn’t yield an inch. Rulan looked on with great excitement. But after only a moment, Minglan looked away and smiled gently: “What I mean is, our elders always think of things more thoroughly than we do. As younger members of the household, we need only do as we’re told.”

Molan sat back down in sullen irritation. Rulan, still not satisfied, was just about to throw more wood on the fire when the curtain was suddenly lifted and a bright-eyed, neat little maid slipped in — Rulan’s personal maid, Little Magpie. She curtsied politely to the young misses and then turned to Rulan with a smile: “Fifth Young Miss, the First Young Mistress is asking for you.”

Rulan slapped her own cheek in surprise: “Oh, I completely forgot! She asked me to help her look over some account books.” She made a point of glancing between the two remaining sisters with barely concealed smugness: “…Fourth Sister, Sixth Sister — I’ll be off.” And with that, she hurried away.

Once she had gone a sufficient distance, Molan slapped the table heavily and said through gritted teeth: “Look at that smug attitude! And such blatant favoritism!”

Minglan picked up her teacup again and blew gently on it: “Lin Yiniang teaches Fourth Sister poetry and verse, the First Young Mistress teaches Fifth Sister household management and accounts, and I study embroidery with Nanny Fang. Isn’t that a perfectly good arrangement?”

Molan looked at Minglan and felt as though she had thrown a fist at cotton — all her indignation had nowhere to land. Nursing her frustration, she turned the topic with a barbed edge: “I hear that the He young gentleman’s grandfather has already retired from office. The family only has one senior uncle serving as Prefect somewhere in the south — who knows whether he’ll look out for the nephew.”

Minglan made no comment at all, only listened quietly until Molan had finished. Then she set down her teacup, turned to face Molan directly, and said with a measured tone: “Sister, do you still remember Meiyu from Dengzhou?”

Molan hadn’t expected this turn of subject. She paused: “I remember her. What of it?”

Minglan spoke evenly: “Meiyu was the concubine-born daughter of Prefect Liu’s family. Lady Liu was considered a kind and reasonable woman by most standards. Last year, Meiyu was married off to a local scholar of modest means.” She saw that Molan still looked puzzled, and continued: “Not just her — we spent so many years in Dengzhou, and you knew so many girls among the social circles there, Sister. How did those concubine-born daughters end up?”

Molan began to understand where this was going. Her expression grew distinctly unpleasant, her delicate brows drawing up into a sharp peak. Minglan continued: “Speaking of it, the luckiest of them all was Yunzhu — even she married only the legitimate son of a colleague, and that only because that family had no daughters of their own to dote on, so they treated her almost like one. As for the others — Jing’e married a middle-aged assistant official as his second wife, though at least the first wife left no sons behind. Ruichun married a merchant in town. The most pitiable were the Shun sisters: Prefect Qian was greedy and lecherous and cared nothing for his daughters born of concubines. They were at the mercy of whoever chose to use them — one was sent to be a concubine to the Shandong Circuit Inspector, and the other was married off as a second wife to an elderly country landowner, with a handsome sum of gift money coming back in exchange…”

Molan thought of those girls she had once known — how vibrant and lovely they had been, and how swiftly they had scattered like petals in the wind. Her heart weighed heavily. Minglan sighed softly: “Those who could come out to socialize in polite company were at least girls with some standing. Who knows what became of those concubine-born daughters kept locked indoors all their lives?… Elder Sister married into an Earl’s household. The few well-connected young ladies in the capital you’ve been friendly with lately are all very presentable. But can we truly compare ourselves to them?”

Being born of the principal wife was not merely about status and upbringing — it was a position that allowed one to advance or defend as needed. The most fortunate of legitimate daughters could even hope to marry into high nobility. But for daughters born of concubines, it was a very different story. They occupied an awkward middle ground — neither high enough nor low enough. They lived within the same circles as their legitimate sisters, met the same people, led the same daily lives — and then, when the time for marriage came, the gap between what they could expect and what their sisters received was staggering. The sense of loss that came from that comparison was profound and terrible.

Molan said firmly: “We are different. Father has served with distinction. Our elder brother is distinguished and accomplished at a young age.” She paused, then lowered her voice: “Never mind legitimate or concubine-born — in talent and looks, in what way am I inferior to anyone? The only thing I lack is not having been born of the right womb. Just look at Changdong — even the servants in this household know how to flatter those above and step on those below. If I don’t develop a sharper mind, I’ll be the one trodden into the mud. Why should I spend my whole life yielding to others?”

Minglan felt a sudden heaviness in her chest. She stood and went to open the window, saying quietly: “I hope you get what you wish for, Sister.” — Where exactly is the line between striving upward and overstepping one’s bounds? What happens when ambition leads to a great fall? They had been sisters; she had said everything there was to say. If Molan chose to remain blind to it, that was beyond Minglan’s power to change. Minglan was not one to venerate the sacred mother image.