The sleeping planks had reed mats on them, but after so many years with no one thinking to replace them for the prisoners, they were worn to tatters. Even a good reed mat was only a coarse one; a deteriorated mat was worse than nothing — it would scrape and cut.

So the jailers haphazardly loaded two cartloads of straw and dumped them in, letting the prisoners spread the straw over the broken reed mats. The straw wasn’t grabbed at random from the ground — it wasn’t weedy, soil-matted scrub grass, but rather two cartloads of fine cut stalks. These stalks were far preferable to the ragged mats. Old Hu, as a wealthy household’s hired thug, had lived comfortably on the outside in his master’s reflected luxury, and was naturally not accustomed to this.

He had taken the blanket that should have gone to Zhù Ying and was sleeping on it — not solely to bully her, but also for his own comfort.

Zhù Ying’s physical strength was not enough to let her seize anything by force in this cell. Fortunately, she had a skill to offer.

She had picked up the grass-mat weaving technique by watching people sell rush cushions and straw pads at the rural fair, copying along as she observed. She was not particularly practiced at it — barely competent. What she had produced was something thin and spread out, like a flattened rush cushion. Given more material and more time, she might have genuinely been able to weave a proper long oval cushion. At home she had woven one before, using thick stalks, a full inch deep; Zhang Xiangu would take strips of cloth, bind the edges, and sew them down. Mother and daughter would occasionally sit on this long oval cushion during idle moments and daydream. Now, with nothing to do, weaving another straw pad was no great difficulty.

Zhù Ying spread her hands: “The material?”

Old Hu wiped his nose with the back of his hand: “What?”

Zhù Ying said: “How am I to weave without material?”

Weaving stalks into a mat makes them compact; the same amount of straw that scattered across a bed-length when spread loose might barely produce one mat when woven. To weave a mat that actually covered the full sleeping-plank space required a large bundle of stalks. And to weave it more intricately and thickly required even more.

In the cell the stalks were only so plentiful, and Zhù Ying — being new and the lowest in the pecking order — had been given fewer stalks than anyone else. Using even the simplest weave pattern and making the most of what she had, the result was only that one small piece.

Old Hu’s requirements were also quite specific: the weaving must be fine, and the finished mat must be large enough for his frame. Inevitably, that called for more raw material than Zhù Ying could produce on her own. If Old Hu wanted it, he would have to obtain it himself.

Old Hu’s gaze swept over Old Ma the listless middle-aged man, the lean wiry prisoner, and Uncle Wen. Old Ma shot him a glance, and Old Hu steered around him. The lean wiry man cracked his knuckles loudly, and Old Hu cleared his throat. He said to Zhù Ying: “Take from his bed too!”

He said it as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Zhù Ying followed his pointing finger to see Uncle Wen’s half-frozen smile. Uncle Wen said to Zhù Ying: “He just took your freshly woven mat, and now he wants to take my belongings too. I’d say we’re in the same unfortunate boat.”

Zhù Ying blinked — perfectly guileless in appearance. She settled cross-legged onto the sleeping planks, in what had been Pan Bao’s position. That spot had, in the course of one night’s sleep, been imperceptibly absorbed by the “fellow prisoners” until no trace of its original occupant remained.

For the rest of that day, she sat there weaving a grass mat.

——

With only two meals a day and both servings meager, Zhù Ying learned by midday that there was one additional distribution of water in between. Each prisoner received only this allotment of food and water for the entire day. At most they could eat enough not to starve, but hunger was a real possibility. Most people moved as little as possible. Zhù Ying was only weaving a grass mat, eating about the same as the others, and had grown up alternating between having enough to eat and going hungry — it didn’t feel particularly harsh.

She wove her mat at a calm and unhurried pace.

Old Hu sat beside her like an overseer, staring fixedly at her fingers moving without stopping, and the unvarying pace of the weaving put him to sleep. He muttered: “Don’t slack off! Have it finished before bedtime!” Old Hu piled one blanket beneath him and pulled another over himself, and went to take a nap.

Zhù Ying rolled her neck, set down her work, and stepped off the sleeping planks to get a cup of water. Her movements were somewhat stiff — she hadn’t done this kind of work for some time. After a morning of it, her fingers had gone somewhat unsteady of their own accord.

After drinking the water and stretching her limbs, she climbed back onto the planks and resumed weaving the grass mat, at the same even pace — though slightly slower than the morning.

She continued working as if this were not a prison cell, as if someone had not died here and lain as a corpse for the night, as if this handiwork had not been pressed upon her by a cell block bully.

Uncle Wen found himself genuinely astonished watching her.

He sidled over and asked: “Junior colleague, can you really do this sort of work?”

Zhù Ying looked at him and nodded.

Uncle Wen’s thoughts were churning. He had been arrested by the deputy magistrate, but was not alarmed. The business of taking on cases privately could be treated as a grave or trivial matter. Since he had been sent here to a proper cell rather than a duty room, immediate release wasn’t likely. But it wouldn’t be too harsh either — twenty strokes of the plank, a few months of penal servitude; he could bear it.

Given that, he simply devoted himself to taking on a few more cases while sitting in prison. A jail stay needn’t be wasted!

He was a litigation shyster of some small notoriety in the capital; some people in the jail knew him and gave him a degree of face. That was why he managed to get by reasonably well here and still had the leisure to observe “new arrivals” and gauge their weight.

His earlier assessment had not differed much from Old Bones’ in the duty room: Zhù Ying’s family had modest assets — not lavish, but present. A refined young person; a boy of that age, dressed with care, was clearly someone raised with great warmth and attention at home. Whatever had landed him in the main prison — Pan Bao harassing him, Old Hu bullying him — he had either dodged or endured; his courage was nothing to speak of. He certainly wouldn’t want to stay in jail a day longer than necessary, so he would be willing to pay!

A wealthy household’s servant would also dress better than a common commoner; it was possible to tell them apart. For instance, when Old Hu arrived, he had bellowed: “Do you know who my master is?!” Zhù Ying said nothing at all — clearly had no powerful backing.

He had explained Pan Bao and Old Hu to Zhù Ying not out of kindness, but to frighten this small-household refined young man and extort a bit of business from him. Then Pan Bao had died. He watched as Zhù Ying calmly went to handle the corpse, then dragged Pan Bao’s blanket over, then sat there weaving a grass mat without haste. That morning she still had the composure to eat breakfast. And now she was weaving another grass mat.

All utterly, completely normal — composed to an inexplicable degree. As if this were simply her ordinary daily routine.

Uncle Wen’s mind filled with doubt: could it be that the shock had broken this young person?

There were many varieties of shock. Some produced dull stupor where the person no longer understood anything at all; others looked outwardly normal but could only repeat certain fixed actions, appearing fine on the surface while inwardly something had snapped — and then some unexpected trigger would turn the second type into the first, or send them outright mad.

This kind of thing was commonly seen in widows who had lost their one source of support. He had handled litigation involving the disposition of widows and knew the type well — standing at the funeral hall unable even to weep.

Uncle Wen was not willing to give up on this. He had money left to earn!

Uncle Wen settled into a cross-legged position and talked with Zhù Ying gradually: “That matter I mentioned — have you thought it over?”

Zhù Ying asked: “What matter?”

Uncle Wen said: “Twenty-five strings. I guarantee I get you out.”

“You’re still in here yourself.”

Uncle Wen said: “Trust me. Tell me what your case is, and I’ll tell you how to plead your grievance! Once you’re brought before the court, say the phrase I teach you, and I have friends outside who will find your family! How about it?”

Zhù Ying thought it through. Twenty-five strings — a price hike. Twenty-five strings was enough for her whole family to live in the capital for a full year — eating well, dressed warmly, with the occasional egg and bit of meat, and enough for her father to have a small drink from time to time. Even if she genuinely got out, twenty-five strings was nearly all her family’s savings — with just a little left over, but not enough to afford to fall sick, and not enough to buy heating coal this winter.

“I have no money,” she said.

Uncle Wen exchanged two sentences with her, some of his doubt already easing; he asked: “Nothing at home either?”

Zhù Ying smiled slightly, said nothing, and resumed weaving her grass mat. This attitude left Uncle Wen genuinely uncertain. What kind of young person was this?

An honest, law-abiding commoner? Who on earth stayed this calm in a main prison cell?

A swindler? A pickpocket? A thief? None of these fit — there were no traces of it in the mannerisms.

A student? A student would have started crying his innocence long ago!

A wealthy young master? What wealthy young master was like this? Who could do manual work? Who would take a beating? Who would handle a corpse?! Who would sleep beside the chamber pot?! The chamber pot in this jail only got emptied out when it was nearly full — the stench was unbearable to normal people. What wealthy young master could endure that?

He tried probing: “You actually seem comfortable here?”

Zhù Ying said: “It’s all right.”

Zhù Ying was someone who had grown up hardship. In the Zhù family’s village home, things had been only marginally cleaner and brighter than this cell — the walls not as thick, the roof not as solid as the prison’s, and she had also slept on reed mats. As for food: when she was small, eating less was fine; later, as she grew older and needed to eat more, there had been periods of eating a meal here, missing one there. It was only after she had learned some skills and earned a little money herself that the whole family stabilized into reliably eating two meals a day, with occasional additions.

Here in this jail, two meals a day, guaranteed. Setting aside the time after Yu Miaomiao had recruited her to marry in, the prison actually wasn’t all that wretched.

Uncle Wen’s puzzlement deepened. He asked again: “You’ve had schooling.”

“Mm.”

“How old?”

Zhù Ying paused, tilted her head as if calculating, and said: “Thirteen — fourteen after the new year.”

“What does your family do?”

Zhù Ying said: “Nothing at present.”

What in heaven’s name kind of occupation is that? A landlord living off rents?

Old Ma shook his head, turned to the lean wiry prisoner, and said: “Two Bao — do me a favor: my scalp itches — check and see if I have lice.” They seemed to know each other!

The lean wiry man said: “Coming!” The two of them, bored to the point of ennui, began checking each other for lice. The life of someone in no rush to leave jail — lived with exactly this kind of unhurried composure.

This composure faltered briefly when another large food box was carried in outside, then continued undisturbed.

——

Old Hu woke from his nap, and the grass mat was done — though at a glance it was only big enough to sleep half of him. He cursed: “You little wretch! You dared to slack off!”

Zhù Ying repeated her same line: “The material?”

While Old Hu had been sleeping, he hadn’t pulled out the stalks from beneath him to give to Zhù Ying. While weaving, Zhù Ying hadn’t used up all the stalks under Uncle Wen either — she had left him a little. Old Hu hadn’t beaten Uncle Wen; instead he smacked Zhù Ying on the back of the neck again: “You can’t ask him for it?”

Zhù Ying straightforwardly turned to Uncle Wen: “Uncle Wen, would you move aside?”

Uncle Wen had run out of objections: “Fine! Old Hu! You have nerve!”

Old Hu gave a cold snort, then said to Zhù Ying: “Hurry it up — if it’s not done before I go to sleep tonight, you’ll see what I do to you!”

Zhù Ying took the stalks from beneath Uncle Wen and went back to work; as she worked, she said to Uncle Wen: “Uncle Wen — how many people have you actually gotten off?”

“More than I can count!” Uncle Wen said proudly.

Zhù Ying shot him a look and said: “All of them successfully?”

“Of course!”

Zhù Ying glanced at Old Hu, lowered her head, and continued weaving: “Then how is he still in here?”

Uncle Wen sputtered with indignation: “Because he wouldn’t listen to me! Even a sage could not save a kingdom when saddled with a fool to serve!”

Old Hu exploded in rage: “Who are you calling a fool?! Give you an inch and you take a mile! What skill do you have?! Boy — don’t listen to him! Is he trying to wheedle money out of you too, saying he’ll get you off? Look at where he is right now! Can’t even get himself out, and he claims he can help others! He’s just a fraud!”

Uncle Wen retorted: “Why do you think I’m in here? It’s because I succeeded too many times! Everyone else was handled just fine — it was you alone who wouldn’t work out…” He nimbly jumped down from the planks so Old Hu’s fist swung wide. The two of them engaged in a chase-and-flee around the cell. After quite a commotion, Uncle Wen was finally caught and pummeled by Old Hu!

When Uncle Wen came back rubbing his shoulder, Zhù Ying had woven half the mat, and also signaled the end of Uncle Wen’s dry straw bedding for the night. He said ruefully: “Well, now we’re in the same position, both of us!” He touched the corner of his mouth — ouch — his lip was split.

Zhù Ying held up the half-finished mat and looked it over. Old Hu, seeing it, said: “Not bad! Get it done faster!”

Zhù Ying stepped off the planks, shook out the mat, set it on the sleeping area, went to Old Hu’s position to gather an armful of stalks, brought them back, and continued weaving. As she worked, she said to Uncle Wen: “Uncle Wen — which cases have you actually won?”

Old Hu cursed: “You wretch! You’re volunteering yourself to be swindled by him?!”

Uncle Wen thought: oh, so when he said he had no money, it was because he wasn’t convinced! He leaned against the wall, letting the cold stone surface ease the pain in his shoulder, and said: “Plenty. Let me tell you — over by the front gate, the man who beat his own servant to death: I coached the whole family on how to testify that the servant had abused the master first, then the servant’s family was trying to use the corpse for extortion…”

Zhù Ying’s hands kept working; she listened as Uncle Wen ran through seven or eight of his proudest victories, then asked: “What if someone killed an official — how would you get them off?”

Uncle Wen gave a start: “You?”

Zhù Ying held out her wrist to show him her lean arm: “With this kind of strength?”

Uncle Wen cleared his throat: “That… it’s difficult! Best not to do it yourself! A commoner striking or injuring an official receives an added degree of punishment; if it’s the local presiding official, even heavier. Remember: in hierarchy, higher is more, lower is less — going downward reduces the charge, going upward increases it. But…” he considered for a moment and said, “that doesn’t mean there’s no solution.”

Zhù Ying asked: “Didn’t you just say it was very difficult?”

“You can find someone to take the blame!”

“What?”

Uncle Wen said: “You didn’t know about this? Those aged seventy and above, fifteen and below, or with severe disabilities — for crimes of exile or less, the penalty can be redeemed with payment. Those aged eighty and above, ten and below, or with grave illness — if guilty of treason, murder punishable by death, they may be referred to higher authority for review. Those aged ninety and above, seven and below — death sentence is not imposed. Oh, but collective punishment doesn’t apply — remember that. So you find an old man or old woman, or a child under seven, to take the blame, or claim to be gravely ill and near death yourself. More often than not, the charge can be escaped. Though be careful — an official’s family inevitably has powerful connections, and private retaliation is something you can’t guard against!”

Zhù Ying already knew all of this. She also knew that if the qualifying conditions — age or illness — were not met when the offense was committed but were met by the time the case came to light, they still counted. When she had first read that clause, she had already envisioned both the escape route it offered and its pitfalls.

What she wanted to know was: besides substitutes and feigned illness, were there better methods?

But Uncle Wen had only this one approach to offer. He added: “Best not to do it at all. If you have an enemy, you can always tip them into deeper trouble, or get someone else to do the deed for you.” Since Zhù Ying hadn’t paid him and hadn’t promised to pay him, he left it at that.

Zhù Ying said: “I see.”

They chatted a while longer, and at last dinner arrived!

Zhù Ying dropped the grass mat and joined the others at the wooden lattice scrambling for bowls and food. This time she took her bowl first, stood leaning against the wall to eat. Every prisoner was a bit more careful this time — some leaned against walls, some against the lattice, some sat on the planks — all maintaining a very stable posture whether standing or sitting.

The meal finished, bowls were collected. A fragrance drifted in — the prisoners pressed against the lattice peering out. Uncle Wen had no business to transact and no inclination to explain things helpfully anymore. In any case, Zhù Ying had already seen for herself: two lavishly made-up, painted women were brought in by a jailer. One held a pipa, one held a flute. The jailer this time had also brought in two men who looked like household servants; the three of them were carrying food boxes. It appeared tonight would be a lively affair.

The prisoners hooted and whistled at the two women. Some jeered; one prisoner pulled down his trousers and made obscene gestures. The woman with the flute put a hand on her hip and shouted: “I’ve seen plenty of men — never seen one this small!”

The prisoners roared with laughter! They were all mocking this man, who flared up in fury: “You harlot! I’ll show you what I can do one day!”

The jailer cursed: “You wretches! Settle down! I’ll drag you all out for a flogging tomorrow!” It took a while for this uproar to die down.

Old Hu licked his lips and said: “When I get out, I’ll also…” He caught himself and turned his anger on Zhù Ying: “You wretch! Still not done?!”

Zhù Ying said nothing, went to his position and gathered another armful of stalks, then dragged everything — stalks and mat together — over to the wooden lattice, and worked on by the dim torchlight from outside.

From deep within the prison, in the private cell, came the sound of music — a woman singing. Then laughter, and: “Fill it up! Fill it up again!” The sound drove several prisoners frantic with agitation; some cursed aloud.

A good hour passed. Then the jailer and the servants came out carrying the food boxes; the two women did not emerge. The prisoners cursed more vigorously than ever. Someone began telling a bawdy joke right in front of the jailer. The jailer laughed and exchanged curses with them and didn’t leave, joining in the chatter.

This merriment went on a good while longer before the two women emerged carrying their instruments. The jailer groped at both women, then led them out. The prisoners muttered and cursed, some wishing upon the man in the inner cell that he would “die in a woman’s bed.”

The night watch jailer came in for his rounds and cursed: “Don’t any of you want to sleep?! Come out here and I’ll beat the lot of you!”

The prison gradually quieted.

Zhù Ying stood, placed the grass mat on the sleeping planks, and said: “Done.”

Old Hu spread out the grass mat, piled a blanket on top of it, and took Zhù Ying’s blanket too — not returning it but rolling it up to use as a pillow.

“Not bad!” he grunted in satisfaction.

Zhù Ying returned to her own place on the planks and lay beside Uncle Wen again. Uncle Wen had been beaten harder than Zhù Ying that afternoon, and was quietly cursing Old Hu under his breath: “May you rot in here forever, you thousand-times-damned man!” He had never been beaten before this — curse that Old Hu!

Having cursed his fill, he noticed the Zhù Ying beside him still hadn’t gone to sleep, and asked: “Now what are you doing?”

Zhù Ying said: “The tunic is damaged — I’m looking at it.”

“It’s a prison tunic, not a regular garment!” Uncle Wen said with a sneer, turned his back to her, and amid Zhù Ying’s soft rustling sounds, drowsed gradually off to sleep.

Half-dreaming, he sensed the young person beside him also settling down to sleep. The cell filled by degrees with snoring; everyone gradually fell into slumber. The cold was extreme — cold made sleep come easier.

In the middle of the night, Old Hu got up to relieve himself. Halfway through, a dark shadow appeared in front of him and frightened him. The main prison was half underground, with poor natural light; no candles or lamps were lit within, only a few torches on the walls farther out and an oil lamp in the duty space beyond the main lattice. By now, even that oil lamp was barely alive from the lamp-oil skimming, and the torches inside had long burned down to just one.

And a man had just died in this cell. Old Hu shuddered and hissed softly: “Who’s there?! What are you doing?!”

Zhù Ying, wrapped in her blanket, stood on the sleeping planks, rubbing her eyes: “Using the chamber pot.”

“Get out of the way!” Old Hu growled under his breath. “Wait behind me.” He cursed again, then scratched his hair; sleep was dragging him back down.

Zhù Ying looked down at him from above — then leaped.

Two chopsticks, carrying the weight of her body, drove through Old Hu’s eye sockets into his brain.

She landed lightly, steadied Old Hu’s back, and let him lean against the wall. She wrapped her blanket around herself and leaned against the wooden lattice, yawning. Old Hu gripped the wall, let out a low grunt, and then Zhù Ying said: “Are you finished?”

Old Hu’s foot struck the chamber pot — then he was still. Zhù Ying tossed her blanket back onto the planks, used the chamber pot, and climbed back up to sleep.

The next morning, Uncle Wen got up grinning, his mouth sore. He spotted Old Hu on the floor and laughed: “What are you doing sleeping down there?” He ran over and kicked him twice.

Then he leaped back up, pressed a hand over his pounding heart, and said to Zhù Ying: “You were the last one to do anything for him yesterday — if he has any grievance, he wouldn’t direct it at you. Go over and check how he is!”

Zhù Ying pulled her blanket tighter: “Not going.”

Old Ma and Old Mu exchanged a glance, both keeping their silence. Uncle Wen yanked Zhù Ying’s blanket off and tried to drag her out: “Quick — go check!”

Zhù Ying sat up irritably: “What for?!”

Uncle Wen kept his voice low: “Go look!”

Zhù Ying said with reluctance: “Fine.” She yawned and fumbled with the prison tunic to put it on, and by mistake put it on backwards — then had to take it off and put it on again properly. Once that was done, she pulled on the second tunic she had stripped from Pan Bao’s body over the first, sneezed again. She stepped off the planks and turned back to fold the blanket. Uncle Wen was growing frantic with impatience and yanked her arm.

Zhù Ying lurched with the pull and sat down on the floor, looking up at him: “Uncle Wen?”

Old Ma let out a quiet laugh. Uncle Wen’s face fell completely. He lifted his foot and kicked at Zhù Ying: “Get up!”

Zhù Ying looked startled: “Uncle Wen?!”

At that moment the jailer also got up and began his first cell check of the day, calling through the lattice: “What’s everyone doing in there?” Ah, bullying the new prisoner — standard practice. But not right under his nose — this was a failure to show him any respect. He cursed them a couple of times, then told the figure lying on the ground to “stop playing dead and get up!”

Old Hu made no sound whatsoever. The jailer got rattled, called another man quickly, opened the cell door, checked for breathing — not a trace left.

This was a genuine corpse.

One cell, two deaths in a row! Even the most oblivious jailer could sense something wasn’t right. He barked: “Everyone stand still — no one move!” He inspected the cause of Old Hu’s death and found chopsticks driven through the eye sockets into the brain.

“Weren’t we told not to distribute chopsticks?!” the jailer said with rising agitation.

Indeed, no one had used chopsticks for an entire day. His gaze swept over the cell’s occupants, questioning: “Who did this?!”

His eyes first passed over Zhù Ying — she simply didn’t look capable of anything of the sort. Looking at the other three — they also seemed unlikely candidates; they had been in here for days already without incident.

The second jailer said: “Let’s just get the body out first.” He pointed at Zhù Ying and told her to strip off the prison tunic. Zhù Ying recognized him — this was the same man who had directed her to search Pan Bao’s body.

Zhù Ying went about it the same way as before: stripped off Old Hu’s prison tunic, then peeled back his outer garments and removed her own winter coat — which Old Hu had stolen — turned it inside out, put it back on, and said: “This is mine. He stole it from me.”

The jailer was in a foul mood, and seeing she had already put the winter coat back on, cursed: “You wretch! Since when does you saying it’s yours make it yours?! Can he agree to that?!” He reached to snatch the winter coat.

The other jailer said: “Let it go. Poor kid. Let him have it. Let’s get this done — there’s something not right about all this.” The marks from the slap on Zhù Ying’s face hadn’t fully faded, and she did look rather pitiable.

The jailer said coldly: “Count yourself lucky! Get on with it!”

Zhù Ying searched the shoes next, finding some silver; she also found a lump of silver in Old Hu’s hair bun, and lastly pulled two chopsticks from Old Hu’s socks. She handed it all to the jailer.

The jailer saw the chopsticks and couldn’t help thinking of Pan Bao. He drew a sharp breath — something was very off here! He quickly ordered the two prisoners who fetched meals in the morning to carry Old Hu’s body out. Before leaving, he couldn’t resist one parting shot: “You wretches! All of you — wait for me!”

Wait, then — Zhù Ying stood obediently by the lattice for a while, but nothing happened. She picked up her blanket, went to the grass mat, and sat down.

Uncle Wen came back to himself, looked around, and stood in front of Zhù Ying with a cold expression: “You’ve got some nerve now!”

Zhù Ying said quietly: “The coat was mine to begin with. The mat was woven by me. The blanket was issued to me.”