Chapter 19: Asking the Dao Part 1

The evening meal was finished almost without her noticing.

Jiang Man was an unmarried maiden who had never known a man, and her mother had died too early; her understanding of the pleasures of the bed was shallow. Of things between woman and woman she had never heard—but the world was vast, and if it held a marvel like Shen Wen, then surely strange things existed too.

Yet Wu You was also one of her personal attendants. Even if Shen Wen went both ways, taking Jiang Man to her side might well serve some other design—sending her along as a plaything for someone else. Jiang Man’s face went scalding.

Why was she comparing herself to Wu You?

“Young Miss, over today’s business, this servant has reflected again and again. You didn’t say one harsh word, but it weighs on one’s heart—I’m afraid you’re bottling things up and hurting your health.” Ke Ye poured in the hot water and stood by with a towel. “Even a scolding, just to let off steam, would be better—what I fear is that you keep it all inside… You haven’t said a word since you came back from the Female Scribe’s…”

Jiang Man’s thoughts were tugged along, and her voice softened without her noticing. “It’s nothing. The Female Scribe was perfectly pleasant.”

“As if the Female Scribe needs this servant’s worrying—” Ke Ye’s voice stopped mid-air for an instant. “Young Miss—did something happen?”

Jiang Man came back to herself. Tonight had been a scare without disaster; thanks to the fact that Sijiu and Huailou did not seem the gossiping kind, and showed Jiang Man a measure of respect besides, whatever nonsense Ke Ye had spouted earlier would most likely not be repeated. But this was no small matter. Had it been any other mistress, once word of Ke Ye’s tirade got out, even without immediate punishment, a few days locked in a dark room without food would have been the least of it. She would have to have a proper talk with her.

Yet the troubles in her heart—were they only this one?

Jiang Man was bathing now, and though Ke Ye had been at her side since childhood, scolding her now somehow left her short of breath. She only said coldly, “And what exactly did you reflect on?”

“Yes.” Ke Ye carefully handed over the towel. “In the moment I panicked and forgot our situation; I was only worried whether you could bear up, and treated those two at the Female Scribe’s like sisters of our own—emptying the chamber pot, of all things—”

Jiang Man raised a hand. “Those two words will not be mentioned again. You are no common scullery maid—how can you be so lacking in measure? What place is the study, that such filth should enter it?”

Ke Ye did not argue; her voice dropped. “Yes.”

“You and I depend on each other now.” Jiang Man sighed softly. “To depend on each other, one must first know how to protect oneself. You’ve always been clever; you should understand that our days are no longer what they were. Today, now, our Jiang family—you, I, the two of us—all of it rests on Female Scribe Shen. The people of this garden seem warm, but every one of them is watchful to the utmost degree. If it were only self-reflection, being an example would be fine; but have you considered that others may be watching us, waiting for precisely the moment we slip?”

Seeing how uneasy Ke Ye looked, she thought, for no reason, of her own situation and frowned slightly. “I spoke harshly in the study earlier precisely so I could speak before someone else did. Today was luck. If there is a next time…”

Ke Ye bent in a curtsy. “This servant understands. I will not fail your pains, Young Miss.”

“I’ve known you two sisters since before I could remember; truthfully, sometimes I feel I know you better than I know myself.” Jiang Man recalled the long conversation with Shen Wen that night, was silent a long while, then said, “Ke Zhi is plain but proper and kind; you are clever enough but born with a hot temper. Back home there was me, so…”

Jiang Man only shook her head. “Another day. Tomorrow morning I attend the Female Scribe outside; there’s no time now.”

“Yes.” Ke Ye answered. She seemed faintly puzzled, but in the end did not ask.

Jiang Man sighed again in silence.

Never mind Ke Ye—did Jiang Man herself, honestly, know what tomorrow would bring?

Cleansed, Jiang Man said softly, “We look after each other, each minding her own charge, cautious above all, and pray for safety.”

Ke Ye drew her under-shirt over her shoulders. “Entirely as the Young Miss wishes.”

The next day, waiting at the gate only a short while, Jiang Man saw Shen Wen in a robe of blue-green. She rarely wore such plain colors; today her face bore no powder, her hair ornaments were simple—only those brows and eyes remained flamboyant to the extreme, like night dew on petals, like ripples at a lake’s heart.

Jiang Man, minding what should not be looked upon, finished her courtesies and followed silently, keeping two steps behind Shen Wen.

Today her own dress had taken more care than usual.

Since Shen Wen had named outright the “shell” she was after, Jiang Man could hardly blur her mistress’s true intent.

She dared not wear the head ornament set—a maidservant must never outshine her host. She had merely combed her black hair smooth with osmanthus oil and touched on a little rouge to bring up her color.

Because her head stayed bowed, whether Shen Wen gave her an extra glance Jiang Man never learned; a faint disquiet rose, and even that she only dared hide in her heart.

Huailou walked at her side, her voice light as fallen leaves on the wind: “The Young Lady wears rouge today—quite different from usual. Why not wear it more often?”

“I fear it would presume.” Jiang Man answered low.

“There is only one mistress in this garden. If the Household Master does not call it presumption, it is not presumption.” Huailou said. “Some time ago the Female Scribe rewarded me a box of exceptionally fine rouge; I treasured it so I never once used it. Thinking on it now, it seems just right to pass it on to Lady Jiang. When today’s business is done, I’ll offer it as my small gift on returning—please don’t refuse.”

Jiang Man paused, then nodded slightly. “My thanks for Miss Huailou’s kindness.”

“The Young Lady is too courteous.” Huailou fell silent and stepped ahead, as if nothing had happened.

Jiang Man was thoughtful.

Shen Wen, it seemed, liked her a little adorned.

Today she had brought only Huailou and Jiang Man as attendants. Such a light traveling party was rare indeed—never mind a personage like Shen Wen; even Jiang Man, a commoner’s daughter, would ordinarily have five or six attendants trailing her on any outing.

The three of them left through a side gate and rode in a single carriage, curtains down, so that Jiang Man could not tell their direction. She only felt the carriage run down a long straight avenue, turning only after a long while.

Before long the speed slackened, and the driver called, “Female Scribe, ahead is Qianhu Gate.”

Shen Wen took out a plaque and handed it to Jiang Man. Jiang Man silently received it, passed it to the driver, and when it came back saw it was an Iron Plaque—but dared not examine it, and returned it to Shen Wen.

Perhaps because they were leaving the city, and with the token besides, the guards at the gate did not lift the curtain to inspect; they let them through at once. Not long after leaving the city the carriage drew up. Huailou descended first; though bewildered, Jiang Man knew enough to follow and steady Shen Wen as she came down.

Because of that steadying hand, Shen Wen gave her an extra glance; then, gathering her sleeves slightly, she rested her forearm lightly on Jiang Man’s hand as she stepped down the wooden stair—and drew it back at once.

It was the first time Jiang Man had done such a thing, and the weight in her hands had seemed too slight; she wondered where she had gone wrong, and had been meaning to find a chance to ask Huailou. But when she turned, there was no time left for spinning cocoons around herself—she could barely keep up with what was before her eyes.

Before her lay a stretch of lovely water.

A woman of Jiankang, Jiang Man at first glance found nothing remarkable here—only the dense shops and wine houses along the shore, the merchants and travelers hurrying to and fro, which gave an air of bustle and prosperity. But considering they had come out through Qianhu Gate, what lay before her could only be West Lake—Jiang Man held her breath.

She had heard Jiang Ling say that West Lake had all but silted up, no longer anything like its former glory—but she had never imagined it would look like this.

Compared with the West Lake famed under heaven, this one before her looked more like some refined retreat in the hills around Jiankang—pleasant scenery, simply unknown.

Could this truly be West Lake?

“Seeing once is better than hearing a hundred times?” A soft laugh sounded at her ear. “From your face, though, it’s more like ‘worse than not seeing at all.'”

Jiang Man lowered her head. “I only discovered how shallow my learning is—unable to feel what the poets of all the ages felt.”

“That doesn’t sound like modesty.” Shen Wen said. “It sounds like an insult.”

Jiang Man dared not reply, and kept silent.

Shen Wen laughed again. “What were you thinking—’I’d compare West Lake to Xi Shi’? Then this Qian Lake must play the part of Dongshi.”

Jiang Man curtsied. “What came to my mind was ‘Yuan the frivolous, Bai the vulgar.'”

Shen Wen went on smiling, and only when their eyes met did she speak again. “Master Dongpo’s verdict was only one man’s opinion. Tell me—what sort of ‘Bai the vulgar’ did you have in mind?”

Her spirits seemed excellent today; in those usually cold eyes there reappeared a tenderness one could only have caught at their first meeting—faint, barely there, so slight it might have been Jiang Man’s imagining.

Jiang Man was undoubtedly astonished, for what had surfaced in her mind really was Bai Juyi’s verse.

But on reflection, Yuan Zhen had no famous poem about Qian Lake; by the lakeside, saying “Yuan the frivolous, Bai the vulgar,” a listener would naturally take it for Bai Juyi. So Jiang Man said: “‘From the green carpet’s threads the early rice is drawn; over the silk skirt’s sash the new rushes spread.’ I’ve borrowed the Female Scribe’s light to view the lake, yet I don’t know why the Hermit of Xiangshan wrote such lines.”

“Perhaps there were paddy fields by this West Lake once?” Shen Wen mounted the bridge step by step.

Seeing that everyone around gave way and stood still, clearing a path before and behind, Jiang Man hurried to keep close with Huailou, and only once on the bridge said in a low voice, “The Female Scribe jokes—the poem’s imagery surely only borrows the rice fields to speak of landscape.”

Shen Wen slowed her steps. “Is that so?”

Jiang Man grew cautious. “That is my humble thought. My reading is thin after all; I fear there may be many errors.”

“What is the next line of the poem?”

Unable to cast Hangzhou aside, half my lingering is for this lake.

She ran it through her mind, and was about to speak—then, fearing that much talk leads to error, dared not. In the end Jiang Man said, “Forgive me, Female Scribe, but I am dull and no longer remember. Thinking on it now, my failure to grasp the poem’s depth just now may have been the fault of the daylight. If one came by night, perhaps one would learn what the green carpet and silk sash really are—”

“In any case, not this water.” Shen Wen turned her head, shooting her a swift glance. “There will be plenty of chances to tour West Lake by night. Go home and find me that second half of the couplet.”

Jiang Man, uncertain, said softly, “Yes.”

By then an Iron-Headed Skiff had been punted over, a lantern bearing the character “Shen.” Only small boats moored here—some twenty or so, of varying refinement, and only a few bearing family names.

Past the long bridge the peddlers thinned; the few buildings looked like government offices, and foot traffic grew sparse, while the path up the hillside was clear. Jiang Man, not understanding, assumed they were crossing to the far shore of West Lake, and boarded first, steadying Huailou—but not daring to steady Shen Wen.