Back in the South Courtyard, chicken and pork appeared on her table from time to time; there were side dishes of course, only greasier and saltier—presumably catering to ordinary laborers.
However surprised, Jiang Man feared being laughed at and said nothing more. The three ate in silence; of the pastries only one piece remained, which no one touched—finally sent back to the kitchen as it was.
In the afternoon the three were still busy on the terrace. A felt was laid down, and Sijiu brought out two bolts of four-chi raw xuan paper. Jiang Man hurried to help, discovering one bolt weighed four or five catties; on close inspection, the paper was extremely fine, only faintly yellowed—surely a superior grade.
After dozens of steps she finally reached the corridor terrace; setting down the paper, Jiang Man quietly breathed a sigh of relief.
Sijiu laughed softly. “Miss Xiaojiu is too slender—she should eat a bit more at meals.”
At these words Jiang Man felt her face wouldn’t hold; just as she was about to speak, she saw Huailou give a light slap behind Sijiu, smiling.
Sijiu yelped—clearly struck from behind—yet even the xuan paper spun a full circle, and she staggered and tumbled onto the terrace, tearfully crying, “You hit me!”
Though tears colored her voice, a closer look showed no sign Sijiu actually meant to cry.
Huailou didn’t take the bait at all, turning to Jiang Man. “I take it you’ve never done alum sizing before. I’ll mix the alum glue; you help Sijiu lay out the paper and first learn the technique—how does that sound?”
Jiang Man’s voice was a little small as she nodded. “As Miss Huailou arranges.”
They set to work. Sijiu and Huailou were naturally practiced; though Jiang Man had never done such work, she at least knew to be quick so as not to hold them up.
Alum sizing wasn’t difficult but demanded meticulousness. Sijiu’s hands were extremely steady—each sheet brushed only twice, the wide brush’s strokes perfectly straight.
Jiang Man asked, “Miss Sijiu, have you practiced calligraphy?”
Sijiu’s hands didn’t stop as she answered offhandedly, “My family used to make a living selling paintings. I practiced both calligraphy and painting. After my parents passed, thanks to the Female Scribe’s care, I’ve kept studying painting. Alum sizing is a matter of practice making perfect—give it time, Miss Xiaojiu, and you’ll have seven or eight parts of this skill too.”
Jiang Man acknowledged, saying softly, “There must have been quite a story behind it.”
Sijiu only shook her head. “In the Dingwei year there was a great drought. My father starved to death; Mother fled with me into Lin’an city, then unhappily died of illness. Afterward I met the Female Scribe.”
Jiang Man was taken aback. “Forgive my presumption. My condolences.”
She had been eight in the Dingwei year and remembered that drought vividly. She had heard of people starving to death, of people turned refugees—but what made it memorable was more that the successive droughts sent rice prices soaring, and brewing suddenly became difficult. At the time, Jiang Rao carted load after load of spent distiller’s grain out of the city; the Jiang Family’s name resounded through Jiangnan precisely because of that charitable act.
That year her mother fell terminally ill, beyond medicine’s help, and passed away before Jiankang’s first snow fell.
What did spent distiller’s grain taste like?
In a flash, this strange thought burst into Jiang Man’s mind.
Sijiu finished the last stroke, flexed her wrist, and only smiled at Jiang Man, shaking her head. “It’s long been past. The living must look forward—what is there to hold onto? Miss Xiaojiu has just lost family; hearing an old story like mine could easily stir your grief. I was tactless.”
Jiang Man lowered her eyes. “You shame me. Fellow wanderers in this world—who stirs whose sorrow?” Having said this, she slowly shook her head and asked, “I heard earlier that you and Miss Huailou both came to attend the Female Scribe in the Renzi year. So Miss Sijiu was an old hand of the Hidden Osmanthus Garden?”
Sijiu said, “Huailou came a few days before me—”
“My dear girl, I entered the garden a month before you!” Huailou looked at her, nearly choking with exasperation. “And you call that memory of yours—”
“What do a few days matter? Don’t interrupt—I’m talking to Xiaojiu!” Sijiu waved a hand and, on the fresh paper Jiang Man had just laid out, took up the wide brush about half an arm’s length long and began brushing again. “Huailou came a few days before me—all right, all right, a month, a month before me into the garden. Because she knew a bit of zither, chess, calligraphy, and painting, could keep accounts, and was meticulous in her work, she attended the Female Scribe’s side from the moment she arrived. I was lucky too, making my living under the Female Scribe from a young age—but I was older then, so I only stayed at the estate; it wasn’t until the Renzi year that someone came to bring me into the city.”
Jiang Man listened carefully; though slightly puzzled, she didn’t press.
Sijiu was the same age as Huailou; four years ago she’d have been exactly the age of a senior maid—many people loved hiring maidservants of that age. Any younger and they weren’t useful. Why then did she say that being older meant she could only stay at the estate? Jiang Man supposed there might be hidden reasons; they weren’t close, and she had just touched a sore spot—it wouldn’t do to press now.
The work was about half done when Huailou called a halt and went to the west-facing room behind the study, returning with a lacquer box and small jars. The box was very bright, smooth as a lake’s surface, its patterns gleaming gold, vivid as life—rather like the polished lacquerware of the Fenzhou region.
Jiang Man had thought it was the rouge Huailou had earlier said she’d give her—but her duties weren’t finished; how could Huailou run off on such an idle errand? The box was taller too; though exquisite, its size didn’t match a dressing case from a maiden’s chamber.
Huailou lifted the lid and set it aside.
Inside was a box of mica, ground extremely fine, shimmering with reflected light.
Jiang Man was somewhat surprised. “Mica letter paper is rarely needed—why not simply buy it from a shop instead of all this labor?”
Sijiu said, “Our Female Scribe loves practicing calligraphy on mica paper.”
“This is for the Female Scribe’s practice?” Jiang Man frowned slightly.
Sijiu, unbothered: “Yes.”
Who practiced calligraphy on treated xuan paper? Jiang Man silently scoffed but didn’t say it aloud, only adding, “This xuan paper is certainly fine quality, but surely in a city as vast as Lin’an, finding a few sheets wouldn’t be hard. Sizing it yourself saves little in labor costs, and it’s less even than what the old masters in the shops produce—so forgive my making much of little.”
Huailou smiled and shook her head. “Just three of us chatting idly—nothing of consequence. When we took you around asking directions today and pointed out Nanping Mountain, do you remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
“The Paper Bureau is right nearby.” Huailou continued unhurriedly, “Officially made goods may not match the folk workshops’ finest, but claiming ‘excellent’ among top grades is no hard task. The Pavilion’s paper is all specially supplied by the Paper Bureau for the Imperial Palace’s use—what’s wanted is precisely this excellence within excellence. Seeking wealth is one thing; glory is another. I trust Miss Xiaojiu understands this principle.”
Jiang Man nodded slowly, thoughtful.
Shen Wen’s letters, beyond those sent to the Shen Family’s capable people in various places, must also reach many officials’ hands. This paper meant nothing special to her, but to those familiar with imperially bestowed items, it was naturally different.
“The Paper Bureau makes sized alum paper too, but what reaches us is invariably extremely precious paper. This glory, once obtained, is hardly inexhaustible. Take the official Clear Heart Hall Paper—the Female Scribe uses only a sheet or two, cut to size, when writing letters; ordinary people asking for it couldn’t get any.”
Huailou pressed her lips together, hiding a smile. “When Steward Dong came asking earlier, Sijiu couldn’t refuse and gave him twenty sheets—very generous of her. On the open market, they’d fetch at least half a month’s wages, and there’s demand with no supply. The Female Scribe sulked at her for three days, saying nothing, just pretending not to see her.”
Sijiu pouted. “And you tell it as a joke. We all serve in the same place, eating and living together—we ought to look after one another. And you—our Household Master acts as if I’m invisible; never mind failing to speak up for me, but you play along pretending I’ve vanished too?”
Huailou covered her mouth, suppressing laughter. “Seeing that neither the Female Scribe nor I would acknowledge her, she thought she’d become a ghost, weeping in the corner at night…”
“Huailou!” Sijiu was furious, though her right hand holding the brush stayed perfectly steady as she swatted at her with her left.
Watching the two play, Jiang Man found it amusing yet felt a faint distance.
Her mind was on other matters.
Jiang Man pressed her lips together, waiting until Sijiu finally calmed and focused on her work, and until Huailou was carefully mixing, the fine mica powder set aside—only then did she say, feigning casualness, “If what we receive is raw xuan paper, sizing it ourselves and checking each sheet—one way of going about it, I suppose.”
“The study’s work was never heavy; idle days like today do come. With nothing pressing and the weather fine, we finish the paper and pass the time.” Huailou glanced briefly at the top of Sijiu’s head, then added, “Fortunately we already have someone who does fine-line painting regularly, well versed in sizing and re-sizing—otherwise we’d have to learn on the spot. The ratio of alum to glue is a science; an ordinary person asking around—where would they ever get an answer?”
Seizing the moment, Jiang Man asked, “Miss Huailou, if someone were truly willing to teach—do you think the three of us, working together, could make Clear Heart Hall Paper?”
Huailou was startled, thought, then shook her head. “I couldn’t say. What do you think, Sijiu?”
“No, no.” Sijiu said, “Setting aside that Clear Heart Hall Paper differs from the mundane from the very selection of materials and pulping—even if we somehow obtained raw xuan paper that good, the finishing process isn’t something ordinary novices could manage. We’d only ruin the materials. If we caused a disaster, the Female Scribe would have no one left to order about—three maids all turned invisible—what would become of us?” She burst out laughing at her own words.
Huailou tapped her forehead. “I can’t joke about you, but you can joke about yourself, is that it?”
With a trace of a smile, Jiang Man looked at Sijiu. “Miss Sijiu, you’re an expert in these matters. How do the market’s imitation Clear Heart Hall papers compare with the Paper Bureau’s official product?”
“No comparison.” Sijiu set down her tools and spoke seriously. “Take fine Jiangdong Paper—the pricier sorts are roughly on par with official paper; cases of quietly surpassing it aren’t unknown. Official production must weigh many considerations and can’t easily be extravagant, while folk paper has great clans and wealthy families to buy it—however lavish the expense, hire a few literati to drum up prestige, and what price couldn’t it fetch?
“Clear Heart Hall Paper is different. Never mind ordinary Shezhou paper merchants’ imitations—even the Paper Bureau’s own product—forgive my saying so—can’t compare with the Clear Heart Hall Paper the Pavilion keeps on hand.” Sijiu sighed softly. “The Female Scribe uses only the Clear Heart Hall Paper tributed to the palace. For painting, I truly can’t imagine a better paper.
“You wouldn’t know, Miss Xiaojiu—at a casual glance perhaps nothing shows, but find a folk imitation and compare it with what’s in the Female Scribe’s study: just look at the fibers within the paper, just look at how thin and light it is—the difference between cloud and mud is plain at a glance.”
Jiang Man looked at her. “Such a great difference?”
Sijiu was emphatic. “The market will never turn up anything of equal quality. Set the Female Scribe’s Clear Heart Hall Paper beside any other, and the distinction is immediate—superiority judged at a glance.”
