The room held a stifling air, like ink fragrance left overnight somewhere, spreading boldly along paper and brush, become a dried, clotted thing alien to water—useless, fit only to be discarded.
Huailou said, “It’s not that I’m unwilling to help you. The Female Scribe is in the midst of anger; that she doesn’t blame your offense today is truly her magnanimity. But for those of us in service, doing our own duties well is the proper thing—how can we count on the Household Master’s generosity?
“Had you truly appeared outside today, then before the world, the Female Scribe would have had no choice but to uphold the Shen Family’s authority—one misstep from you, Miss, and that round of punishment would have been unavoidable.”
“Yes.” Jiang Man lowered her eyes. “I’ve made things difficult for you, Miss Huailou.”
Huailou only shook her head. “They say you’re a daughter of a great Jiankang house—forgive my saying, but until today I found you only learned and gracious, with none of those great-merchant airs…”
Jiang Man paused.
Of course. Shen Wen had let her off—Shen Wen did as she pleased, heedless of rules, doing whatever she wished. But this attendant of hers—rule-abiding, formidably capable—which of them was easy to deal with?
Only one thing she didn’t understand.
Earlier, Huailou had brushed the matter aside in a few words—why, then, because Jiang Man begged to go out and help, did she turn so grave, even circling back to deliver this parting thrust?
“You think I shouldn’t have talked back.” Jiang Man said.
Huailou sighed, seemingly finding it hard to calibrate her words, and said only, “So you knew it was ‘talking back.'”
“She called me a mosquito—”
“Did the Female Scribe strike or scold you? Did she punish you?”
Jiang Man shook her head.
“I advised you once last night, Miss Xiaojiu. With your intelligence, I shouldn’t need to go on repeating myself here, lest I commit the fault of a wagging tongue.” Huailou looked at her, invited her to sit—then, not taking the study’s low couch, fetched a narrow square stool from the corner and sat squarely upon it.
Jiang Man watched her hands and feet placed with perfect propriety—her body constrained, yet her bearing composed and graceful. One might take her for a personal maid meticulously trained from childhood in a great house; nowhere could you see that in the maidservant’s art she was but a latecomer.
Huailou said, “Speaking above my station, allow one presumptuous remark. Whatever your origins, whatever rank you may hold hereafter—for every day you serve in this garden, you must give your whole heart to regarding the Female Scribe as that day’s Household Master. The Household Master entrusted your instruction to me. My abilities are meager; I can offer only a few plain principles—of the intricacies of human relations, I can teach you a few tricks at best, hardly deserving the name of teacher. Even so, I think I may claim to be half your senior.”
Huailou’s words were exceedingly humble and polite, but to Jiang Man’s ears they were like thunder from a clear sky, leaving her deeply unsettled.
“Yes. Whatever instruction you have, Miss Huailou, please withhold nothing. I will examine myself carefully.” Jiang Man rested both hands before her knees, her manner respectful and mild.
She must have committed some great fault in Huailou’s eyes.
Because of today’s back-talk? Jiang Man wondered silently.
“I dare not dishonor my mistress’s command; certain thoughts in my heart I can only present at some pain. If I give offense, dispose of me as you see fit hereafter—this servant won’t harbor the slightest resentment.”
At this Jiang Man rose and curtsied solemnly. “You are teaching me now; I can hardly be grateful enough—how would I ever prove ungrateful?”
Huailou rose and returned the courtesy; the two mutually steadied each other as they sat, and Jiang Man summoned her utmost attention.
Huailou said, “Serving in the Hidden Osmanthus Garden—elsewhere my word counts for nothing, but as to matters within the Pavilion of Investigating Things, I have a few unremarkable thoughts to offer, bricks cast to draw out jade. Whatever the gossip, our Female Scribe counts as a figure of standing in Lin’an. Her nature is open and candid, of vast magnanimity—she cherishes and loves talent, manages those below her with method, and is tolerant toward her retainers and us household servants alike; short of grave faults, she ordinarily doesn’t punish.
“Precisely because of this,” Huailou looked over, seemingly with deeper meaning, “those below must not betray this ocean-receiving-a-hundred-rivers breadth—must not take the Household Master’s leniency for weakness, nor her forbearance for easy bullying.”
“Yes.” Jiang Man nodded slightly, thinking inwardly: since when was Shen Wen tolerant?
“To you and me, the Household Master naturally sits high, commanding wind and rain—but her hardships, even attending at her side, we cannot imagine.” Huailou lowered her eyes briefly. “The Female Scribe bends and stretches—but not for fairness. We who attend her person serve not for fairness either. What our hearts should hold is not the Female Scribe’s merits and faults, but her moods, her daily comfort—what we must guard is the Female Scribe’s back, the gap between shield and armor that cannot defend itself. That is our duty, yours and mine.”
Jiang Man still acknowledged.
Huailou looked over and said gently, “Are you thinking, Miss Xiaojiu—we serve the Female Scribe seeking the Household Master’s ease and contentment; but what the Female Scribe seeks, if not fairness—what is it?”
Her thoughts read exactly, Jiang Man was startled and abashed, nodding. “Yes.”
Huailou said, “Not holding the office, do not meddle in its governance. Remember this, I beg.”
She was stunned, her whole face burning. All those books read—none lodged in her brain; had she read them into her stomach instead? Jiang Man pressed her lips. “Thank you for the reminder, Miss Huailou.”
Huailou nodded slightly. “As mentioned in idle talk before, the Female Scribe once sulked at Sijiu for days, treating her as invisible. Because I dared not defy the Household Master’s mood either, Sijiu even developed some unrealistic notions. Such things come two or three times a year. Sijiu’s temperament is lively, and she sometimes insists on deciding matters herself, regardless of whether they’re hers to decide—especially in this garden; carried away in pleasant talk, she’ll agree to anything.
“That’s also why she’s well liked. Here with me, faults from that have never occurred.” Huailou looked at her. “Take the earlier matter. By my nature—never mind the Household Master ignoring me, calling me a second-month mosquito—even if the words were harsher still, they’d go in my left ear and out my right.
“The measure of these things differs in every heart, I suppose; and I don’t imagine my way is the only way to serve. Besides, the Female Scribe treats you as anything but ordinary—lose your decorum for a moment, and the Household Master might even find you endearing. Should punishment come, as the one now charged with your training, I’d take half the household discipline without crying injustice. This was, after all, something I’d never told you before.”
Huailou’s gaze, for the moment, wasn’t on Jiang Man but on the broad desk within the beaded curtain. “Only one thing, Miss Xiaojiu, must be engraved on your heart.
“Should you offend again—the Household Master may be magnanimous,” Huailou looked over, “but I am a petty, small-minded person, and I cannot stomach such conduct.”
Overhearing this, Jiang Man felt a chill down her spine. She had never before perceived this side of Huailou—so attentive, so kindly of face.
Jiang Man steadied herself and nodded. “Please speak plainly, Miss Huailou.”
“Please do not forget your proper station.” After a silence, Huailou said.
All day on the eighth of the second month, Jiang Man felt she could neither sit nor stand at ease.
It was as if she were a mulberry-picking girl from a family with a few thin fields, the strong laborers all fallen ill in a day, leaving only her to don her kin’s short jacket and bamboo hat, imitating the neighbors, rising with the sun and resting at its setting.
Jiang Man tilled, carried water, made fire—half the results for twice the effort, straining to hold on.
Then the sun and moon fell from the sky together: they had been paper all along. Jiang Man had plowed nothingness; by the autumn equinox, naturally, not a grain was harvested.
By past years’ reckoning, it should now be the Awakening of Insects, the very bustle of spring plowing.
Jiang Man knew nothing of reading stars and reckoning the calendar, and dreaded it in her heart.
Seeds that should be sown at the Awakening of Insects would be late by the Spring Equinox. But she had no way to tell at all—even if the whole starry sky were confined within this four-square world for her to read plainly, how could she say whether now was the Awakening of Insects or the Equinox?
The new year had passed; on last year’s almanac alone, Jiang Man would not survive this year.
What was her proper station?
The debt of birth and nurture was owed to her parents. Jiang Man was first her father’s and mother’s daughter, her brother’s sister, and only then a descendant of the Jiangs, owing modest support to the Household Master of the Jiang Family Brewery. Precisely for the Jiang Family’s face, precisely so the brewery—beset within and without—might survive Jiang Ling’s disappearance, had she set foot on Lin’an’s soil, sold herself by a single Hire Contract into slavery under Shen Wen.
Was being Shen Wen’s slave and maid her proper station?
Over a month had passed; Jiang Man thought that however unaccustomed, she had adapted to this identity—trembling before Shen Wen, perhaps, but never forgetting the hierarchy of master and servant.
She and Ke Ye: over ten years of mistress-and-servant bonds. Jiang Man didn’t consider herself harsh toward inferiors; toward the Ke sisters, Ke Zhi and Ke Ye, she had shown extra regard and full trust.
Yet even so, Ke Ye dared not sit with her—last night she sat only after Jiang Man’s repeated urging—Jiang Man started.
Since memory began, such a thing seemed never to have happened.
Before Shen Wen bade her sit in her own chair and use her own brush, before they shared a room and late-night meals—never mind sitting together, Jiang Man had never even seen Ke Ye sit down.
Was this what remembering one’s station looked like in a servant?
And was Jiang Man herself a mistress who kept her own station?
Did Shen Wen?
Holding a freshly dampened handkerchief, she—God knew what she was thinking—tiptoed behind the beaded curtain.
Shen Wen was naturally absent; Huailou had long gone out to help. In the well-arranged study there was only Jiang Man—she could disturb no one, except perhaps herself.
That mismatched pair of table and stool still stood in the corner, facing Shen Wen’s chair from afar, as if it were the desk’s master’s trusted minister.
Jiang Man knew she was no good maidservant—scarcely even a competent personal attendant: she wasn’t at Shen Wen’s side at all now, with no way to come near her person.
Was she truly her servant, and did she truly know a servant’s station? After Huailou’s words today, Jiang Man could no longer be sure.
At bottom, whether she could even be Shen Wen’s slave remained an open question.
Even with the family name changed, made a household slave, deep down Jiang Man was still surnamed Jiang.
Were it not for her father’s life’s work, her brother’s bright prospects, the breath the Jiang Family had stored up, Jiang Man would sooner die than serve Shen Wen.
Men die for the state; women die for chastity—she wasn’t so shameless as to become the personal attendant of a woman of dreadful repute and filthy methods.
Besides, where had Shen Wen shown half an ounce of respect for the Jiang Family?
With Jiang Man she was ever unrestrained; of Jiang Rao she spoke by bare name, as if the four words “the dead are honored above all” had never taken root in her mind—whatever cold words she pleased, she’d say them to Jiang Man’s face, deep in mourning as she was.
Her thoughts turned; lost in reverie, Jiang Man unconsciously touched one of her own cheeks.
The dust-wiping handkerchief startled her awake—a cold shock on her face—and she stumbled back two or three steps, careening into the beaded curtain.
So indeed, only herself had she disturbed.
A bad person, with a bad heart and an unsparing tongue—yet toward Jiang Man, Shen Wen truly owed nothing.
Whatever business she truly managed in Lin’an, however she stirred the waves beneath treacherous winds—Shen Wen remained the Jiang Family’s benefactor.
Serving a benefactor indeed required no seeking of “fairness.”
Table bright, desk clean, Jiang Man circled the room several times; the self-deceiving handkerchief was never put to use—ending only by rubbing off her powder, then smearing on a little of yesterday’s stale dust, mixed with water, indistinguishable.
Cautious by nature, examining it closely—how could she fail to grasp Huailou’s meaning?
Jiang Man’s body was in the garden now, but her heart still faced Jiankang.
Huailou’s lesson was entirely right: drawing six years’ wages for her person, yet all Jiang Man’s heart and mind hung on Jiang Ling alone. She had originally resolved—these six years, serve at Shen Wen’s side and let herself be commanded, that was all. But now Jiang Ling’s whereabouts were wholly lost, and the one sent to search him out was a treacherous servant who had deceived his master. How could she slacken? How could she rest easy attending a stranger’s daily life in this Hidden Osmanthus Garden?
Truly speaking of station: Jiang Man’s station was to be the Jiang Family’s daughter.
The Jiang Family’s daughter ought to be impeccable in all things.
Jiang Man steadied herself—or believed she had.
Yet looking down, her two hands were still wringing that self-deceiving handkerchief.
Suddenly someone came running, from far to near, footsteps extremely fast. Jiang Man startled, gripping the handkerchief tighter; hearing the knock, she hurried to open the door.
The maid drew a breath, paused, and said, “Lady Jiang. Is Miss Huailou not in?”
“They’ve gone out with the Female Scribe.” Jiang Man shook her head. “Is something urgent?”
“Yes.” The maid curtsied. “In reply to Lady Jiang: Mr. He the Accountant has passed. The Steward was about to allocate funds for arrangements, and checking with the accounting office, found a large wad of Huizi Paper Money missing from the money storeroom. Please pass word when Miss Huailou returns—I’m off now to notify the side gate.”
With that the maid bowed and made to dash off again; Jiang Man stopped her. “When did Mr. He pass?”
“Just around midday.” The maid wiped her sweat.
Jiang Man, hearing this flood of news, was still in a fog; seeing the maid so frantic, she couldn’t well detain her for questioning, and only nodded slightly. “Understood. Go on.”
“Yes.” The maid bowed again and left at nearly a run.
Watching her go, Jiang Man closed the door and pondered slowly.
By the sound of it, the Hidden Osmanthus Garden was like the Jiang household: the Steward managed money, the Accountant managed accounts.
Money and accounts failing to match was a grave matter. The sum was one aspect; what truly mattered was negligence and dereliction. Any competent steward of a household, whatever his usual temperament, upon discovering an anomaly—even a hair’s difference—would haggle over every coin.
Jiang Man was suddenly struck by an idea, a scheme forming.
All these years, Ke Ye had kept accounts—and never once made an error.
