Chapter 34: A World Apart

The moment Shen Wen returned, she strode in great steps, a large crowd following behind.

Sijiu and Huailou walked at the very front, quick-paced too, the hair at their ears somewhat disheveled, spirits still adequate—evidently they’d toiled outside today and hurried back without time to freshen up.

Jiang Man left the door wide open, waiting nearly pressed to the wall. The teeming crowd did not enter; led by Steward Dong, they halted in the corridor—only Huailou followed into the inner room.

Sijiu waited at the door as Jiang Man did, only standing far less stiffly. Sijiu glanced across and mouthed: “Come here. What are you standing there for?”

Jiang Man sidled two steps, wanting to communicate as she did, but felt too embarrassed to make such exaggerated expressions; whispering wasn’t practiced with her either—if she truly became a second-month mosquito, that would be dreadful. In the end Jiang Man only looked at her and gently shook her head.

From the inner room came Huailou’s voice: “Lady Jiang.”

“Yes.” Suddenly named, Jiang Man exchanged a look with Sijiu and hurried through the beaded curtain.

Unexpectedly, Shen Wen acted as if nothing had happened, looking her full in the face, tilting her chin—but not speaking.

Jiang Man hesitated a moment—then, remembering the crowd waiting outside, so many mouths, leaks inevitable—she crossed the desk and moved to Shen Wen’s side, and in little more than a whisper gave a full account of the day’s events.

“Died at midday?” Shen Wen narrowed her eyes.

“Yes.” Jiang Man answered low, still bowed. “When the little maid came looking for Huailou, Miss Huailou had been gone but a short while, the sun at its height. I’d estimate between the first and second quarter of the wei hour, at most not past the third. Since there was a light rain in the shen hour and the ground is still damp, I can’t be far off.”

Shen Wen touched her lips, forefinger rubbing slowly, as if pondering. A moment later she tilted her head. “If that maid appeared before you now, could you recognize her?”

Jiang Man considered, then nodded. “I believe so, near enough.”

“Female Scribe.” Just then Huailou called softly.

Jiang Man looked over, but Huailou said nothing more.

Shen Wen paused. “Never mind. First bring in Old He’s wife and children, then have Sijiu arrange some tea—ginger soup for everyone whose business doesn’t touch money and accounts. And set a fire basin in the corridor; the wind is strong today, and whether those old bones can bear it is another question. You stand guard outside the door and watch carefully—who shelters from the wind outside, who stands innermost.”

“Yes.” Huailou assented and went at once.

“If you can’t govern that face of yours, then play the deaf-mute.” Shen Wen said suddenly. “Choose one.”

She wasn’t looking at her as she said it.

At this merciless remark, the small gratitude Jiang Man had accumulated for her that day vanished entirely; she only endured, pretending her face wore another’s skin. “Yes.”

Mr. He the Accountant had a wife, one son, and three daughters, all serving the Shen Family; the son was elsewhere, the rest in the Hidden Osmanthus Garden. As ever, Shen Wen offered not one word of condolence, as if what died today were some roadside carrion nothing to do with her, and those before her not the dead man’s flesh and blood but merely a few bystanders with no stake in the matter.

The four wife and daughters’ eyes were red and swollen; their speech still coherent, but half unspeakable anguish, half smoldering resentment—heart-wrenching to hear.

By their account, Mr. He had suffered this consumption a long while; it had been improving, but with spring it suddenly worsened. Two days ago he took to his bed; this morning he lost consciousness; at midday, on the verge of death, he spoke a few private words with his family, and in the afternoon he was gone. Perhaps because the illness ran long, they weren’t too shocked—just grieving for the moment; and meeting the muddle over money and accounts besides, they grew somewhat indignant.

The youngest daughter had run errands for Jiang Man and the others just yesterday; Jiang Man remembered her—a round-faced girl of pleasing temperament, called Dingxiang by everyone around.

“Where does Old He lie in state now?”

“In reply to the Female Scribe,” Dingxiang wiped her tears, “he lies at home now.”

Shen Wen’s brows lifted, her words startling. “I’ll have a Coroner come examine him. How about it?”

All four were beyond astonished; the He family’s tears flowed again; lips pressed, heads shaking, they could not speak. Jiang Man strove to play a person of iron face and copper heart, letting not a flicker show.

These were Mr. He’s closest kin, insisting again and again that he died in the afternoon, that he’d spoken at midday; yet the maid who came with word earlier in the day said he died at noon.

Between the two, who was lying?

Dingxiang said, “Female Scribe, my father was ill a long time; that he’s gone grieves us, but it wasn’t sudden. This money-storeroom business is strange, but Father toiled heart and strength for the Shen Family all these years. We beg the Female Scribe to leave my father’s body whole.”

The words barely fell, and a row of figures prostrated before Shen Wen.

“Merely a brief examination; if nothing’s amiss, there’ll be no cutting open the body.” Shen Wen rose—but not to raise the He family up; she only paced slowly about the room.

She walked behind the beaded curtain, then suddenly turned. “Your family refuses?”

Dingxiang exchanged looks with her kin; difficulty showed on every face, with an unerasable grief hidden within—arousing sympathy despite oneself.

In the end it was still the youngest daughter who spoke, moving to Shen Wen’s side. “In reply to the Female Scribe: my eldest and second sisters watched Father draw his last breath with their own eyes. If he didn’t die of illness but was murdered by someone—if there’s something hidden in it—we could not bear our old father to suffer such a great injustice.”

Then she prostrated herself in a great kowtow. “We beg the Female Scribe to seek justice for my father!”

Watching that small, thin figure on the ground, Jiang Man felt a faint ache in her heart.

In a past that was practically yesterday, she too had begged her thus—begged this creditor of hers to lift her hand in mercy.

Dingxiang’s mouth asked Shen Wen for justice—but was she not, in truth, hoping she would let them off?

Jiang Man’s gaze rose slowly, dodged aside without thinking, then lowered slowly again.

Shen Wen was watching her.

However much awe and alarm she felt toward her, she would no longer be driven to helpless evasion.

Looking at the figures crouched low on the ground, would Female Scribe Shen think of her too?

“Merely a brief examination, against every contingency,” Shen Wen’s gaze finally fell again, to Dingxiang. “And what justice would you have me do?”

“Our household is just these few people; food and clothing all rest on the Female Scribe’s compassion. The little money saved went only into three earthen rooms and some daily necessities. If Father truly lost his conscience and did that damnable thing, the money must show somewhere real. Not one of us has gained a catty of flesh; our clothes are all old—where could it have gone?”

Dingxiang’s head still touched the ground, a stubborn streak showing. “This servant has little learning and doesn’t know how to put it plainly, but my father was ill for quite a while. Presumably the money storeroom keeps records of when it opens. If he truly took money while on duty at such a time, it must show somewhere—even if he spent it at Jianqiao Bridge, those young ladies ought to have some impression—”

Having said this, she seemed to sense the impropriety herself and lifted her head slightly. Facing Shen Wen, standing where Jiang Man stood, she could naturally see only the others’ expressions.

The Meat Market and Jianqiao Bridge both harbored many houses of hidden prostitution. Of the former, she and Huailou had only passed hurriedly—Huailou had mentioned it briefly, warning Jiang Man not to stray in; of the Jianqiao Bridge area she had spoken in detail—the districts of lanterns and wine were where Shen Wen habitually went.

Dingxiang said, “My words were coarse. I beg the Household Master’s pardon.”

Shen Wen neither affirmed nor denied, only stirring her brows. “All of you, rise.”

“Yes.” The four complied, helping each other slowly up, facing Shen Wen.

Then she came two steps closer, looking at Dingxiang without praise or blame. “So your family believes Old He entirely innocent?”

Dingxiang lowered her head, voice trembling, edged with tears. “There must be villains behind this! I beg the Female Scribe to investigate clearly!”

Shen Wen nodded slightly. “Wait outside for now. Bring me Old Xie, and call Huailou in too.”

“Yes.” Sijiu assented and gave orders at once. The four Hes curtsied to Shen Wen and withdrew silently.

The moment Physician Xie arrived, Huailou closed the door, only Sijiu remaining outside to await orders. Jiang Man quietly edged aside, out of the path Shen Wen would take back to her desk. Her time in the garden was short, and she hardly counted as Shen Wen’s confidante; she ought to withdraw of her own accord, lest the Household Master have to speak and things turn awkward.

Yet she had her own designs here, and could only wish silently, hoping Shen Wen would forget this Beauty Gu Vase of hers, standing harmlessly in the corner.

By the time Shen Wen was seated, Jiang Man had no idea where her wish had gone—to the Bodhisattva of Compassion’s Ferry or to Guanyin: the same person, yet in fulfilling vows, one required a temple, the other a Buddhist monastery—different incense, and other differences besides.

But the one who granted her wish was quite evident.

Shen Wen’s gaze even swept across Jiang Man’s face—she clearly didn’t mind her staying.

“I intend to send a Coroner to look over the He house.” As Shen Wen spoke, she touched her chin, the knuckle of her forefinger resting just at the peak of her lower lip. Jiang Man didn’t know why she noticed such trifling details—only that Shen Wen’s tone, rarely, showed a trace of hesitation, as if a sentence unfinished, its sequel already gone, inviting overthinking.

There must be other intent in these words; Jiang Man frowned slightly.

Her own depth was shallow after all; untangling these windings would take more seasoning.

Huailou said, “Does the Female Scribe not wish the matter known to all?”

Shen Wen closed her eyes briefly, nodding almost imperceptibly. “A bigger, more elaborate show naturally works better. Only I fear, stretched too wide, the aftermath can’t be controlled.”

Jiang Man suddenly understood: a Coroner’s examination of a corpse required an official to accompany—yet that meant reporting to the authorities.

Unclear accounts were, after all, a family disgrace; for a house of the Shen Family’s standing, the possibility of one hair moving the whole body had to be weighed.

Physician Xie cupped his hands. “Perhaps this servant could perform the examination—handle it discreetly.”

“No.” Shen Wen raised a hand. “How could I have you do such a thing? I called you here for nothing else—only against every contingency. During the examination, come with me and merely watch from the side; say little. If his house has leftover prescriptions or dregs of medicine, examine them carefully—see whether the ingredients hold anything odd or rare.”

“Yes.” Physician Xie assented, seemingly uneasy. “Examinations carry baleful influence; I fear it would clash with the Female Scribe. If trusted, this servant would gladly go in your stead.”

Shen Wen only shook her head. “Better I go myself. Only this Examining Official… Huailou, any ideas?”

“By this servant’s view, among those waiting in the corridor today there must be someone with a guilty conscience. If the Female Scribe wants only the spectacle, let me be the one to propose reporting it for official examination.” Huailou’s eyes were lowered, her mind already calculating. “Ordinarily, if I speak, few in the garden could contradict a word. But this matter is grave; even those usually all politeness might jump out once.”

Shen Wen looked over. “And if Old He simply died of illness?”

“At the very least, the timing of his death has a story in it.” Huailou said softly. “Those who’ve done wrong are always uneasy.”

Shen Wen touched her lips, considered briefly. “So be it.” Then her brows slanted. “You’ll assist Huailou in this. If anyone won’t cooperate, persuade her—take the lead. Only mind your measure.”

Jiang Man hadn’t expected to be named, but fortunately had followed Shen Wen’s reasoning throughout; she hurriedly curtsied and softly assented.

Shen Wen turned to Physician Xie. “Old Xie, this business will trouble you to fret and labor over it. I know you’re a late riser—go rest now. Tomorrow at dawn, report to me for duty.”

“I dare not fail the Female Scribe’s trust.” Physician Xie bowed, nodded slightly to Jiang Man and Huailou, and withdrew.

Only when he was gone did Shen Wen say, “What did you all see?”

“In reply to the Female Scribe: the ginger soup was boiled and distributed, and of a dozen-odd people not one dared drink.” Huailou pressed her lips, a faint smile seeming there, her eyes saying quite the opposite. “Two of the gardeners—clever or not, who knows—carried their own portions of ginger soup over to the Steward, earning themselves a good scolding, very low-voiced. So the Steward is still alert, it seems.”

Shen Wen smiled. “Did they drink in the end?”

Huailou answered, “The Female Scribe’s bounty—how dared they not drink? In the end it was Mr. Qin the Accountant who persuaded them, with a word added by the Steward, before they raised it to their lips. By then the bowls showed no steam at all—imagine how long they’d held out.”

Shen Wen nodded slightly, expressionless. “Is the wind still strong?”

“Still strong. Everyone’s crowded at the charcoal basins in the lee. Who’s inner and who’s outer, Sijiu can see better just now—from what I saw, the accountants were still solicitous in protecting their bookkeeping hands.” Huailou paused, lowering her voice further. “Only the Steward was too careless—sneezed several times, sniffling now and then. In four years in this garden, I’ve never seen him so undignified.”

Shen Wen smiled faintly and said nothing.

“One more thing.” Huailou lowered her eyes.

“Speak.” Shen Wen’s brows lifted a little. “What are you holding back—do you want me to beg?”

“I wouldn’t dare.” Huailou seemed deaf to her mockery. “Before I brought the charcoal fire over, I had instructed them to place it in the center. When the younger ones moved the basins to the sheltered side, someone did call out to Steward Dong—but Mr. Qin quietly talked them all down. He only signaled with his eyes, never speaking, two or three times over, so everyone let the Steward ‘wait out the chill.'”

Shen Wen’s brow twitched faintly. “I promoted Old Qin to Head Accountant in the Guichou year, didn’t I?”

“Yes. Lady Song entered the palace, and Mr. Qin was promoted right behind—plus thirty strings raised on Steward Dong’s monthly wage. Three years now, by the count.”

Listening, Jiang Man’s attention sharpened.

This “Lady Song” must be that famous courtesan Song Ningning who attended at the Emperor’s side. Huailou spoke of her with such familiarity—the two must have known each other.

Had Song Ningning once lived in this Hidden Osmanthus Garden too?

Jiang Man’s brows knitted; then she admonished herself and forced them smooth, lest anyone notice.

“Three years already.” Shen Wen sighed softly, paused, then said, “These accounts are due a going-over.”

Huailou stood with hands lowered, saying nothing.

Shen Wen smiled. “What, you dare not take this on?”

“It’s not to avoid suspicion.” Huailou said. “Not that I’m unwilling—I truly cannot. Ordinary sorting I might manage, but these ledgers—their truth and falsehood, the tricks within them—are beyond this servant’s power to discern.”

Shen Wen said instead, “It is that you will not, not that you cannot.”

Jiang Man’s heart pounded.

When she’d first heard the messenger maid speak of it, she knew an audit must follow; when Shen Wen returned with such a crowd behind her, she judged the matter graver than she’d guessed—and had little confidence to begin with.

She was an outsider; as for Ke Ye, an unimportant, even less trusted nobody brought by an outsider. Were this matter truly grave, even volunteering, she might not be granted the face.

A family disgrace, involving the secrets of ledgers and the money storeroom besides—the odds of Shen Wen seeking outside help were minuscule. Short of transferring people from the Shen Family, the one she’d use must be Huailou.

After all, by Sijiu’s and Huailou’s own accounts, Huailou had attended Shen Wen from her first day in the garden—her accounting skill instrumental.

Yet she had declined it herself.

Jiang Man’s mind was made up. She stepped forward, bowed, in no hurry to speak.

Shen Wen was surely watching her.

What was Shen Wen thinking now? Jiang Man was intensely nervous, divining her thoughts, imagining her expression.

Then the mistress before the desk laughed. “I’d quite forgotten there was such a young lady of well-managed household accounts here. Jiang Xiaojiu—you have something to say?”

Jiang Man lowered her eyes and said gently, “I wish to break a branch for my elder.”

Shen Wen’s earlier remark came from Mencius, so Jiang Man answered with Mencius’s words in turn. But that passage originally concerned the way of kings; Jiang Man was somewhat anxious, fearing Shen Wen would mistake her ambition.

She had ambition—but never to manage Brother Square-Hole’s comings and goings for Female Scribe Shen, the clandestine ins and outs.

Jiang Man only wanted to find a tangible path forward for Ke Ye, and for herself.

“Raise your head.”

“Yes.” Jiang Man assented.

In Shen Wen’s eyes flickered appreciation—as if what stood before her now was no longer the friendless orphan girl Jiang Xiaojiu, but some retainer with a skill to offer, some hero of extraordinary insight, someone who had won her favor.

Jiang Man had seen that look once before—and the one wearing it had been Shen Wen herself.

It was the twelfth month last year, when she sold her into slavery and haggled the price with her.

Shen Wen said, “Huailou says this is ‘tucking Mount Tai under your arm to leap over the North Sea,’ and you treat it as ‘breaking a branch for your elder.’ Is it that you think too highly of yourself, or that you’ve no notion of the difficulty and are putting on a common lout’s bravado before me?”

Jiang Man cupped her hands. “My maidservant Ke Ye and I, at every year’s end, re-verify the ledgers within and without—taking stock, closing accounts. Year upon year, by good fortune, we have never erred. Ke Ye’s work is meticulous besides; the erroneous entries, the omissions—mostly she was the one who caught them. I will stand surety for her.”

Huailou studied Jiang Man a moment, then chimed in. “Female Scribe, necessity bends the rules—why not let them try?”

“Good.” Shen Wen smiled. “I’ll trust you this once. Summon Ke Ye.”