Chapter 41: Terror in the Night

Jiang Man was woken by Ke Ye.

She drew a sharp breath and felt as if something of utmost importance deep in her chest had been crushed to pieces by someone’s hand, broken beyond recognition. One hand pressed to her chest, Jiang Man breathed in agony, feeling that every wisp of air entering her body was poisoned, while what she exhaled was the very strength her remaining life depended on.

Her heart ached so.

Ke Ye had already brought the Chuanxiong Pill to her lips; in her urgency Jiang Man accidentally bit it, and Borneol Flakes left on her tongue that taste she knew so well and so loathed. Leaning on Ke Ye, Jiang Man managed to sit up. Looking at the room’s furnishings, she finally knew where her soul had returned to.

Yes—unable to carry on the family enterprise, dwelling beneath another’s roof, she was long since no longer the Jiang family’s Young Miss who had tended flowers and admired the moon.

Jiang Man braced against the bed: “What hour is it now? Has the Female Scribe risen?”

There was a faint tremor in Ke Ye’s reply, as if she feared something. Jiang Man felt her right hand, supporting her, gripping with great force, yet Ke Ye only said respectfully: “Young Miss, the fifth watch has only just sounded. You retired so late last night—presumably the Main Residence is still quiet. Please rest a while longer.”

Jiang Man pressed one hand to her heart and lowered her eyes, feeling wetness on her face. She slipped on her shoes and slowly rose: “Never mind. Once awake, I won’t covet more sleep. If I sleep now, I’d only be resting my spirit—and delaying proper business won’t do.” With that she took a silk kerchief and quietly wiped her tears, then asked, “Was it you who woke me just now? What happened?”

Ke Ye came over to attend her: “You seemed to have a nightmare that triggered your heart ailment. Your jaw was clenched too tight, Young Miss; I couldn’t get the medicine in, and had no choice but to resort to that measure.”

The words had scarcely fallen when Jiang Man realized something and grasped Ke Ye’s left hand—on her thumb was a deep bite mark, nearly drawing blood.

Jiang Man’s brow furrowed slightly; she stroked it ever so gently and said in a low voice: “The fingers are joined to the heart—that must have hurt terribly. You only wanted to save me, and I bit you.”

Ke Ye smiled and shook her head, helping Jiang Man to the table and to a seat, standing to the side: “It was this humble one’s rashness. In the throes of a nightmare, how could the Young Miss have meant it? Please don’t dwell on it—if it hurt your heart, that would be my true fault.”

Jiang Man was silent a long while and could not speak at all. She could only sigh softly and say: “Sit.”

“This humble one isn’t tired, thank you, Young Miss.” Ke Ye reached for the copper kettle and poured water for Jiang Man, urging her to drink. The temperature was just right—not room-temperature, not scalding, only faintly warm—presumably prepared beforehand.

The room no longer held braziers; with the swings of cold and warm, the quilt Jiang Man used these days had gained another layer over when she first arrived. Thinking perhaps that quilt had bred the nightmare, she made the excuse that the weather was warming and had Ke Ye take it away, not to be used again.

Ke Ye did not ask what she had dreamed, and naturally Jiang Man did not say.

The grinding pain in the dream still left her shaken—yet what Jiang Man feared was not the pain.

What she feared went far beyond pain.

Since Jiang Rao’s death she had never once dreamed of her dearest kin; instead, that Second Master Jiang had appeared in her dreams many times, each time either throwing the Jiang household into chaos or coming to her home to lord it over them. Though he never dealt a killing blow, he was tiresome enough. Jiang Man had always kept some guard up against him—she hadn’t expected the Jiang Feng of her dreams to be mere child’s play, not even a third of his real-life force.

This dream, before dawn, on the edge of waking—Jiang Man’s long hope was at last fulfilled.

She saw her dearest kin. Not only her brother; both her parents were there too. Her mother was as she had been in her healthiest days; her father looked much younger, standing behind Jiang Ling, more like an elder brother—except there was blood at the corner of his eye.

Could she count her wish fulfilled?

Out of vast nothingness, the family of three surfaced in the void, harmonious and happy, as if living upon the clouds. Jiang Man saw them, and they saw her; she sensed her kin conversing, yet their words never reached her ears. Very quickly Jiang Man discovered she was trapped: an invisible dense net, like a cage, bound her fast beneath the clouds. She searched for a ladder, a door, a small knife—but her hands could seize only emptiness.

Her father clapped her brother’s shoulder, and at last they all turned to look at her together—as if looking down from on high, or gazing at a jade beauty beyond compare, their eyes unable to turn away.

Then Jiang Ling’s voice came from the sky: “Manman, do not come here.”

Jiang Ling had only ever called her that in letters—she looked up, and Jiang Ling had turned into a thin sheet of paper, gradually losing his human form, as if congealed into a letter dense with ink. The paper was quickly soaked black by the ink, the writing indistinguishable, falling from the clouds as rain falls, without anything to hold to.

Jiang Man reached to snatch it, but could grasp nothing. Slowly, without her noticing, she had grown light, as if something had drained her of soul, flesh, and bone, and she rose straight toward heaven. She watched with her own eyes as that paper that had been Jiang Ling sank into the earth, swallowed by the soil—and she could do nothing.

Her feet were caught in the net.

Jiang Man pressed against the dense mesh; the net that had bound her now became her tether, borrowing the ground’s leverage to snatch her back from heaven.

Jiang Man struggled. Jiang Man only resisted—only resisted. She could not break free; even meaning was lost. She no longer knew where she wanted to go: to the clouds of peace and joy above, or to the foul earth where grievous snow could not sink.

In the end it was pain that woke her.

An immense pain tightened every inch of Jiang Man’s flesh. She hesitated no longer, for the heart-piercing agony made her abandon everything she could and could not abandon—her bubble-like joys and sorrows, her dilemma of being born a person and then being someone’s person, her terror, and at last her very senses. Jiang Man had to choose to stay on the ground, and that instant’s contest had already cost her mountains and rivers.

That net had barely held; the moment Jiang Man’s face turned toward the earth it all but collapsed. She had meant to use it, to prop herself up by it, to crawl back—inch by inch, even in disgrace—to the ground, back to that cage where she could touch Xuan paper, to make out Jiang Ling’s handwriting, to decipher the clues left between ink and mud.

But a fine net, in the end, cannot contend with heaven.

Helplessly, irreversibly, Jiang Man rose higher and higher, until she met the force that struck her from beyond the sky—and that force was Ke Ye.

That wrenching heartache had failed to ease for so long; had she not taken the Chuanxiong Pill Ke Ye brought in time, the consequences were unthinkable.

“How are you?” The owner of that voice frowned deeply, as if fearing Jiang Man might be diminished by even a hair.

Now, living under another’s roof, unless her life was in danger, there could be no question of summoning a Physician for an emergency. Jiang Man had only rested a little, using the time spent dressing to catch a few breaths; her hair was naturally somewhat loose, not carefully arranged. She hadn’t expected that the moment Shen Wen entered the Pavilion of Investigating Things, Jiang Man would become the most conspicuous person in the room.

“Female Scribe, no hurry. Let this humble one examine carefully.” Physician Xie adjusted his cap and lightly raised his right hand, signaling Jiang Man to switch hands for the pulse-taking.

Jiang Man laid her left wrist on the oval porcelain pulse-pillow, silent for the moment, eyes lowered, expression gathered in.

A few strands of Physician Xie’s temple hair had escaped his cap—several wisps poking out hastily from his square kerchief. Clearly he had risen today and, without time to re-dress his topknot, had donned his cap and hurried straight to the study.

Jiang Man felt rather guilty. Shen Wen treated him with the utmost respect—over so great a matter as the inquest on Accountant He, she had still accommodated Physician Xie’s habit of sleeping late and rising late, giving special instructions the night before and sending her regards. And now, for her sake, he had been disturbed. How could Jiang Man take it for granted?

She quietly tilted her head, her gaze as if merely chasing a wisp of lingering incense-seal smoke drifting into the room; the instant she glimpsed Shen Wen she looked away, fearing others would notice the movement.

No powder or rouge today—rare, but not extraordinary. Jiang Man hadn’t dressed up when she first arrived at the Hidden Osmanthus Garden either; that step had only begun after the day of the Supreme Clarity Palace visit. Sijiu and Huailou noticed nothing. Who knew how Female Scribe Shen had grown such discerning eyes: on entering, she didn’t look at Jiang Man at all, yet after two steps toward the inner room she stopped, turned around, and fixed her gaze on Jiang Man, examining her closely.

Jiang Man first thought it was that nighttime inspection of hers, suddenly recurring in broad daylight; unwilling to show anything abnormal, she met her gaze.

Across a single night, that safety in Shen Wen’s eyes had vanished.

Jiang Man was briefly dazed, as if witnessing a person whose shelter had been lost—broken roof-tiles dividing what remained, a perilous wall anyone could point out. Before her eyes, Shen Wen’s expression turned flustered, inch by inch.

An emotion almost too faint to detect occupied only an instant of her face; only the two who had met eyes kept this secret. Jiang Man wavered—but her heart, like her eyes, could not lie: seeing a mountain, she knew it a mountain; seeing water, she knew it water.

And that wild-goose-trace of color that swept across Shen Wen had indeed arisen because of her.

As if Shen Wen were in pain.

As if Shen Wen were afraid.

Jiang Man’s heart seemed to quicken another degree; the arrowhead was already nocked between the tension of the bowstring.

—Before their exchanged gazes could shift away, what followed was Shen Wen’s order summoning Physician Xie over.

“These recent days have perhaps been somewhat taxing.” Physician Xie signaled Jiang Man to withdraw her hand, and when he spoke again his manner was much calmer than before. “Your constitution does not accept tonics; it can only be gently nourished.”

“This humble one can bear it.” Jiang Man answered at once. “I’m not really tired yet—we’ve only just begun.”

Physician Xie smiled: “Lady Jiang is young; though her foundation is a bit weak, she was after all carefully cared for over many years, so recovery naturally comes faster. But recovering strength is one thing—if she overexerts herself and damages the root, it may harm her later years.”

Shen Wen said: “Then assign her some lighter tasks—”

“I’m not tired.” Jiang Man turned her head; realizing her slip, she bit her lip lightly and lowered her head.

Before lowering it, she did not miss the flash of astonishment on Shen Wen’s face, gone in the blink of an eye. She truly had overstepped.

Shen Wen did not erupt. Seeing this, Jiang Man paused, acted as if nothing had happened, and said slowly: “Thank you for your understanding, Female Scribe. The daily duties of the Pavilion of Investigating Things are not heavy. The Female Scribe perceives the finest details—this humble one did indeed suffer a heart ailment today, only because I rose too early and hadn’t recovered for a moment. How would I dare plead illness and take to my bed over it?”

Shen Wen looked at her.

Jiang Man lowered her eyes without a stir.

Physician Xie said: “Lady Jiang, since rising this morning, have you taken medicine to invigorate the blood and move the qi?”

“Yes.” Jiang Man replied. “I took a Chuanxiong Pill, a medicine my family used often; I brought some along this time. I take it regularly to ease the pain.”

“Today you were startled awake.” His tone was certain.

Jiang Man paused and answered truthfully: “Yes.”

Shen Wen’s voice suddenly sounded at her ear.

At some point she had come right up to Jiang Man, and asked abruptly: “You had a nightmare?”

Jiang Man rose and stood to the side: “Yes.”

Shen Wen was looking at her.

“What did you dream of?”

Jiang Man quietly clutched her sleeve.

Shen Wen was still looking at her.

Why were her eyes so fervent, so anxious, so sorrowful?