Chapter 44: Questioning Truth and Falsehood

Jiang Man curtsied: “The Female Scribe reads affairs like a goddess; this humble one dares not deceive you.”

“I wouldn’t call it ‘reading affairs like a goddess.'” Shen Wen spoke to her with a touch of languor. “You write everything on your face. When I look at you, how could I pretend not to see?”

As if the two of them were the sort who could chat idly about domestic trifles.

Jiang Man unconsciously touched her face.

Shen Wen suddenly smiled and leaned back against her chair: “Speak. Just don’t vex me.”

Hearing this, Jiang Man did not open her mouth at once. She truly didn’t know whether this was a good moment; the supporting grounds on which to base a judgment were too few—and when it came down to it, there was only this one thing: Shen Wen’s own command.

But this one thing was already enough to change Jiang Man’s original plan. Her lips parted, somewhat halting: “The Palace Examination draws near. I hear the Female Scribe’s affairs have been numerous lately, and many Nominated Jinshi are guests at your table. Thanks to the Female Scribe’s mercy, this humble one has steadily improved; I truly dare not waste time. Miss Sijiu is short of a helping hand, and Huailou is pulled in two directions at once. If the Female Scribe can use me, this humble one is willing to share your burdens.”

The words finished, she finally found the courage to steal a glance at Shen Wen.

Shen Wen was smiling.

Jiang Man instantly regretted it.

She had seen this expression before—more than seen it; at that time, that person’s features had been mere inches away. Her lips were like wind over snowfields: all that was warm and full now drew itself in at the sharp edges, becoming taut, restrained, like a storm gathering.

Shen Wen’s gaze was colder than well-water in the depths of winter; the lake’s surface froze over in the storm, sealing the boundary between life and death.

And Jiang Man was the one treading on thin ice between life and death.

She could all but only prostrate herself. Shen Wen’s depths were unfathomable; she had no way of knowing when, or for what reason, she would fall into the ice cellar, whether she would escape—and if she escaped, whether it would be thanks to Shen Wen’s mercy.

Then Shen Wen gave her a sidelong glance: “And what burden would you share of mine?”

Jiang Man bit her lip.

Shen Wen went on: “Old Xie says you’re fully recovered? Do you take me for a porridge kitchen or the Orphanage Bureau? Scheming away with your own abacus, terrified of being seen through—and you still dare deceive me?”

“This humble one would never dare.” Jiang Man bent in a curtsy. Which sentence had she gotten wrong, that Shen Wen would compare her to those charity houses?

What abacus could she possibly have?

“You wouldn’t dare?” Shen Wen lifted her chin; as the corner of her mouth curled, teeth showed faintly. “Jiang Xiaojiu—what is it you wouldn’t dare?”

Jiang Man gripped her other hand tightly.

She had misunderstood.

“Female Scribe.” Jiang Man raised her head. Shen Wen started slightly, narrowing her eyes, clearly appraising her.

Jiang Man felt only that she was walking into the storm.

She was unarmed, yet met it head-on, relying on nothing but a measure of lone courage, on Heaven’s mercy, and on her own unyielding flesh and bone. She didn’t know what marks the wind and frost would leave on her—but Shen Wen had bared her fangs, and what Jiang Man looked at was what lay behind those pearl-white teeth.

Weapons: the art of attack, the way of defense. A person’s blade exists to inflict harm—but before that, the sword is drawn because danger is felt.

How could Jiang Man be dangerous?

The dangerous one was Shen Wen.

She came one step closer, and another, until she could see every strand of Shen Wen’s hair, see the lashes that trembled faintly in her glances, see that snow-like skin—snow-like, but not snow. Shen Wen was alive; and above all, she was warm. Jiang Man knew this.

Yet only in this moment did she feel her warmth.

Jiang Man knelt, taking Shen Wen’s right hand where it hung by her leg in both of hers—but without force, so that if she showed the slightest unwillingness, she could withdraw at once. She felt as if she had a fever, her cheeks scalding as if she were doing something against her own heart, as if she were attempting seduction, as if she were breaking the rules… overstepping her station.

And Jiang Man did it deliberately.

“Since that day I received the Female Scribe’s great grace, signed and pressed my mark, and became your Personal Attendant,” Jiang Man looked at her, her very breaths grown soft, “this humble one has never considered anything else. If I have harbored any design, it has only ever been toward the Female Scribe. My occasional rashness is only Xiaojiu’s greenness—I don’t yet understand the measure proper to sharing your burdens. My life and death are arranged by one word from the Female Scribe; it is the Female Scribe who decides. If anything should arise, I would only come to entreat you—I would never go seeking a second master, chasing power and influence.”

Shen Wen said not a word.

Their hands still lay folded together.

Jiang Man weighed her words. She knew she might have guessed right—and feared that Shen Wen had simply not yet gotten around to erupting. She truly didn’t know how to coax her. The notion of snatching a husband beneath the list, of using Shen Wen as a stepping stone—Jiang Man had none of that. But she did, indeed, have her own designs. And to step back, lest she arouse suspicion—she had no ground to retreat to; beset on all sides, Jiang Man had from the start only the logic of burning her own boats.

“This period of recuperation, I have already received Miss Huailou’s great care. Now that my health is restored, I cannot help thinking of my duty.” She steeled herself and borrowed Ke Ye’s manner of speaking. “These days the Female Scribe leaves early and returns late, with dark shadows under her eyes. Seeing it, this humble one aches too—I only wish to offer a little strength and stay at your side. That is all.”

“That is all?”

“Yes.”

Shen Wen gave her a sidelong look: “Is that the truth?”

Jiang Man lowered her eyes: “Every word of it.”

“It looks false beyond saving to me.” Shen Wen drew her hand away and gave a light flick. Before Jiang Man could withdraw her own, she felt her chin seized.

She was forced to meet her eyes. Shen Wen held a smile, her gaze utterly cold: “You ache? You do indeed have an aching heart—but I fear it doesn’t ache for me. Jiang Xiaojiu, tell me honestly: that day, what did you dream of?”

Jiang Man went completely blank; her jaw went slack. Shen Wen folded her arms, still looking down at her, clearly not about to let her slip through.

Why did she care so much about this? Jiang Man found it strange—but Shen Wen’s mind was hard to read to begin with, and she was unwilling to let a rift grow over such a small matter, so she told the truth.

Shen Wen listened with a faint abstraction. When the words ended, a good while passed before she spoke again: “So you dreamed of such a thing.”

“Yes. This humble one did not deceive you.” Jiang Man paused, then carefully: “May I ask why the Female Scribe felt I wasn’t telling the truth?”

Shen Wen shook her head and looked at her no more. Jiang Man thought she would not answer—but unexpectedly, after a moment, Shen Wen did, as if to herself: “I thought you had dreamed of the past.”

Jiang Man started, looking at her. Shen Wen, somehow, looked back, and at last smiled slowly: “So be it.”

Her gaze suddenly grew distant.

For some reason, Shen Wen let out a soft sigh and looked toward the beaded curtain, as if watching distant smoke. Jiang Man followed her gaze, unable to guess her thoughts, and could only ask: “Shall this humble one press another Incense Seal?”

Shen Wen shook her head: “Get up and speak properly.”

“Yes.” Jiang Man frowned slightly but assented, steadying herself and slowly rising.

“Among this year’s Nominated Jinshi, is there any husband you’ve set your eye on?” Shen Wen said abruptly.

Jiang Man’s legs went weak; she involuntarily stepped back two paces: “This humble one has not considered such great matters.”

“Then why did you have Wu You inquire about the Yu brothers of Jizhou?” Shen Wen looked over. “If you have such thoughts, you may speak plainly—I’ll decide for you. The debts owed can be repaid by your husband’s family in your stead.”

The blood drained from Jiang Man’s face. Shen Wen’s tone was flat, as if chatting about the weather, but Jiang Man knew she was not joking in the least. She gathered her robes and performed a full obeisance: “This humble one has absolutely no such intention. I beg the Female Scribe to see clearly.”

“You truly don’t wish to marry?”

How was she to answer that? Jiang Man lowered her eyes: “In reply to the Female Scribe, this humble one believes that is a matter for later. Xiaojiu, having lost both parents, must still defer to her elder brother and the Female Scribe in the great matter of marriage.”

Shen Wen rose and walked slowly toward her. With every step closer, Jiang Man’s heart sank another degree, until at last she held her breath. Yet Shen Wen did not truly come near: she turned at an angle and continued pacing the room, saying as she went: “If you have no such intentions, then lately it would be best to go out less. Do you know how many people that fleeting glimpse of yours outside the Ministry of Rites Examination Hall delayed?”

Jiang Man started, head lowered: “That was not this humble one’s intention.”

“I know it well enough.” Shen Wen’s steps stopped, her back to her. “A common man commits no crime, but bearing a jade makes him guilty.” Then came a light laugh. “This year is truly a great year of the examinations, heroes emerging in droves. Talents of eight dou abound, and lechers with faces thicker than city walls keep appearing too. In just these two days, someone actually asked me to my face. For one to dare touch what belongs to me, Shen Wen—I don’t know whether it’s that he doesn’t know the height of heaven or the depth of earth, or that you, Jiang Xiaojiu, are truly a calamity to the realm.”

She turned around, her tone flirtatious: “Fortunately, you carry the jade—and I am no common man.”

Jiang Man curtsied: “I have brought the Female Scribe trouble for nothing.”

Shen Wen shook her head and came a step closer: “You’re investigating your brother’s affairs?”

Jiang Man hadn’t expected to be seen through so completely. A tangle of feelings rose in her; she managed an answer: “Yes. My brother’s whereabouts are unknown and I have no clues at all; I had no choice but this expedient—to begin with family and old friends.”

Shen Wen sighed: “Why did you not ask me?”

Jiang Man was startled: “I dared not disturb the Female Scribe.”

If she had truly begged her, would Shen Wen have agreed? Jiang Man couldn’t help wondering.

Shen Wen looked at her a while. Jiang Man met her eyes, at first thinking to look away at the proper moment—but very quickly she lost all room to do so. Weariness and fatigue had, at some point, climbed onto Shen Wen’s features. Once, her coloring had been so vivid and ardent; though her expression was frost-cold, it carried only an oppressive weight that made the lowly cower lower—but never blocked those who pressed bravely forward.

Now the weight remained, yet Jiang Man felt shut out a thousand miles away. In the wind and snow, Shen Wen’s ember had gone out, and Jiang Man could no longer find the bright lamp to lead her one step forward. She seemed gentler somehow—like wax not yet set, like a stream about to thaw—everything announcing some kind of ending.

Shen Wen stood high above, willful and unrestrained; across the gulf of high and low, Jiang Man had once held an illusion of closeness. That illusion was now vanishing, bit by bit, in their mutual gaze. Jiang Man panicked—for what replaced it was Shen Wen’s melancholy.

She could scarcely believe her own eyes and senses. How could Shen Wen show her an expression so sorrowful?

Had she hurt her?

“If you don’t dare…” Shen Wen said, as if to grant her wish.

Jiang Man stepped forward, carrying a knot of feeling she could not express. She knew she was being reckless: “There is a matter on which I must beg the Female Scribe.”

Shen Wen started, did not rebuke the interruption, only asked: “What?”

“May the Female Scribe’s Personal Attendants all marry as they wish and go far from your side?” Jiang Man looked at her. “Since attending at your side, this humble one has never fulfilled her duty, doesn’t know how to fulfill it—yet she knows her duty, and dare not defy it by half a degree.”

“Female Scribe Shen.” Jiang Man called her thus.

She had truly eaten a bear’s heart and a leopard’s gall.

She was about to overturn the very heavens.

“Xiaojiu is willing to do her small duty and share your burdens. I beg the Female Scribe to grant this.”