Chapter 45: Breaking the Cocoon

Jiang Man almost believed she had gone mad.

What madness was this, what words were these? Jiang Man could not believe that such pleading for fulfillment had come from her own mouth. In ordinary times, even had she witnessed it with her own eyes in a mirror, she would have asked what demon or monster looked back at her.

Yet the enchantress was her, and the bewitched one was also her—Jiang Man knew this all too well. Only, meeting those eyes, lifting the gauze curtain after her defenses and seeing the desolation Shen Wen hid, she had had to ask, had to come closer still, to let her know she had not forgotten.

She had not forgotten her, had not forgotten her duty, had never thought of leaving Shen Wen’s side.

Jiang Man’s lashes lifted slowly; as in the dozens of times they had rehearsed, she looked straight into Shen Wen’s eyes, letting her see her every thought.

Then Jiang Man froze.

Shen Wen was utterly taken aback; with a shocked expression, her right hand had already come to rest on Jiang Man’s cheek. Jiang Man nearly misunderstood, thinking she was caressing her—but the next instant she came back to herself.

Shen Wen was identifying her.

Identifying her, as if what stood before her were not Jiang Man at all, but someone who looked just like her yet was entirely different.

The two were far too close—her fragrance, her orchid-sweet breath, everything near enough to touch. Shen Wen was indeed warm; her body heat hovered near and far like her gaze, but was no longer so coldly distant. That faint ember had gone out; her melancholy undiminished—and yet in this moment Shen Wen’s eyes were too rich, too violent, like a river in flood, like a burst dike rushing from snowy mountain valleys straight to the sea.

Jiang Man could not read the river.

But she heard the roar of the waves—a clamor that tried to cover itself and failed, a kind of… fury?

Was she angry?

Shen Wen laughed. Jiang Man should have been afraid—but she was far too close, and one of her hands still rested lightly on her face… Jiang Man involuntarily drew a breath, her breathing trembling faintly, as if feeling the rise and fall of a great river.

Gaunt, clear, winter water gathering its strength.

That was Shen Wen’s gaze.

Mountains high, roads perilous—a thousand li of doubt; wine cold, spirit clear, peace assured. What I fear most: Lin’an’s winter waters running thin; a startled swan over the Hidden Osmanthus leaves the name unsung.

Jiang Man raised her hand and gently caught Shen Wen’s wrist, slowly tightening her grip.

“Jiang Xiaojiu.”

“Yes.”

Shen Wen’s brow trembled; she looked at her fixedly and said again: “Jiang Xiaojiu.”

“This humble one is here.” Jiang Man was neither servile nor arrogant.

“Do you know what you are saying?” Shen Wen narrowed her eyes, as if asking her, and as if asking herself. “Do you truly understand what it is you’re asking for?”

Jiang Man pressed her lips together and said, word by word: “This humble one is offering her pillow of her own accord.”

Shen Wen sighed, making no attempt to hide it, and raised her hand; Jiang Man had no choice but to let go. Yet Shen Wen still looked at her, neither retreating nor advancing, only standing where she was, and asked: “Why—because of your so-called ‘duty’?”

Jiang Man was taken aback.

“What maidservant’s duty ever was—” Shen Wen paused, “was offering her pillow? I hired you for no such thing.”

Jiang Man’s ears began to burn.

Shen Wen pressed a hand to her forehead, then suddenly seized Jiang Man’s wrist. Her mind was still reeling; caught off guard by the touch, she nearly shook her off in agitation—but Shen Wen’s grip was strong, drawing Jiang Man away from the window, the two of them walking to the innermost corner of the study.

She lowered her voice: “Has someone said something to you?”

Jiang Man shook her head, tears gradually welling in her eyes: “It was this humble one’s mistaken thought.”

“It’s not that I don’t want you, Jiang Xiaojiu.” The words had scarcely left Shen Wen’s mouth when, meeting Jiang Man’s eyes, her gaze actually flinched for an instant. Her lips moved, but in the end she said nothing more, and the silence stretched long.

Jiang Man held back her tears. Right now she had half a mind to dash her head against this wall and die—but she could not die in front of Shen Wen; that would be the gravest disrespect. Nor did she wish to die before her, just as she did not wish to shed tears in front of Shen Wen.

Yet unwilling or not…

Jiang Man’s tears seemed to answer to no authority of hers.

Shen Wen raised a hand, stopping midway in the empty air, then took out a handkerchief and handed it to Jiang Man. Jiang Man took it and stubbornly turned her head away, as if today’s her could thereby lose a little less face.

Shen Wen sighed again: “Jiang Xiaojiu, it is not that I don’t want you.”

“Is it because this humble one is not as capable as Lord Wu?” Jiang Man, smashing the broken jar, was resolved to walk this road to its black end. “Xiaojiu is frail and cannot help the Female Scribe; staying in the garden day after day, I only waste rice and grain and delay many people’s time. Lord Wu is naturally extraordinary—at least compared to me, he can run before your saddle and behind your horse, toiling day and night…”

“Why are you comparing yourself to him?” Shen Wen frowned.

“Isn’t Lord Wu the Female Scribe’s Personal Attendant?” Jiang Man looked at her through her tears. “Why can he, and this humble one not? Why has the Female Scribe, to this day, only kept me fed at her side, like one eating free bread?”

Shen Wen started, closing her eyes in exasperation: “That brain of yours…”

Jiang Man set her jaw and sniffled.

Shen Wen smoothed the stray hairs at her forehead and ears with one hand—whether she truly felt her hair was disordered, or simply did not wish to look at Jiang Man a moment longer, none could say. She only said slowly: “Do you know what kind of office ‘Female Scribe’ is?”

“This humble one does not.”

“A palace office. At its head are six Directors, with twenty-four Bureaus, twenty-four Stewardships, and twenty-four Overseerships—all ranked positions. Those twenty-four Bureaus direct the Female Officials of each place, and beneath them are unranked assistants, who are called ‘Female Scribes.'” Shen Wen looked at her, her tone very flat. “I am the Empress’s inner niece. Even were I married to a common laborer, the rank I’d be granted would far exceed that of the palace Directors. When these people in Lin’an call me ‘Female Scribe,’ it is not flattery.”

In saying this, Shen Wen showed not the slightest trace of boasting. Jiang Man, tears congealing, felt utterly ashamed—yet Shen Wen’s rare patience and flat tone were, unseen, soothing her, letting her slowly calm.

“I don’t care for empty titles—you must have seen that by now.” Shen Wen said. “This title of ‘Female Scribe’ was given to me; whether it becomes an insult or an honor depends on what I do, on what others fear, and on what is sought in the heart when the title is spoken. By today, of the contempt once in it, not one part in ten remains; my own people all call me this too. When, in the Hidden Osmanthus Garden, have we ever avoided the word ‘Maidservant’—one who serves at another’s bidding?

“Even so, in coming and going, one must still consider how things appear to others—at the very least, I, Shen Wen myself, cannot be the one to create the opportunity for people to point at the mulberry and curse the locust.” Shen Wen shot her a glance. “I don’t care for empty titles, but neither do I like it when people take advantage of anyone surnamed Shen.”

Jiang Man looked thoughtful; Shen Wen was still smoothing her hair, no longer looking at her.

She felt only that one of her feet had already stepped into the coffin: “Then ‘Personal Attendant’…”

Shen Wen nodded with eyes closed: “Those who accompany me out and fill the role of companion—man or woman alike—are called ‘Personal Attendants.’ It does not… it does not mean concubine.”

The study was utterly quiet; even each other’s breathing could be heard clearly.

Jiang Man said: “This humble one has turned it over a hundred ways, and can think only of dying to atone.”

Shen Wen lowered her eyes, expression unchanged, as if she hadn’t heard. But all at once she reached out and took away that silk kerchief Jiang Man had clutched, unused, in her hand—and instead gently cupped her face, carefully wiping her tears for her.

Jiang Man had already stopped crying; at the sight of her, the tears flowed silently out again.

“Are you so afraid of me because of this?” Shen Wen wiped her face, saying softly, “Afraid I would summon you to stay the night?”

Jiang Man neither nodded nor shook her head. What she truly feared was not such a thing. Concerns of a woman’s chastity, Jiang Man had cast away the moment she signed and pressed her mark. She did not fear bearing an ill name, and had long since steeled herself to die to prove her purpose once the deed was done—what she feared was losing everything for nothing.

Now, this calamity that had befallen the Jiang family must have hidden causes. If Jiang Man gave everything and could not win back even a single thread of a clue, then even as a ghost she could only be a vengeful ghost denied the wheel of rebirth.

Empty-handed on both ends—Jiang Man could not face the Jiang ancestors, could not face her parents beneath the nine springs.

“I am displeased.” Shen Wen looked at her, and that sorrow of hers, far from lightening, only deepened. “Jiang Xiaojiu, I am angry. Do you know why?”

Jiang Man felt only that it was her own sin, yet she didn’t know how to repay it.

In the end she only shook her head, took the silk kerchief from Shen Wen’s hand, seized the chance to step back a pace, curtsied, and stood with lowered brows and compliant eyes: “This humble one does not know. I beg the Female Scribe to make it plain.”

She could feel Shen Wen’s gaze settling on her; she could even feel that gaze turning colder, degree by degree, until it could bring her to her knees. Jiang Man still did not move—she was, if anything, more respectful, more docile, as if the person who had just offered her pillow had not been her at all, as if she had not shed tears, as if Shen Wen had not, without a word, moved to comfort her.

She could not forget her purpose…

Still less could she forget why she had come to this place.

“Jiang Man.”

Jiang Man trembled involuntarily. Shen Wen’s voice frightened her as it never had before. This was the first time she had called her by her name—as if she had committed some irretrievable error and would be beheaded when autumn came.

“This humble one is here.” She still kept her head lowered, awaiting the verdict.

“Is it truly your wish to give yourself to me—even though I am not even a man?”

She lifted her head entirely against her own control. Jiang Man looked at Shen Wen—how did she know what she was thinking?

“You fear that if you are not my plaything, sooner or later I will hand you off to someone else.” Shen Wen narrowed her eyes. The words had scarcely fallen when, as if she had found something supremely ironic on Jiang Man’s face, she suddenly gave a cold laugh. “That is exactly what you think. That is all you will ever think.”

Jiang Man drew a breath, wanting to retort. Her lips had barely parted when an invisible hand clamped her throat through the air, forbidding her speech.

What could she say?

In some instant too brief to parse, she had wanted to be close to her, to comfort her, to share with her some—some intimacy between man and woman?

To say she had witnessed her melancholy and wished to drive it away with her own body?

But Shen Wen was right: she was not a man, and Jiang Man even less.

What had she been thinking?

“I will say it once more, and this is my final warning.” Shen Wen gave her a sidelong look. “You are beautiful, you are alone in the world, you have no one to depend on but others, and you regard yourself as no different from an object—I don’t blame you for that. I only despise you for being foolish, despise your dullness, despise that you have read books and grasped their principles, yet treat them only as the standard by which men conduct themselves, only as the textbook for serving a husband and raising children.

“If you wish to squander a heaven-sent gift, that is your affair. But do not take me for that kind of person as well.” She was nearly killing her with her eyes. “I am not that kind of person.”

Did she not know the gulf between heaven and mud that lay between them?

The words burst from Jiang Man: “Your standing is exalted; you have no such concerns. Duckweed such as I—by what do I protect myself?”

The words had scarcely left her when her tears brimmed over.

Jiang Man fought them back, head held high. She had already been in a position of certain defeat, yet now, facing Shen Wen, she found she did not want to concede at all.

“At least you need not trade your beauty for your bread.” Shen Wen stared at her. “Do you truly believe you haven’t the ability to stand in this world on your own?”

“Do I?” Jiang Man forced a laugh, tears congealing. “Female Scribe Shen—when I go out, people look at me like starving men staring at a feast. Family destroyed, kin lost, with nothing but the skill of begging a mouthful of rice—in the Female Scribe’s view, carrying a jade treasure, how am I to protect myself?”

She laughed again, murmuring softly: “By destroying myself?”

Shen Wen drew a deep breath and came close to her.

Jiang Man stubbornly kept her head raised. She was resolved never to shed one more tear before her.

“The world is a hard road, and harder still for a woman. If you cannot protect yourself,” Shen Wen said, “then I will protect you.”