Outside Quxian Tower, carriages flowed in an endless stream. Scholars from all over Jinling came drawn by its reputation—whether from humble doors or noble families, all wanted a glimpse of the flourishing scene.
Yet Yan Zhi’an, lauded as the foremost talent of Jinling, was already preparing to slip away before the contest even began.
As luck would have it, someone blocked her path. The woman wore plain white robes, her long hair draped over her shoulders, her entire being steeped in the scent of books. Five or six young women followed behind her.
At the sight of Yan Zhi’an, the group stopped. The woman leading them, just past thirty with sharp eyes, approached and halted, then said with amusement, “Left Prime Minister, trying to slip away again, are you?”
The two saluted each other—the greeting of equals—their movements graceful. In the biting wind, they looked like a painting of elegant ladies. Xunqi was struck by their beauty, and even more by how they could turn even a formal courtesy so refined and lovely.
“Elegance” was carved into their very bones.
“Headmaster Yuan.” Yan Zhi’an narrowed her eyes slightly and patted the back of her daughter’s head. “Greet Headmaster Yuan. She is the academy head of Jinling Academy.”
Xunqi didn’t understand what an “academy head” was, but with an outsider present, she followed her mother’s instructions and saluted. “Xunqi greets Headmaster Yuan.”
Yuan Fusheng looked at Xunqi in surprise. The girl had delicate brows and eyes, a face marked by illness, but her bright, lovely eyes showed she was a beauty in the making.
“Left Prime Minister, have you taken on a student?” Yuan Fusheng was astonished. She had known Yan Zhi’an since childhood and knew her nature best—laziness pervaded her very bones. How could she take on a student?
Yan Zhi’an had been precocious and steady since childhood, utterly cold and detached—she kept everyone at a distance.
Sharp-minded as she was, Yan Zhi’an understood at once. “This is my daughter, Xunqi.”
“Your daughter?” Yuan Fusheng stepped back, furrowed her brow, and sucked in a cold breath. “Yan Zhi’an, the old diehards of the Yan family will skin you alive.”
Yan Zhi’an had given birth without marrying, throwing away her reputation as the foremost talent of Jinling.
Yan Zhi’an raised an eyebrow, perfectly at ease. “Let them make a fuss. Worst case, they cast me out of the family. I’ll return to the capital and open a new genealogy. What do you think, Academy Head?”
“You…” Yuan Fusheng gave a wry smile. “I believe you’d actually do it. Who is her father?”
She stepped forward, approached Xunqi, and reached out a hand toward her. Xunqi startled. But the move was a feint—Yuan Fusheng’s hand shifted to grip Yan Zhi’an’s wrist.
The next moment, Yan Zhi’an withdrew her hand, but it was too late. Yuan Fusheng laughed. “Left Prime Minister, your constitution is weak. You should enjoy life while you can.”
“Get lost.” Yan Zhi’an flicked her sleeve and left.
Xunqi couldn’t follow the riddle between the two women; she followed her mother in a daze. Behind them, Yuan Fusheng burst into loud laughter.
The carriage was already waiting at the gate. The mother and daughter climbed inside, and Xunqi asked, puzzled, “Mother, what does ‘academy head’ mean? Does she manage a mountain? That person seemed like a scholar, like you.”
“She is the head of Jinling Academy. Because academies are often nestled against mountains, the title ‘Academy Head’ came about. The Yuan family originally ran academies; by this generation, Yuan Fusheng inherited the post. She is accomplished in the qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting—don’t underestimate her. When Her Majesty invited her to court, she refused. The Yuans have a family precept: Yuan descendants do not enter the imperial court.”
Yan Zhi’an wearily closed her eyes. “Besides the qin, chess, calligraphy, and painting, she also studied medicine, and her medical skills are superb.”
That pulse she’d just taken would surely have revealed her secret.
Yan Zhi’an sat straight, lifted the carriage curtain, and ordered, “Prepare lavish gifts for me. The day after tomorrow, go to the Yuan Family Academy and arrange a meeting with Headmaster Yuan.”
“Yes.” Wushuang acknowledged.
Xunqi, inside the carriage, saw through it. “Mother, are you going to bribe her?”
“Shut up. I’m upset right now.” Yan Zhi’an plainly told the little whelp: I’m unhappy, so don’t provoke me.
Xunqi glanced at her, remembering that the Madwoman always had that saying on her lips: “Don’t provoke me. Read the room. I’m angry—go sit over there.”
“Fine, I won’t bother you.” Xunqi obediently shrank into a corner.
But the next moment, Yan Zhi’an grabbed her ear. “Yan Xunqi, I’m upset, and you won’t even try to comfort me? I must have been pure evil in my past life, to be your mother in this one!”
“Ow! Let go of me! I’ll go beat up that Headmaster Yuan to make you feel better!” Xunqi tilted her head from the tug. “Is there some history between you two?”
“What history could there be?” Yan Zhi’an withdrew her hand and looked at the troublesome child before her, fury rising. Yuan Fusheng was a madwoman. And now—perfect—she’d caught the madwoman’s eye.
Xunqi was puzzled. “What’s so special about her?”
“The Yuan Family Academy is renowned across the land, holding half of Jinling’s brilliance. That’s why Yuan Fusheng’s talent outshines all of Jinling…”
“If she outshines Jinling, what about you?” Xunqi asked, confused.
Yan Zhi’an shot her a cutting glance. “When she became famous, I was still out prospecting for mines. I left Jinling at seven. By the time I came back, she was already a name. It’s only the waves behind driving the waves ahead.”
Xunqi understood—there was a gap in their timelines.
After returning to the mansion, Yan Zhi’an actually tossed an abacus at her. “Young Mistress, compose a few more peony poems.”
Xunqi: “…”
She lifted her little face and asked, “Can I write sitting down?”
Yan Zhi’an: “You want to write kneeling? Fine, that’s allowed.”
Xunqi immediately protested, “I was joking! I’ll write right now.”
“Why are you so dull?” Yan Zhi’an pressed her forehead. Stupid and silly—where was the bearing of an Heir Apparent?
Yan Zhi’an was worried sick. But soon she walked over to Xunqi’s side, saw her chicken-scratch handwriting, and her vision went dark. “You can compose poetry, yet your handwriting…”
“I… I…” Xunqi stammered for a long while without finishing.
The Madwoman had said: One day, if these poems can earn you a living, then they are yours.
Xunqi blinked, then looked up with a smile. “I can paint, but the Madwoman said my paintings are ugly.”
“How ugly?” Yan Zhi’an was surprised. What kind of person was this Madwoman?
Xunqi looked around the room, searching, and spotted the Winter Plum Painting. “I can copy that.”
“Copy?” A realization flickered across Yan Zhi’an’s face. Some people specialized in copying famous paintings, passing off fakes as genuine to make a living.
She wanted to see what Xunqi could do, so she called out, “Bring brushes and paint.”
Xunqi immediately stood up. But Yan Zhi’an pressed her hand. “Write first.”
Xunqi made a bitter face. “I think I should practice calligraphy first.”
“The Young Mistress has self-awareness. Very good.” Yan Zhi’an mocked. “You have time to paint—why not practice calligraphy?”
“I have no money, and paper is expensive.” Xunqi lowered her head. “Copying paintings could support me—that counts as a craft. But the Madwoman said my paintings were too ugly, so I never mastered either.”
The little girl was too ashamed to lift her head. Following the Madwoman, she hadn’t learned a single skill. Even on her deathbed, the Madwoman was still worrying about how Xunqi would survive.
She had failed the Madwoman!
Yan Zhi’an’s eyes stilled, gazing at the dim shadows on the ground. She reached out and touched the back of Xunqi’s neck. “You’re still young. You can take your time with the Four Books and Six Arts.”
She couldn’t help feeling sorry for her. If Emperor Hui hadn’t usurped the throne, Xunqi would have been Emperor Ming’s eldest daughter, dressed in silk and fed on delicacies—let alone a few sheets of paper.
Yan Zhi’an’s emotions came and went quickly. “Starting tomorrow, practice calligraphy. Fix that chicken scratch.”
“Head of the Family, the brushes and paint are here.”
“Put them on the table.”
Yan Zhi’an took one of the poems and glanced over it. Amazement flickered in her eyes. Then she looked at Xunqi. To compose such poetry at such a young age—how had the Madwoman taught her?
Such talent had to be carefully honed.
Meanwhile, Xunqi picked up her brush, glanced at the Winter Plum Painting, and set to work. In less than half an hour, she was done.
Yan Zhi’an looked at the painting on the wall, then at the painting on the table whose ink was still wet. Her vision went dark.
It wasn’t that they were similar. They were identical.
She asked, “This is what you call ugly?”
Xunqi answered honestly, “That’s what the Madwoman said. She said a single glance revealed it was a fake.”
Yan Zhi’an understood now. There had indeed been a period when many fakes had appeared in Jinling. Because the genuine article was in her hands, plenty of people had bought the fakes and even preened over them.
Most of them had probably come from the Madwoman’s hand.
She pressed her forehead and glanced at Xunqi. “Kneel, then.”
Kneeling will teach you just how terribly wrong you were.
