The Zither Before the Curtain
The ancient zither still rested beside the gift registry desk.
When it had first been delivered, it had been laid inside a long brocade case lined with soft satin, its lacquer-black body dark and heavy, a piece of jade set into the tail. Now the case had been closed again, and the dark brocade cover drawn back over it. Only the copper-bound corners at either end remained exposed, catching a muted gleam under the lamplight.
The steward at the registry looked up from his ledger when Old Zhao came over with the men.
"Careful with it."
The warning was meant for Old Zhao, yet his gaze flicked across Fang Yingjie as well.
"Mama Qi gave orders. Take it first to the outer room of Yan Pavilion. Don't send it into storage, and don't leave it mixed in with the other gifts."
Old Zhao nodded. "Understood."
Then he turned to Fang Yingjie.
"You take the back."
One of the other old servants happened to have both hands free and stepped forward to lift the front end of the case. Fang Yingjie moved to the rear and braced the bottom with both hands.
The case was longer than an ordinary gift chest, and far more awkward to carry. It was not especially heavy, but long things were hardest to steady. Tilt it even a little, and the zither inside might strike the walls of the case. As Fang Yingjie lifted, the cut across the back of his hand brushed the sharp edge near one of the copper corners. The pain was fine and fleeting. He did not so much as frown. He merely shifted his fingers half an inch lower and steadied the weight again.
Old Zhao saw it and said nothing.
He only lowered his voice.
"Take the back passage to the second floor. Don't go through the middle of the main hall. When you reach the outer corridor of Yan Pavilion, one of the maids will take over. If they tell you to set it down, you set it down. If they tell you to carry it inside, then go inside—but keep your eyes on the floor. Do you understand?"
"I understand," Fang Yingjie said.
Old Zhao added, "That place isn't the front hall. Outer-yard hands aren't allowed near it on ordinary days. You're going tonight only because Mama Qi gave the word. The less you say, the less chance you have of making a mistake."
"Yes," Fang Yingjie replied.
Only then did Old Zhao step aside.
The two servants carried the case away, one in front and one behind, heading deeper into the side corridor.
Behind them, the noise in the main hall swelled once more. Since Yan Ji would receive no guests tonight, another round of wine had already been poured at every table. Girls like Qiutang and Yuniang had begun drifting downstairs again to offer toasts, and some measure of laughter had returned to the patrons' faces. Yet beneath those smiles there was still something hard and unwilling to let go. The more reluctant they were to accept it, the louder the drinking seemed to grow, as though everyone in the tower meant to drown out that single sentence—
Yan Pavilion would receive no guests tonight.
The farther they went along the back passage, the more distant that laughter became.
The stairway stood at the end of the side corridor. It was narrow, only just wide enough for two men to carry the case upward slowly. The old servant in front climbed with great care, pausing for half a breath at every step. Fang Yingjie followed behind, and his own footsteps softened to match.
A small lamp hung at the turning of the stairs.
Its shade was not the vivid red of the main hall, but a pale apricot color, and its light fell softly enough to show every worn mark in the wooden steps. From above came the faintest sound of footsteps, as though muffled behind gauze. Higher up, the smell of wine faded. The scent of aloeswood incense faded with it. In its place lingered something cleaner—something not quite orchid, not quite cold plum blossom by the water, faint enough to vanish if one tried too hard to catch it.
Fang Yingjie kept his eyes lowered as he carried the case.
He could still hear the uproar below.
He could also hear, now and then, the whisper of sleeves brushing past the curtains in the upstairs corridor.
This tower seemed to have two faces.
Downstairs, red lanterns filled the hall. Patrons laughed, cups rang against one another, and every man seemed determined to thrust himself before Yan Ji's eyes.
Upstairs, everything was quieter.
And the nearer they came to Yan Pavilion, the quieter it became.
Too quiet for a pleasure house.
It felt instead like a study hidden deep above the water—one not meant to be lightly disturbed.
The old servant in front murmured, "Slowly. We're here."
Fang Yingjie stopped at once.
On the lakeside of the second floor ran a corridor wider than the others. Gauze curtains the color of water hung outside it, and whenever the night wind came off the lake, their shadows stirred in layer after layer. Small lamps hung between the pillars. Their light was not bright, yet it left the blue bricks beneath them faintly gleaming. Ahead stood a half-lowered curtain of beads. Beyond it, one could just make out a carved wooden door. Two maids stood waiting outside.
And beside the door stood one more figure.
Iron Mask.
He still wore the same dark clothing as before, and the iron mask covered his entire face. Downstairs beneath the red lanterns, he had seemed merely grim and hard. Here, beneath the pale light outside Yan Pavilion, he looked more like a slab of old iron—something utterly without warmth.
The old servant in front was clearly afraid of him. His steps grew even lighter than before.
When the maids saw the zither case, one of them came forward and asked softly, "Young Master Shen's zither?"
"Yes," the servant answered at once. "Mama Qi ordered it sent to the outer room of Yan Pavilion."
The maid lowered her eyes to the case, then glanced at Fang Yingjie.
She recognized the older servant in front, but not the young man behind. His clothes were still the worn garments of the outer yard, and his face was unfamiliar. A faint crease touched her brow.
"New here?"
The servant said, "He entered the outer yard today. Steward Zhao called him over to lend a hand."
The maid asked no more. "Just leave it outside."
The servant looked instantly relieved and was already about to nod—
when a voice sounded from behind the curtain of beads.
"Bring it in."
It was not a loud voice.
Filtered through the curtain, through fragrance and lamplight, it carried a softness to it—and yet it remained perfectly clear.
The old servant's back stiffened at once.
Even the maid seemed taken aback for a moment before lowering her head. "Yes, miss."
She lifted one side of the beaded curtain.
The beads struck against one another with a delicate, chiming sound.
The old servant glanced up once, then dropped his eyes again at once, as if he now feared looking anywhere at all. Under his breath he said to Fang Yingjie, "Come."
Fang Yingjie said nothing. He only kept the case steady and followed him through the curtain.
Inside was the outer room of Yan Pavilion.
It was not as gaudy as the guests downstairs imagined. The furnishings were, if anything, elegant. By the window stood a small writing table with an incense burner, tea cups, and several stitched booklets laid neatly upon it. Against the wall rested a zither stand, and beside it hung a jade flute. On the eastern side hung a deeper layer of gauze; beyond that, presumably, lay the inner pavilion. Outside the window stretched the dark lake. The night breeze drifted through and made the lamplight sway.
Yan Ji sat by the table at the window.
She was no longer the woman enthroned upon the high platform before a hundred staring eyes.
She still wore red. Her cosmetics were still rich, and the golden buyao in her hair still trailed its fine tassels. Yet away from the hall of red lanterns and the roar of guests, the brilliance about her had deepened and quieted. She no longer looked like fire. She looked instead like a touch of red reflected in deep water.
She did not sit close.
Between them stood the zither case, the shifting lamplight, and one thin drift of incense smoke.
Even so, this was the first time Fang Yingjie had seen her from so near.
At the end of the side corridor earlier, he had been caught for a moment only by that blaze of color and the force of the whole tower's attention. Seen up close now, he realized how striking her features truly were—striking almost to the point of pressure. Not the clear brightness of a young girl, nor the practiced allure affected by ordinary women of the pleasure quarters, but a composure born of having endured countless gazes and still held mastery over them all.
A woman like this should never have called to mind any old shadow so easily.
Fang Yingjie looked only once before lowering his eyes again.
Old Zhao had told him: look less.
The servant had already spoken first.
"Miss, the zither has arrived."
"Put it there," Yan Ji said.
She meant the low table beside the zither stand near the window.
The two men carried the case over. Fang Yingjie, at the rear, lowered his end especially slowly. Just before the copper corner could touch the table, he supported the weight with his fingers once more, letting the case settle flat without making the slightest heavy sound.
Yan Ji's gaze rested on his hands for the briefest moment.
The old servant stepped back half a pace and lowered his head. "If there are no further instructions, miss, then this servant will take his leave."
Yan Ji did not answer at once.
For a breath, the room fell still.
Then she asked, "What is his name?"
The old servant stared blankly for a moment.
Fang Yingjie himself paused as well.
The maid at the side instinctively turned to look at him. Even Iron Mask by the door seemed, in that instant, to angle his mask by the faintest degree.
The old servant hurried to answer, "Miss, he's new. His name is Mu Qi."
"Mu Qi," Yan Ji repeated softly.
The name sounded in her voice like nothing more than a casual inquiry after some new servant in the outer yard. There was no surprise in it, no discernible emotion.
Fang Yingjie kept his eyes lowered.
"Yes."
Yan Ji looked at him. "Which Mu? Which Qi?"
"Mu as in wood," he answered. "Qi as in the number seven."
The moment the words left him, he felt how clumsy they sounded.
But he should not have said much here to begin with.
Silence fell again for a moment.
Outside, the wind off the lake stirred the gauze curtain, and the incense smoke bent slightly in the draft. A burst of laughter rose faintly from below, only to be cut off again by the curtains and door.
"Your first day here?" Yan Ji asked.
"Yes."
"In the outer yard?"
"Yes."
"Have you done this kind of work before?"
Fang Yingjie hesitated.
"No."
That time, at least, he did not lie.
Yan Ji looked at him once.
"No wonder."
Fang Yingjie did not raise his head.
Nor did he ask what she meant.
He merely stood where he was, sleeves hanging half low at his sides, the knuckles of his right hand still pale from the strain of steadying the case. The wounds across his palm and the back of his hand had been washed, but they could not be hidden. Most of all, the cut rubbed raw again and again by coffin wood, hemp rope, and broken tiles still showed a dark red gleam beneath the lamplight.
Yan Ji's gaze fell there.
"Your hand is injured?"
Fang Yingjie drew his fingers in slightly, almost without meaning to.
"Just a small wound."
"Can you still work?"
"I can."
He answered too quickly, as though there had never been any other answer open to him.
Yan Ji looked at him, and her eyes were very still in the light.
She did not ask where the wounds had come from. She did not ask why he had entered the tower that very day, why he had taken an advance of one tael of silver, or where he had gone before sunset.
Those were not questions she ought to ask in front of servants.
Nor were they questions an outer-yard hand ought to answer.
She only gave the slightest nod.
"You may go."
The old servant answered at once, "Yes, miss."
Fang Yingjie lowered his head as well. "Yes."
The two of them backed away a few steps, then turned toward the door.
Fang Yingjie was the one behind.
As he passed the beaded curtain, the wind made the hanging strands tap softly against one another. He should not have looked again. Yet as he was about to step out, his gaze still brushed, despite himself, over that touch of red inside the room.
Yan Ji still sat beside the table.
She was not looking at the zither.
She was not looking at the lights below, either.
It seemed that she was looking in his direction.
That glance was separated from him by lamplight and the beaded curtain, so light it scarcely seemed a glance at all. Yet something in Fang Yingjie stirred for reasons he could not have named, as if some old string long buried under dust had been touched from very far away, and touched only once, almost imperceptibly.
His steps did not stop.
Nor did he look back.
Once he was outside, the maid let the beaded curtain fall again.
The soft chime of the beads settled back into place.
Only then did the old servant seem to recover his breath. In a low voice he said, "Come on."
Fang Yingjie followed him back along the outer corridor.
Iron Mask still stood by the door.
When Fang Yingjie passed him, the iron mask seemed to turn very slightly.
There was no sound.
No movement.
Yet for that single instant, Fang Yingjie felt a heavy gaze settle on him. It was not the casual contempt with which a patron looked at a servant, nor the assessing look of a steward weighing whether a newcomer had made a mistake. It was something deeper, duller, harder to read.
He did not stop.
Old Zhao had told him: look less, ask less.
So Fang Yingjie lowered his eyes and went back down the stairs.
At once the noise from below came crashing over him again.
The smell of wine, the laughter, the perfume powder, the calls of the brothel attendants—all of it rose from the direction of the main hall like a warm, murky wave, washing away at once the cool, faint fragrance of Yan Pavilion's outer room.
By the time he returned to the side corridor, Old Zhao was checking over the gifts that had been sent back.
He looked up when Fang Yingjie came back and asked only, "Delivered?"
"Yes."
"Any mistakes?"
"No."
Old Zhao studied him for a moment, as though trying to read something from his face.
But Fang Yingjie looked calm.
At least, calm on the surface.
So Old Zhao asked nothing further. He only pointed to an empty wine jar nearby.
"Take that to the back courtyard. Quickly."
Fang Yingjie bent and picked it up.
The jar was empty, far lighter than the one he had carried to the eastern tables before. And yet, for some reason, his fingers tightened on it more than they had on the zither case.
He went back into the rear passage.
Behind him, Baoque Tower was still in an uproar.
Yan Pavilion would receive no guests tonight.
All evening, wealthy merchants and cultivated gentlemen had competed for a chance to enter, and not one of them had succeeded.
Yet he—a mere outer-yard servant called Mu Qi—had stood just now before that curtain of beads.
Fang Yingjie did not let the thought go any further.
He did not dare.
He only lowered his head and carried the empty jar toward the back courtyard, one step at a time.
Asking After Mu Qi
By the time Fang Yingjie carried the empty wine jar back into the rear yard, night had fully settled over Baoque Tower.
Yet Yan Ji's departure had not made the place any quieter.
Yan Pavilion might not be receiving guests tonight, but Baoque Tower could hardly close its doors because of that. The patrons might leave disappointed, but the wine still had to be poured, the music still had to be played, the girls still had to come downstairs to toast the guests, and the gifts still had to be checked, sealed, stored, or returned one by one. Compared with the frantic rush before Yan Ji appeared, the work now was more broken up, more tedious—and easier to get wrong.
One gift chest was meant for storage.
Another had to be handed back to a patron's attendants.
Some patrons said they would present their gifts again next month.
Others ordered theirs taken away on the spot.
Anything being returned had to be checked against the list.
Anything being kept had to be sealed.
If even one item was sent to the wrong place, the trouble could be enormous.
Old Zhao stood at the storeroom door, the stub of charcoal in his hand scarcely pausing.
"This one is marked for Sixth Master Huang. Keep it."
"Second Master Lu's box of Eastern pearls—write it down as temporarily stored. And don't disturb the brocade wrapping."
"Scholar Gu's lyric and Young Master Xie's quatrain scroll—put them aside by themselves. Paper hates damp. Don't press them under the incense boxes."
"Councilor He's box of aloeswood incense—take it to the west racks and label it clearly."
Men carried chests in. Others carried lacquered gift boxes out. Under the lamplight, the storeroom filled with pearls, jade, incense cases, carved boxes, and poetry scrolls piled together. Things that had looked elegant and precious under the bright lights of the main hall became, once they reached the rear yard, nothing more than troublesome objects to be sorted and not mixed up.
Fang Yingjie set the empty jar by the wall and was about to step aside when Old Zhao looked up and called to him.
"Mu Qi."
"Yes."
"Get in there and help sort the shelves. You can read a little, so stop wasting yourself standing outside."
Fang Yingjie paused very slightly.
The steward in charge of recording the gifts had asked him about that only in passing, yet Old Zhao had taken note of it.
He did not explain. He merely answered and stepped into the storeroom.
It was darker than the front hall, and colder too. Rows of wooden racks stood against the walls, already filled with boxes and caskets of every kind. Each was marked with a slip of paper naming the patron, listing the gift, and stating whether it was to be kept or returned. Fang Yingjie lowered his eyes and glanced across them. Some of the writing was neat, some hasty, but most of it could still be made out.
A servant hurried in with two boxes in his arms, sweating with panic.
"Where does this go?"
Fang Yingjie glanced at the slip.
"Councilor He from Hukou. Aloeswood incense. West racks."
The servant looked as if he had been granted a pardon and hurried off at once.
Another came in carrying a scroll of verse.
"And this one?"
Fang Yingjie took it, saw the words Young Master Xie of Yuzhang, quatrains in his own hand, and paused for a moment before pointing to a drier cubby nearby.
"Store it separately. Don't stack anything on top of it."
The man did as told and muttered under his breath, "These masters really are something. A sheet of paper and they treat it like treasure."
One of the other servants snorted.
"If you knew how to write, yours might be treasure too."
"If I knew how to write, would I still be here moving boxes?"
A few of them laughed in low voices, then, afraid Old Zhao might hear, quickly scattered back to their work.
Fang Yingjie did not laugh.
He set an empty brocade box back on the shelf and folded a length of loosened brocade into place. The cloth was smooth beneath his fingers, the edges tightly woven, nothing like the rough splintered wood of the thin coffin from earlier that day.
His hands stopped for the briefest moment.
Then they moved again.
Certain thoughts had risen in him again and again tonight.
One tael of silver.
A thin coffin.
An unmarked stone.
Red coral.
Eastern pearls.
An ancient qin.
Yan Pavilion.
These things should never have belonged to the same night. Yet somehow all of them had fallen before his eyes on this single day, one after another, forcing him to see with terrible clarity that the weight of things in this world had never been measured by the human heart.
His father had stood upright all his life, and in death could lie only in the thinnest coffin of mixed timber.
And others, for the sake of winning a single woman's glance for one night, could casually lay down a branch of South Sea red coral.
Fang Yingjie lowered his gaze and nudged the last box square.
Old Zhao watched him for a while from the storeroom door.
The new boy was quiet, steady-handed, and kept his eyes lowered. Tell him to carry something and he carried it. Tell him to put something away and he put it away. A guest rebuked him and he did not answer back. A steward asked him something and he did not volunteer more than needed. Judging by that alone, he seemed like the sort who caused little trouble.
Too little trouble, perhaps.
The people who came into Baoque Tower desperate enough to take advance silver were usually one of three kinds: frightened, resentful, or already looking for ways to shirk work the moment they entered the outer yard. This Mu Qi was different.
He was not frightened.
He was not resentful.
It was as if something inside him had already collapsed once, and whatever more the world piled on top was only another layer of earth.
Old Zhao frowned, but kept the thought to himself.
He had spent too many years in Baoque Tower not to know that with some people, it was better not to ask about the things they carried on them.
Ask, and you still could not help.
Someone shouted again from the front hall.
"Old Zhao! The west hall needs two more jars of aged wine!"
Old Zhao turned and barked back, "What are you hollering for? Has everyone else dropped dead?"
Then he turned to Fang Yingjie.
"Mu Qi. Go with A-Dong to the wine cellar."
Fang Yingjie answered and stepped out of the storeroom.
And with that step, he stepped back into the night's labor.
For the next hour, he scarcely stopped moving.
From the wine cellar to the main hall.
From the main hall to the rear yard.
From the rear yard to the mouth of the outer corridor on the second floor.
Then back by the side passage to the storeroom again.
He carried wine jars, delivered hot towels, cleared away empty cups, made way for a drunken guest who could barely stand, and was shoulder-checked hard enough to stagger by a young nobleman hurrying after one of the girls. The man did not even apologize. He only turned back long enough to complain that Fang Yingjie had been in the way.
Fang Yingjie said nothing.
He steadied the tray in his arms, caught himself against the wall, and kept walking.
The deeper the night grew, the hotter Baoque Tower became.
Yan Ji was gone from the main hall, yet the wake she had left behind still lingered there. The patrons kept saying, "No matter, we will try again next month," yet all the while they could not help questioning Mama Qi about what kind of tunes Yan Ji preferred, what fragrance she liked, what sort of poetry she read. Mama Qi answered them all with the same smiling ease, half true and half false—just enough to make each man feel there was still a path in, but never enough for any of them to reach the end of it.
Qiutang played a short lyric tune on her pipa at the eastern tables and drew ringing applause from an entire party of guests.
Yuniang poured wine in the west hall, her laughter soft and supple, and with only a few words smoothed away most of Sixth Master Huang's lingering displeasure.
Qiyun performed a dance in one of the upstairs private rooms, the bells at her ankles chiming in delicate bursts that were half swallowed by the din of wine and voices by the time the sound reached the side corridor.
Baoque Tower was still Baoque Tower.
The red lanterns still burned.
The wine had not gone cold.
The guests had not yet dispersed.
Only everyone knew that tonight the brightest lamp had already gone upstairs, and the most expensive door had never opened.
Not until well past midnight did the main hall finally begin to loosen.
Some patrons drank themselves senseless and had to be helped out by their attendants. Others still refused to give up and sat stubbornly at their tables, insisting that Mama Qi come out once more to say a few final words. Still others were already plotting what they might bring next month, reminding the clerks in charge of recording gifts to take good care of whatever they had left behind tonight.
By the time Fang Yingjie carried the last batch of empty wine jars back to the rear yard, his arms had begun to go numb.
His old clothes were steeped in wine fumes, kitchen grease, and ash from burnt incense until their original smell had disappeared entirely. The cuts across his palms had been rubbed over and over by water, wine, and the edges of wood until they no longer stung sharply, but throbbed with a dull, heavy numbness.
A-Dong crouched by the well rinsing cups. When he saw Fang Yingjie set down the jars, he looked up.
"Bad luck for you, getting thrown into a night like this on your first day."
Fang Yingjie put down the jars.
"Is it not usually like this?"
A-Dong gave a snort.
"It's always busy. But on the nights when Miss Yan Ji is choosing patrons, it can cost you half your life."
Then he remembered that Yan Pavilion had not opened tonight after all and shook his head.
"Though I suppose the unlucky ones tonight were all those masters instead. They spent all that effort, and the girl chose no one."
Another servant beside him put in, "Not that unlucky. Just hearing one tune from her is enough for them to boast about when they go home."
A-Dong rolled his eyes.
"You'd pay a branch of red coral just to hear a tune?"
"That would require my having a branch of red coral in the first place."
The men laughed softly.
Fang Yingjie said nothing.
A-Dong looked at him and could not help asking, "Mu Qi, can you not smile?"
Fang Yingjie glanced at him.
That single look made A-Dong awkward at once, and he hurriedly waved his hands.
"All right, all right, forget I said it. Everyone is like that for the first few days. Give it time and you'll understand. In Baoque Tower, it doesn't matter whether you smile. Just don't cry."
With that, he lowered his head and went back to washing the cups.
Water splashed. Porcelain clicked softly against porcelain. The night wind crossed the rear yard and brought with it a thin chill off the lake.
Fang Yingjie stood there a moment, about to head back to the front, when Old Zhao came striding in from beneath the corridor.
"Mu Qi."
"Yes."
"You're not needed up front for the moment. Go to the kitchen hearth in the rear yard and get something to eat. Come back after and help finish up."
Fang Yingjie stared for a fraction of a second.
Since dawn, he had hardly eaten a proper bite. Buying the coffin, burying his father, returning to the tower, going on duty—one thing had pressed on the heels of another until hunger itself had been forced to the very bottom. Only now, when Old Zhao mentioned food, did the emptiness in his belly suddenly seem to open.
He said quietly, "Thank you, Steward Zhao."
Old Zhao waved it away.
"What are you thanking me for? Meals are provided for the outer yard. You need a full stomach if you want the strength to work."
Then he turned away to bawl out another page for slacking off.
A pot of hot soup had been left simmering by the rear-yard hearth.
There was hardly any oil floating on it, only a few leaves of wilted greens. Beside it, in a bamboo basket, sat several coarse steamed buns that had gone hard. Fang Yingjie took a rough porcelain bowl, ladled out half a bowl of soup, picked up one bun, and sat down on a low stool by the stove.
The heat rose up against his face.
He lowered his head and took a bite.
The bun was hard.
It was coarse, and dry enough to scrape at his throat on the way down.
But it was hot.
The soup was hot too.
Holding the bowl in both hands, Fang Yingjie had, for one very brief instant, no idea whether he ought to be grateful for this mouthful of warmth.
That afternoon, when his father was laid in the earth, there had been no incense, no offerings, no hot food.
And now, at night, he sat in the back kitchen of a brothel drinking soup left for Baoque Tower's servants.
The moment the thought came, something caught in his throat.
He stopped.
Steam rose slowly from the bowl and blurred his eyes.
A rough old kitchen woman was busy tidying the pots and hearth and did not notice him. A-Dong and the other pages were still talking by the well, their laughter kept carefully low.
No one saw.
Fang Yingjie shut his eyes, forced down whatever it was lodged in his throat, then lowered his head and drank the rest of the soup.
He left not a drop.
Meanwhile, upstairs in Yan Pavilion, the lamp was still burning.
Compared with the clamor of the front hall, the pavilion was as quiet as another world.
Outside the window, the lake lay black and heavy. Far away, now and then, a boat-lantern wavered on the water. Inside the room, the incense smoke had already faded. The qin that Young Master Shen had presented still rested by the zither table, only half uncovered, its brocade case opened just enough to reveal the dark gleam of the instrument and the smooth jade inlay at the tail.
Yan Ji sat beside the table without touching it.
She had removed one gold hairpin from her coiffure, though the rest of her hair was still pinned up, only a little looser than before. She had not changed out of her red robes, but under the lamplight their brilliance had gone still and deep. Her fingertips rested at the edge of a teacup. The tea had gone cold, yet she had not drunk it.
Beyond the bead curtain, a maid said softly, "Miss, Mama Qi has come."
Yan Ji said, "Let her in."
Mama Qi lifted the curtain and entered.
She had spent a long time downstairs dealing with the guests. The smile was still on her face, but once she stepped into Yan Pavilion, she finally let herself breathe a little easier.
"This evening was not an easy one to smooth over."
She sat to one side and tapped the handle of her round fan lightly against her palm.
"Sixth Master Huang very nearly lost face entirely. Second Master Lu took it well enough, and Young Master Shen at least knew how to behave. As for Scholar Gu and that young master from the Xie family, I expect they'll be nursing their frustration for days."
Yan Ji lowered her eyes.
"Has everything downstairs been settled?"
"It has," Mama Qi said. "What should be kept has been kept. What should be returned has been returned. Another round of wine was sent out, and Qiutang and the others have all gone down to entertain. On the surface, every gentleman can still save face."
She paused, then looked at Yan Ji.
"Only, if you choose no one tonight, there will be plenty of talk outside tomorrow."
Yan Ji's expression did not change.
"Let them talk."
Mama Qi laughed softly.
"I knew you would not care."
Yan Ji did not answer.
Mama Qi had been with her many years and did not press. Her gaze fell instead on the qin resting on the low table.
"The qin Young Master Shen brought—you had it sent up here. Have you looked at it yet?"
"Not yet."
"Then why have it brought up at all?"
Yan Ji's fingertips stilled against the rim of the cup.
"He spoke with composure, and the gift itself was appropriately chosen. If it had been sent straight to storage, that would have been discourteous."
Mama Qi nodded.
That explanation made sense.
And yet she felt there was more to it than that.
She smiled and looked at Yan Ji.
"Tonight, Miss, it does not seem to be only courtesy."
Yan Ji raised her eyes.
Mama Qi's face still wore the same smooth, kindly smile she had shown downstairs, but here in the quiet of Yan Pavilion, her gaze was sharper.
"I was standing too far away below to see clearly. But when the qin was brought in, one of the maids told me you had the page who delivered it brought inside as well."
Yan Ji did not deny it.
"Yes."
Mama Qi closed her fan with a soft click.
"That Mu Qi?"
Silence lay in the room for the space of a breath.
Yan Ji said, "Since he came back to the tower today, has he been in the outer yard the entire time?"
Mama Qi answered, "He came back before sundown and reported first to Old Zhao. He has been running errands along the outer corridors of the front hall ever since. Old Zhao says he is steady enough. Keeps his eyes lowered, speaks little, works quickly."
"What else?"
Mama Qi thought a moment.
"He can read."
Yan Ji lifted her gaze.
"That came from the gift-recording desk," Mama Qi said. "They had him carry boxes into storage, and he could make out the names on the slips. He said he knew only a few characters, but he did not look like a man who knew only a few."
Yan Ji said nothing.
Mama Qi went on.
"He does not look like the sort who wandered in begging at random. His hands are steady. His back is straight. When patrons scold him, he keeps himself in hand. Only…"
She stopped there for a moment.
Yan Ji looked at her.
Mama Qi weighed her words, then said, "Only he is too heavy."
She spoke quietly.
"He is not old, but he does not feel like someone of that age. He looks like a man carrying something very heavy inside him."
The room fell silent.
Outside, the lake lapped softly against the pilings.
Yan Ji lowered her eyes, her gaze resting on the half-open qin case.
"Did Steward Wang ask where he came from?"
"He asked a little," Mama Qi replied. "Mu Qi said he was from elsewhere and had run into trouble on the road and had nowhere to go for the time being. He did not say more than that. Steward Wang saw that he was willing to sign the contract, and with the word you had spoken earlier, he did not probe too deeply."
Yan Ji did not speak at once.
Mama Qi looked at her and finally asked in a lower voice, "Miss, do you think there is something wrong with this man?"
The moment the words were spoken, something in the room shifted.
By the doorway, Iron Mask had come to stand at some point in the outer room's shadow.
He still did not speak.
But the tilt of that iron mask toward the interior made it seem as though he too was waiting for the answer.
Yan Ji lifted her eyes, glanced once toward Iron Mask, and then let her gaze fall away again.
"People with something wrong about them come through Baoque Tower every day."
Mama Qi smiled faintly.
"That is true enough."
Who came to Baoque Tower without some hidden trouble clinging to them?
Wealthy merchants feared others would discover they had spent money to buy face.
Scholars feared being seen through in their borrowed loftiness.
Men of the martial world feared old enemies.
Men tied to the authorities feared scandal.
The girls feared growing old.
The servants feared having no rice to eat tomorrow.
To have secrets was not strange.
What was strange was that Yan Ji would ask about them.
Mama Qi did not pursue it further. She only said, "Then what does Miss intend to do?"
Yan Ji looked out the window.
The lake lay under a heavy night. Far off, that one boat-lantern flickered over the water, bright and dim by turns.
After a while, she said, "Do not move him farther away yet."
Mama Qi's brows shifted slightly.
"Let him keep running errands along the outer corridors of the front hall."
Mama Qi understood.
This was not promotion.
Not kindness.
Not a summons closer to Yan Pavilion.
Only that he was not to be thrown off to the kitchen, the woodshed, the docks, or some other distant corner. Keep him in the front corridors—where he could be seen, and where no one would find it odd.
Mama Qi nodded.
"I will tell Old Zhao."
Yan Ji added, "And do not let him know."
Mama Qi smiled.
"Miss may rest easy. In this tower, the only one better at pretending not to understand than I am is probably Old Zhao."
Yan Ji did not smile.
She only lifted a hand and gently closed the half-open brocade case.
The lid met the box with the softest of sounds.
Mama Qi watched her hand.
That same hand had just played a single tune before a full hall and left countless men breathless, had made a room full of pearls and jade lose their color. Now, resting on the qin case, it seemed to press down on some old scar invisible to anyone else.
Suddenly Mama Qi asked, "Miss chose no one tonight—was it truly because the music had already come to its end?"
Yan Ji's hand remained on the case.
A moment later she said, "What else would it be?"
Mama Qi's smile was very slight.
"I was only asking in passing."
Yan Ji looked up at her.
Mama Qi said nothing more.
There were questions she could ask as far as this and no farther. To go beyond would not be a madam's place. It would be the place of someone from long ago.
And she did not know whether she had the right to be that person.
Silence settled over the room once more.
After a long while, Yan Ji finally said softly, "That tael of silver he took today—what did he use it for?"
Mama Qi did not answer.
Because no one truly knew.
Steward Wang only knew that he had needed the money urgently.
Old Zhao only knew that he had returned before sundown.
The accounts room only knew that he had pressed his thumbprint to the contract.
Baoque Tower only knew that he had said there was a death in the family.
As for what that tael of silver had ultimately bought, no one had asked, and no one had seen.
Mama Qi thought for a moment.
"If Miss wants it looked into, I can have someone follow him."
Yan Ji lowered her eyes.
"There is no need."
Mama Qi looked at her.
"If he does not speak of it himself, then for now we do not ask."
She said it very lightly.
But it was not merely a matter of propriety.
Something stirred, faint and unmistakable, in Mama Qi's heart. At last she said, "Very well."
Yan Ji glanced once more at the qin case.
"Young Master Shen's qin—leave it in the outer room of Yan Pavilion for now."
"And next month?"
"We will speak of next month when it comes."
Mama Qi nodded and rose.
"Then I shall go back down. There are still a few downstairs who refuse to leave. I'll see them off."
"Thank you for your trouble, Mama."
Mama Qi smiled.
"If Miss would only trouble me a little less, I would have no trouble at all."
Then she turned toward the curtain. But as she lifted it, she looked back once.
Yan Ji still sat beneath the lamp, her red robes falling motionless around her. Iron Mask stood in the shadow by the door like a stone that would never speak. Young Master Shen's qin case lay across the table, dark and heavy, cutting off half the light.
Mama Qi said nothing more. She let the bead curtain fall and withdrew.
The beads settled with a soft chime.
Only Yan Ji, Iron Mask, and the still-burning lamp remained inside.
After a long time, Iron Mask stepped half a pace forward.
He still did not speak.
Without looking at him, Yan Ji said, "Do not ask yet."
Iron Mask stopped.
Lamplight fell across the iron face of his mask, revealing nothing.
Yan Ji lowered her eyes to the qin case on the table.
Only after a very long silence did she say quietly, "He goes by Mu Qi now."
The room grew still again.
Outside, the night wind brushed the bead curtain, and the flame shivered.
Yan Ji said, "Then for now, let him remain Mu Qi."
Far below, a few lingering tables had still not broken up. Now and then a burst of laughter rose, only to be pressed down again by the night.
And in the rear-yard kitchen, Fang Yingjie had already finished the last of the hot soup. He rose, set the rough porcelain bowl back beside the wooden basin, and turned.
A-Dong spotted him.
"Finished?"
Fang Yingjie nodded.
"Yes."
"Then come on." A-Dong gathered up a stack of empty plates. "There's still a whole mess left up front."
Fang Yingjie bent and picked up another stack.
The edges bit into the wounds in his palm, drawing out a fresh sting.
He paid it no mind.
He only followed A-Dong back toward the main hall.
It was deep into the night.
Baoque Tower's red lanterns still had not all gone dark.
Yan Pavilion had received no guests tonight.
And yet that one lamp, in the end, had never gone fully out.
And the name Mu Qi, on this very night, had been left within the curtain.
Poetic Coda
One song of qin subdued the painted tower;
pearls, incense, verse, and jade were offered in turn.
All raised their cups to court the spring in vain;
behind half a curtain, one shadow kept its autumn still.
Mu Qi lowered his eyes and bore the night's hard labor;
Yan Ji, beyond the lamplight, quietly asked of him.
Who would have guessed that none would enter tonight,
yet one clear lamp would remember, unextinguished.
(End of Chapter Thirty-Eight)