Nan Wu's gaze swept across the inner chamber. His brows knit slightly, then smoothed as if nothing had happened.
The young maids hurried to lift the curtain for him. Without a glance to either side, he stepped straight in, knelt before the lady on the couch, and saluted, "Your son greets his mother."
The lady's eyes were half-closed as her fingers moved slowly over a string of agarwood prayer beads. Hearing his voice, she opened her eyes.
"My son," she said gently, "rise." She motioned him to sit beside her and continued in her soft, even tone, "From now on, take your morning meal here with me. I've already ordered the kitchen to prepare the simple dishes you've always liked. Your uncle's household sent over some gifts from the palace yesterday — an exquisite bird's nest delicacy and goose-fat sugar dumplings, specially designated for you by Princess Wenhui, who specially asked that they be given to you."
"Mother's health matters most," Nan Wu replied. "Such delicacies are best reserved for you. I've long been accustomed to plain food and modest fare."
She looked at him quietly for a moment and sighed.
"I know your heart — you will not touch even a hint of meat or fish. In the past, it was fine to have your servants cook separately for you. But now, all your study drains your strength; you grow thinner by the day. How can a mother rest easy, seeing that? From now on, on the first and fifteenth of each month, the whole household shall eat vegetarian with you — that, too, will be a good deed. On other days, take your meals here with me. Lay aside those rigid rules for once and eat a little more, for my peace of mind."
I immediately whispered to Nan Wu, "She's right, you know. You eat the same bland dishes every day. If you don't want to taste them, I can do it for you — can't have you wounding your poor mother's heart!"
His lips twitched, and I felt a private surge of triumph. "Look at you — as if eating a few more bites were a punishment. The lady speaks only out of love—"
Before I could finish my teasing, the lady spoke again: "You've buried yourself in your books lately, neglecting all else. I told your wife as much — a man's duty is to pursue honor and merit, that is only right. She'll stay here for a few days; we two women shall talk. You, too, may see your child each day."
She addressed Nan Wu, but her eyes turned toward the west side of the room, where the young woman had been sitting silently.
I fluttered closer for a better look. The young madam was indeed lovely — her beauty radiant and delicate beneath a haze of jewels. She wore a dark silk gown patterned with winding lotuses, her neck encircled by a strand of fine golden bells. In her cloud-like hair glimmered a butterfly hairpin of tourmaline and kingfisher feathers, its trembling wings ready to take flight.
She cast Nan Wu a fleeting glance, half-aggrieved, half-hopeful, then turned her gaze aside with a shy little smile.
Nan Wu did not look at her at all. He remained silent.
"'Aspirations for glory,' you say? More like aspirations for the Buddha," I muttered.
"If that's truly your calling, I wonder how it is you already have a child."
His hand clenched into a fist. I knew I had gone too far. "All right, all right — I spoke out of turn," I hastily added. "Forgive my loose tongue."
I leapt back up to the beam, deciding to keep quiet.
The lady sighed softly and said, her voice suddenly solemn, "Qingyan is frail. Bearing your child cost her dearly. Be gentle with her. A peaceful home rests upon a harmonious marriage. Her grandfather and yours were lifelong friends — the bond between our two families now lies with you both."
The young wife lowered her head further.
"Is she truly so naïve?" I thought with amusement. "Can she not see that his heart is nowhere near hers?"
At the lady's signal, the wet nurse stepped forward with the infant in her arms.
Nan Wu's gaze fell upon the pale, round baby, sleeping soundly, wrapped in the sweet scent of milk. He took the child. For a moment, something softened within him — a faint, tender smile brushed his lips. Everyone saw it, and the heavy air in the room loosened; one could almost hear their collective sigh of relief.
But in the next breath, his face hardened again. The child woke and began to cry, writhing in his arms like a fish out of water. Almost in fear, Nan Wu hastily returned the baby to the nurse.
Qingyan, who had been watching him, turned white as paper.
Until now, she had thought her husband merely lost in his studies — but in that instant, she saw clearly the rejection and coldness in his eyes.
She looked to her mother-in-law in silent appeal, but the lady's face, too, had gone pale; her beads clicked faster between her fingers.
Then Nan Wu spoke: "What is love, that it brings such suffering? Flesh and blood, the shell of being — all are burdens. To force affection where none exists only breeds sorrow."
The words fell like stones.
The lady's beads froze mid-rotation. The servants held their breath. Only the baby's cries pierced the silence.
Qingyan clutched the child to her breast, pressing her cheek against his soft body. The butterfly in her hair trembled like a living thing. Even I felt a pang of pity.
"She will have to know someday," Nan Wu said quietly. "Better today than tomorrow. I will not go to her again. I've done my duty as a son and a father. Why must you keep forcing me? I ask only to live in peace within these walls."
Before anyone could reply, a roar came from outside the curtain: "You speak of peace while shirking the duties of a husband and father? When you learn to bear your name with honor, to raise your son yourself — then speak to me of peace! You will return to the main house at once! If I hear again that you've fled to your study, neglecting wife and child, the family law will deal with you!"
The baby's wailing swelled. Qingyan lifted her head, tears streaking her face, the salt of them mingling with the milk-scent and sandalwood in the air — the essence of human grief, sharp and aching, stirring even my immortal heart.
Nan Wu stood unmoving, his jaw locked tight.
"Master," the lady called hurriedly, "please, let me handle this. He's willful, but not unfilial. You yourself promised to give him time — that is why he took it so seriously. Leave him to me."
A derisive "Hmph!" sounded, and the master of the house strode away.
Silence fell again. The baby slept once more, the air so heavy I could scarcely breathe.
At last, the lady steadied herself. Her beads turned again, slowly, gently. "Whatever happens," she said, masking her weariness, "we shall speak after we've eaten."
At her words, the maids slipped away to bring the meal. Soon the table filled with dishes: bird's nest soup, goose-fat dumplings, fried quail crisped to gold, tofu with shrimp balls, jade-green bean pastries, and a bowl of fragrant rice porridge — along with a few delicate vegetarian sides prepared especially for Nan Wu.
I longed to grab a dumpling through his hand, but seeing his grim face — and remembering my earlier barbs — I dared not.
Regret gnawed at me. Such a feast before me, yet I could not eat a bite!
The lady took her place at the head, seating her son to the left. Qingyan rose to ladle porridge for her, but the lady caught her hand. "Sit, my dear. No need for such formality. You're still recovering — and you've endured enough today." She smiled faintly, then, half in jest, half in sigh, added, "Don't think too highly of him. People say he's handsome and clever, but they don't see how stubborn he can be. Come, eat. I'll tell you stories of his childhood."
Color returned to Qingyan's face. She sat shyly, glancing at Nan Wu, whose ears had turned red.
"Mother…" he began.
"Hush," she interrupted smoothly. "If you don't want me revealing your childhood embarrassments, finish this bowl of bird's nest." At her signal, a maid placed the bowl before him.
I nearly fell off the beam laughing. What a formidable woman!
Turning to her daughter-in-law, the lady smiled, "Before Nan Wu was born, I dreamt of a great wutong tree rising to the heavens. The monk said, 'The phoenix rests only upon the wutong tree — an omen of great fortune.' So we named him Nan Fengwu — 'Southern Phoenix Wutong.' But later, a fortune-teller said the word Feng clashed with his stars, so we dropped it. Looking back, perhaps it was right — I dreamt of the tree, not the bird. 'Nan Fengwu' was too heavy a name for him."
Her tale drew soft laughter from the servants; even Qingyan covered her smile with a sleeve.
I found myself quite fond of this lady — wise, witty, kind. Her warmth lightened the room's gloom.
As for Nan Wu, he showed no expression, absently stirring the soup as if the floating shrimp and ham were his only worthy opponents.
"When he was one year old," she went on, "we laid before him the classics, an abacus, scales, toys… He ignored them all and crawled to my side, taking up my prayer beads instead. Even then, I thought — this child has a monk's heart."
Her gaze turned meaningful.
"When he was five, during the Mid-Autumn offering, the cooks brought in a great red carp, tied alive with silk cord. He persuaded the page boys to free it in the pond. When his father scolded him, do you know what he said? 'The Book of Rites says: A gentleman stays far from the kitchen. Seeing it struggle, I could not bear it.' For that, his father made him copy the Classic of Filial Piety by hand."
Her tone softened. "Qingyan, you see — he's tender-hearted. He could never truly bear for you and the child to suffer. A father's hand is needed to shape a son."
Nan Wu trembled. A shrimp ball rolled from his spoon. The maids hurried to clear it, and even I shivered above, wishing I could catch it midair.
"From young," the lady continued, "he's been bright and disciplined, praised by all. Yet his thoughts have always strayed from the ordinary. Once, he saw gardeners trimming trees and said, 'Plants grow toward the sun; to cut them is like severing limbs.' His father called him fanciful, lost in idle thought. But I've faith — once he bears the weight of family, he'll steady. You'll see, when he passes the imperial exam, all will be well."
Nan Wu's pallor deepened.
I decided it was time. "Nan Wu," I murmured, "if you can't endure another word of this, let me eat that bird's nest for you, and you can slip away."
He gave no reply — no protest either. I took it as consent and slipped into his consciousness.
At once, the hand holding the spoon was mine. I scooped and swallowed greedily — rich, fragrant, divine! Three mouthfuls and the bowl was empty. I grabbed two goose-fat dumplings next.
Then suddenly, my body — his body — lurched to its feet. Both the lady and Qingyan stared, astonished. I reached for a bean pastry, but Nan Wu's will surged up, wrenching back control.
He stammered an excuse and fled. The maids scrambled after him, seeing him out as far as the second gate. Then, alone among the trees, he bent over and vomited everything.
I recoiled in disgust and shot out of his spirit. "Wasting such delicacies!" I grumbled.
When I looked again, sweat beaded his pale brow. "Nan Wu, are you all right?" I asked.
He waved a hand toward the attendants.
"Tell no one of what happened today," he said quietly.
(To be continued)