Chapter 6
THE SERVANTS HAD ALREADY PREPARED THE pavilion prior to my arrival. Three sides were covered with heavy drapery so we would be protected from the wind. A coal brazier burned in the corner, warming the space. There was a tray of sweets and wine on the stone table, and beside it one stick of incense held in the beak of a carved bird. But the scent of chénxiāng, meant to be soothing, was a clear reminder of Auntie’s instructions: one stick, no longer.
A stand for my qín was set up beside the stone table. I placed the instrument into the wood frame, careful to secure it so that it wouldn’t be easily dislodged. When I turned back, my patron had already settled on one of the stools. I hurriedly reached for the jar of wine. This, at least, I was capable of.
Except he reached for the jar too, and our hands brushed against each other. I snatched my arm back, and my sleeve almost spilled the wine entirely. One cup fell across the tray with a clatter.
I winced. Again, another failure of my training. Matron Dee would certainly have choice words to share about her disappointment.
“Apologies, my lord,” I said hastily, gathering the cups. He opened his mouth to speak, but I continued on. “Please, allow me to serve you.”
He paused for a moment, then commented wryly, with a slight lift in the corner of his mouth, “Twice I have blundered. I will learn to keep my hands to myself.”
It conjured up the memory of the drunk man fumbling at Anjing’s skirts in the back hallway, and I hoped he would not see the resultant flush on my face. I kept my attention on pouring the wine.
Straighten your shoulders, tip the head, ensure your sleeves ripple downward. Envision yourself like a painting. Each curve of your wrist, lift of your arm, should feel like a dance . . .
Clearing my throat, I spoke again, offering the cup with a bow. “I hope the wine served at our humble establishment is to your liking.”
He drained the whole cup in one gulp. I stared at him, not knowing what to make of this odd behavior. Perhaps all patrons had their . . .eccentricities.
“Admittedly, I would not know whether it is of the finest or the lowest quality,” he said, setting it back down on its tray. “My tastes are not so refined.” That slight curve at the corner of his mouth again. I could not tell if he was mocking me or himself.
“But I am not here for the wine.” I waited for him to continue, to reveal the answer of why he had mysteriously requested my presence this evening. He smiled, leaning forward, elbows upon the table. “I was in attendance at your performance and I found myself entranced by your playing.”
“That’s very kind,” I said, hoping to sound humble instead of simpering. I was not immune to praise. I wish I could pretend it was the artistic pursuit of musical perfection that motivated my playing, but a part of it was the selfish urge to be recognized for my talents. To have something that was solely mine.
“I have a deep appreciation for the music of the qín,” he said, bowing his head. “You have made me an ardent fan of your musicianship. Permit me to introduce myself. My clan name is Meng, and the name my family bestowed upon me is Jinglang.”
No title or rank, so I could not confirm for Auntie his relation to the household of the general.
“Lord Meng, I am honored to make your acquaintance.” I poured another cup of wine, but it remained beside him. Untouched.
He picked up my token instead, on which was written the character of my name. “It was quite a challenge to convince your mistress to permit me to speak with you. You must be in demand.”
I could not stop the laugh that burst out of me, unbidden, even as confusion fluttered across his brow as my hand flew to cover my mouth.
“You are not local to Wudan, and a new visitor to the House of Flowing Water.” I spoke quickly, trying to recover. “I am but an apprentice. I merely accompany the performers. My role is to assist in elevating the story, playing but a small part.”
“Ah, but it was not the dance that came first. The music was written prior,” he reminded me, as someone who had a good grasp of court music and its history would know.
“The poem was first,” I countered, then immediately regretted it. The adepts had cautioned the attentive apprentices against correcting a patron. One never knows when someone may take offense, especially for those not accustomed to being corrected.
But his expression was that of delight, not anger. “You’re aware of the poem!”
“The House provides us a passable education,” I informed him, not speaking the entire truth—as if Uncle would permit me to learn any song without understanding its origins and influences. It was a habit I’d continued with any new piece I added to my ever-growing repertoire.
“Of course,” he said, nodding, as if confirming something for himself. “I don’t know why I would have expected anything less.”
Lord Meng plucked a date from the bowl before him and held it up to the light, reciting in a low voice:
Oh sweetness, preserved in fruit
How I wish to contain my love’s attention
But only bitterness lingered
The impenetrable core
The inevitable goodbye
A poem that captured the feeling of barely contained longing, relegated to old textbooks after the emperors of the current dynasty placed value on restraint and propriety instead. Such passionate verses had been determined by the academics to no longer hold value. Even the commoner’s version, the one performed tonight, lacked the beauty and agony of the original verses.
It was not a poem I would have expected to pass through the lips of a soldier’s son. The way this young lord presented himself was a series of contradictions, each more confusing than the last. The words reverberated between us, creating an odd intimacy in the small space. The breeze caused the walls of the pavilion to ripple and shift, sending the shadows and light dancing all around us.
He spoke as if he understood the depth of that wanting, like he knew about the sadness of reaching for something impossible to obtain. But what could someone as privileged as him know what it was like to want?
“You’ll find only sweet morsels here.” I kept my voice light, wanting to shift the mood. “Our fruit is fresh.”
That startled a laugh out of him, and I couldn’t help but smile back. His amusement should be my only focus, the fulfillment of my role: to be good company.
“Would you play for me?” He waved his hand toward the stand.
“The lamentation?” I asked.
“Oh, gods, no!” He coughed. “Something more upbeat, something . . .” He gazed up at the sky, paused, then said, “. . . suitable for moon watching.”
I looked up as well. The moon continued to be obscured by clouds. I was almost certain he was teasing me, but I couldn’t be sure.
What, I thought, as I stood from my seat, a strange man.
I TOOK MY time checking and tuning the strings, while I searched within my repertoire to select a piece that would be able to hold his attention. A puzzle was what he offered me. A challenge, not unlike the ones Uncle had presented to me before, when he wanted reassurance that I was still receiving an education that met his standards.
This lord was a learned man, as apparent by his recitation of the poem and his knowledge of the origins of the concubine’s song. The words were uttered with feeling, not a mere demonstration of rote memorization. Did he appreciate the loveliness of the words, or did he relate to the sentiment contained within? A great love, long lost?
The right piece came to me then.
I began, fingers gently caressing the strings, as soft as the snow that fell earlier in the day.
When the cicadas have quieted, the migrating geese begin their call
From my view upon the high tower, the land meets the sky upon the horizon
Both the Goddesses of the Frost and the Moon endure the chill
Hard to say who is the victor, the beauty of the moon or the frost?
The last note lingered like the frost in the air, a sign of winter’s swift approach. From the top of my imagined tower, I slowly returned to my body as the music dissipated. Another poem that inspired a song, then a dance that was offered to the dowager empress as tribute.
“Your music transports the listener to another realm,” Lord Meng said after a round of slow applause. “A transcendent interpretation of Poet Li’s words.”
I bowed my head, hiding a smile. I shouldn’t be so drawn to his praise, and yet, it pleased me.
“When I was younger, I imagined the Celestials frolicking through the clouds,” I said. Snow trailing from the fingers of Lady Frost, illuminated by the Moon Goddess’s mirror.
“And now?” he asked.
“It reminds me another year has passed,” I said. “While for the immortals it is a mere breath, a moment.”
“Ah, but time passes for them all the same. I’d like to believe for humans the brevity of earthly existence creates greater appreciation for Mortal delights.”
“If you are lucky enough to be born into such a household,” I couldn’t help but retort. Not all of us had the freedom of choice, to go where we wanted, to buy what we craved.
Lord Meng inclined his head and looked at me with amusement. “The lady offers a clever counterpoint. Your words draw blood.”
The dramatic declaration made me chuckle. Was this what the adepts felt like when they entertained our guests? The playful word games and hidden flirtations?
“And yet, another reminder of time’s swift passing.” He gestured to the incense—another section turned gray and crumbled, fell to ash on the tray below. Only a few minutes remained.
For a moment, I wished the time within this pavilion could slow, be drawn out a little longer. I wanted to speak further of poetry and music with someone who understood.
“Your instrument . . .” He gestured at the qín on the stand. “The color of the wood is quite striking.”
I ran my finger over the side, noting its familiar curve. The renowned qín makers specialized in particular types of wood grown in various regions. The hardness of the wood, the shape of the tree that it was harvested from, the time of year the tree was felled . . . all of it had an effect on the sound and quality of the instrument.
“Could you tell me, was it made by Su Wei?”
My stomach dropped at the familiar name. Uncle had warned me after he gave me such a precious gift. He said that people would come calling in search of these priceless creations. Some would offer me treasures in exchange, gold and jewelry and riches. Others would provide favors, promises of protection.
I asked him then why he wished to gift it to me, when it could fetch so much more on the market. Surely one of his friends in the academy would be worthy of such an instrument. He chortled then, and said to me with great seriousness, I entrust this qín to you because you understand its worth. Someone very dear to me gave me this responsibility. To ensure that this qín is owned only by someone who would appreciate it.
Some say Su Wei was the only artisan trained by the Nightingale herself, not the scholar in the story, that she had learned the way to infuse magic into the instruments she made. Others said that she had shaped instruments that would rival the beauty of the Sun qín and Moon qín. She lived many years ago, and her instruments had changed hands time and time again. Now there were very few of her creations left.
“You’re a collector,” I said. I could not hide the hurt in my voice. It felt almost like a betrayal, even though he owed me nothing, offered nothing but a purchase of my time and pretty words to entice me.
“I am looking for a particular instrument of hers,” he said, expression changing to one of intent, revealing his true aim. “If you would only permit me to see—”
“You have wasted your funds and my time,” I said, tight-lipped. I lifted the qín from its stand, held it close, protectively.
“Name your price,” he said, voice taking on a desperate tone. “It is a matter of great importance. I must know if this is the one I am looking for.”
“It. Is. Not. For. Sale,” I said through gritted teeth.
The red dot at the bottom of the incense extinguished itself, sending a tendril of smoke into the air.
“I bid you good evening, my lord.” With a swift bow, I was gone, and with great shame I felt tears prickle my eyes as I entered the safety of the building. At least they did not fall while I was still in his presence. I had held on to that shred of dignity.
It was the damned poetry that had made me feel as if I was speaking with a kindred spirit. But it was all a ruse, a pretense for the prize to be won. The adepts were right—every patron had a price, something they desperately sought from us. It was best for us to understand it.
I would not be so foolish again. ...
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