“They could be brighter,” she said. “But they will do.”
The woman sighed as if the highest praise had been delivered. Chi Lin could see, even from her standpoint that these cocoons were perfect and would produce the finest thread. It was her turn to inspect. She followed Jasmine’s lead, poking her finger into the basket.
“I agree,” she said. “The color is off, but they are soft to the touch and should boil up fine.”
Jasmine frowned. Too much praise, perhaps, but Chi Lin would perform the next inspection on her own and might revise the usual discouragement into something better suited to her temperament. Indeed, her comment pleased the women better.
Unlike the conclusion of the salt books, no tea or wine was offered. But Chi Lin sensed a happy mood among the women. She was sure that the tea would be poured shortly after their departure.
Chi Lin wondered how the First Wife could tell whether cocoons meant for the Wu House managed to slip away to direct weaving? There was no physical count of the harvest; no practical accounting for the worms. It was much the same for the salt, except the silk was not a monopoly and mostly the realm of women.
Chi Lin pondered as they traveled back to the Ya-men. She was disturbed at the state of the tenants. She had been brought up in a poor scholar’s house, but it was never so distraught that food lacked or repairs neglected. However, the tenancies, even among the Lu, were rat holes, the men thin and wiry, their backs bent, and their skin blackened from charcoal. The women were old before their time having produced many children and tending the fields and the mulberry patches under the worst conditions. And the children . . . This distressed Chi Lin most of all. Their hungry faces looked up at her, happy to see the prosperity of her robes and the white sheen of her nape. It was as if they were treated to a special sight, beings from a different world. And yet they should yearn for a different prospect than the toil of salt pits and worm farming. They were children, after all, and had a spirit of play in their souls. There had to be something better for them than those bent backs and eternal pregnancies. This saddened Chi Lin greatly and she recalled that Gao Lin told her that it was not an outing for pleasure. Those faces confirmed it.
4
When they reached the Ya-men, Lin Wo-luo dismounted, approached Jasmine, and then bowed.
“I thank you, Lin Wu-Luo,” Jasmine said. “Your service is to the Emperor, I know, but your credit to the House of Wu will be mentioned at our ancestral temple.”
Chi Lin grinned. Yes, the proxy had been credited with a purse filled with silver ingots for his trouble, another drain on the tenants adding to their withering burden.
Lin Wu-luo approached Chi Lin, but as he stepped to her side, a voice came from the Ya-men Gate. A man stepped into the sunlight, a man Chi Lin recognized, because he had visited her father and taken dinner in her house. His name was Ai-lo Wun-kua.
“Wu-luo,” he called
The proxy bowed quickly to Chi Lin, and then turned, going to the Commissioner (for Ai-lo Wun-kua was the Imperial Commissioner). They exchanged words, and then Wu-luo returned.
“His Honor Ai-lo Wun-kua pays his respects to honorable Chi Ming’s daughter.”
He bowed. Chi Lin looked to Jasmine, who appeared as ferocious as a tiger. But Chi Lin could not ignore such respect, especially from an imperial commissioner. She nodded.
“It is my honor,” she said. “My honor that Ai-lo Wun-kua takes note of Chi Ming’s daughter. But I am now the ghost bride of Wu Hung-lin, the fourth wife in Yan-cheng’s most respected household. I cherish my father, but cannot take pride of place in his name.”
“Just so,” Lin Wo-luo snapped, coming to attention.
Chi Lin looked to the Commissioner, who lingered by the gate. She nodded subtly, but nothing beyond that.
Chou Kuai-tze commanded the porters to raise the chairs and the journey continued to the gates of the House of Wu.
Jasmine was silent for the balance of the trip. She did not admonish her sister-in-law for being free by accepting praise from the commissioner. She did not point out that the commissioner was a foreigner, a Mongol, who served the Yuan overlords in the same capacity. She did not express her loathing for these lingering officials, who fancied themselves native sons, learning the language and dressing the part, but were nothing more than steppe bastards raised on mare’s milk and flannel. She said nothing more, even when they arrived in the courtyard of the Blue Heaven pavilion, where she opened the gauze purse she had kept clasped in her hand and gave Chi Lin two silver coins for her service. As it happened, silver secured silence on all levels.
Chapter Twelve
The Master Speaks
1
A woman’s heart is sometimes plagued by things she knows and cannot address. Chi Lin thought for days after the tour of how it could be better engineered. This was her way, not that anyone would listen nor would she offer any alternative. Her thoughts were her own, but she suspected the First Wife had drawn some conclusions from their time together and formed an opinion that Chi Lin was a meddlesome woman, who would make trouble if she had the chance. Chi Lin would not call it trouble but a benefit to all. But her thinking, as organized as it was, was still scattered. So, she kept these thought to herself, except for one utterance to Gao Lin.
It was near nightfall and Gao Lin had been planting bushes near the courtyard wall. It was late for such activity. Chi Lin gently chided him for being too diligent.
“It is cooler now for such hot work,” he replied. “I am practical.”
“I am practical also,” she said. “I have come to know which work to favor and at what times.”
“Does that include the inspection of the ji-tzao?”
“That is not work, but folly.” She caught herself, her hand going to her mouth. He laughed. “Please, Gao Lin, I did not mean to sound as if it is not important. It is. But I believe it could be improved.”
“And in your seven tours you have formed a firm opinion of this?”
He knew she had been on one tour only, so she could do nothing but laugh, for indeed he was jesting.
“It takes only one time to see the tours of seven moons,” she said, but then became more circumspect. “But it is not my place to do more than my duty as practically as I can.”
“Just as I plant bushes at nightfall when it is cooler.”
His voice was as soothing as nightfall, his hands patting the soil. He was skilled at every task he had undertaken. The roof was completed, or until the first rainfall proved the seal; and he had been working on the pool, the stone mountain emerging with miniature trees and wreathes of laurel. She bet if he was a journeyman on the tour, he would have denied the ingot purse. But could any industrious man do as much? She wondered.
“I should not speak to these things, Gao Lin.”
“And yet you do. But keep it within these walls. The First Wife is keen to find fault with everyone and, although she is my better, she is not your better and would try to make you worse.”
Chi Lin sighed. She would say no more. Jasmine had already frowned upon Gao Lin as a wandering tea pot spout among her maid servants. It was not necessarily an insult in Chi Lin’s eyes, but definitely meant as detraction on Jasmine’s part. So Chi Lin retreated to the pavilion to await Mo Li’s coming with the evening meal and Lao Lao’s chatter, which like having a caged bird complaining about a cuttlefish bone.
“My old woman stays in bed all day,” Lao Lao complained. “She does not even help this cook of yours.”
“This is not my fault, Lao Lao.”
“It could never be your fault, mistress,” he replied. “But she is different than usual.”
“How so?”
“She weeps now. I am accustomed to her complaining and nagging. That she has done even before she had gray hairs. But now she just stays on the mat and weeps.”
Chi Lin cocked her head, considering this. She remembered how her own mother retreated to weeping just before her death. Chi Lin wondered.
“I shall go to her, Lao Lao,” she said.
“It is useless, mistress. She will not improve by the effort and you will only find it tiresome and distressing.”
“Nonsense.”
So Chi Lin put aside her pancakes with beef and went to the servant’s hovel. She had never been inside, not wishing to shame them, but if Snapdragon refused to arise from her bed, what else could Purple Sage do?
The place was dark and fetid. Mo Li sat near the stove cleaning the cooking pan, the water falling to sizzle on the hot coals below. She was startled when the mistress arrived.
“Keep to your task, Mo Li,” Chi Lin said. “I come to see . . .”
She spied the withered form of Lao Lao’s old woman on the mat, a threadbare blanket covering her shoulders, but not her feet. The form trembled — clearing weeping. Chi Lin hunkered down beside her.
“Snapdragon,” she whispered. No answer. She touched her shoulder, and then shook her. “Snapdragon,” she repeated, louder.
The old lady turned, her eyes wet and her hair gnarled in the blanket.
“I know your voice,” she said. “Is it death finally coming to me, because I am not ready?” Then she wept bitterly. “I will never be ready.”
Chi Lin came closer.
“It is Purple Sage, the ghost bride.”
“Mistress?” Snapdragon tried to raise herself, to no avail. “Why have come to witness my misery?”
“I have come to see why my faithful servant is so distressed?”
Snapdragon wiped her eyes.
“I am afraid, mistress. I am afraid that death will cross the threshold before I am prepared. I have nothing but these rags. How can I be buried in such things? And I shall be tossed in the ground to feed the beetles, no coffin to protect me, not even one of pinewood. I am afraid, mistress. I am afraid.”
Chi Lin grasped the old woman. She felt her fear and also sensed what was true. She felt helpless and knew no remedy at hand. A woman’s heart is sometimes plagued by things she knows and cannot address. Still, she had come to give comfort, so she rocked Snapdragon in her arms and smoothed her knotted hair.
“Be at rest,” she said. “You may remain at your ease here. Mo Li will undertake all the cooking and we shall manage the remainder. I shall have Gao Lin raise the threshold to delay death’s entry and . . . I shall place a mirror at the door with demon catching daggers. That should give you some peace.”
“Yes, mistress. Yes, yes it would. You are too good.”
Chi Lin hushed her, and then laid her down. Snapdragon wept still, watched by Mo Li who was useless at consoling. But that was not her job. When Chi Lin left the hovel, she spotted Lao Lao pacing outside.
“She would not speak to you, mistress,” he said. “Am I not correct?”
“You are correct, Lao Lao,” she said. “We must do our best and humor her until . . . until the remedy appears.”
Lao Lao continued his pacing.
2
Chi Lin went the next morning to the shrine to perform her daily duty. However, as she approached she was surprised to see Willow and the Old Lady of the House before the temple. She was unsure whether to proceed because she had never witnessed her mother-in-law at the shrine. But to wait would fail her duty, so she quietly approached, and then knelt before her husband’s effigy.
“I am here, Wu Hung-lin,” she said. “I come to ease your spirit and be guided by your husbandly example.”
She bowed, clapped three times and lit an incense stick, poking it into the sand pot. The Old Lady of the House burned red paper prayers, and then turned to Willow.
“See that Purple Sage comes to me before she sees him,” she said. “Help me to stand.”
Willow gave the old woman a boost. Once balanced, the Old Lady of the House shuffled out of the temple courtyard leaving Chi Lin alone with Willow.
“What did she mean?” Chi Lin asked. “Who am I to see?”
“The Master of the House has asked to speak with you, Purple Sage. That is all.”
“Have I caused offense?”
“That is not for me to say,” Willow replied. Then she came close to Chi Lin’s ear. “The Autumn Festival approaches. It is the Master’s custom to visit each wife in her quarters.”
“But I am to see him in his,” Chi Lin said. “Surely this is not the same thing.”
“Surely, it is,” Willow replied. “The Master is troubled still to enter the Silver Silence Pavilion. The remembrance of the Second Wife weighs heavy upon his heart. Yet, he will most likely ask you about your progress toward your hall’s repair.”
Chi Lin sighed. Was she always to be the outsider in the general order of things? Still, if the Master wanted to see her, she could not refuse. It was a fearful prospect. She had only seen him at her wedding and heard him entertaining guests in the ke-ting at the Jade Heart Pavilion. At most times he kept his own society.
Chi Lin cut short her morning prayers. She stood.
“I am ready, then.”
Willow, as friendly as ever, walked beside her to the Jade Heart Pavilion, where they crossed the Old Lady of the House’s threshold. Chi Lin’s mother-in-law was the same as she had seen her at the shrine, but instead of her usual sewing circle of women, she sat alone near the latticework that divided her residence from her husband’s. She beckoned Chi Lin to approach.
“Purple Sage,” she said. “Has Willow told you?”
“She has, mother-in-law.”
“Good. Now I shall tell you.” She pointed through the latticework. “My lord is a great man with many responsibilities. We all support his efforts to rule here. He is fond of his household and we all know and keep our places. It is Autumn Festival. The family shall be in residence. We shall eat well and play well. Children will be under foot, and more wives than I can stand at any time will crave my attention. But such is the way of great houses. Do you understand?”
“I am happy to be part of the House of Wu, mother-in-law.”
“You are lucky to be part of it. But part of it, you are. So the Master will offer you a gift of your choosing and will also ask you about your progress here. Remember, what a man asks, a woman should be careful to answer. He wants to hear his own voice ask, but rarely will listen to what you say in response.” She twitched. “He comes. I will be here by the partition. I will hear your every word. Please do not give me cause for sorrow.”
“No, mother-in-law.”
The Old Lady of the House watched her husband enter, and then sit in his favorite chair. She nodded to Chi Lin.
“Go slowly and with the deepest respect.”
3
Chi Lin entered the Master’s presence. She went slowly and also quietly, her purple robes hardly whisking the floor. She curtsied and knelt. Her father-in-law had been perusing a document and did not acknowledge her. In fact, he waited so long, she worried that he was somehow offended by her presence. Perhaps he had forgotten that he had summoned her and would be cross when he discovered her presence. Still he perused his business.
“You are here,” he said, flatly, without looking at her.
“As you have called for me, father-in-law, I have appeared.”
He snorted, and continued to read. Chi Lin observed the man — old, to be sure, but still endowed with his full faculties. His teeth were broken, but his eyes seemed clear. He wore a sky blue robe with gold and black trim, pearls dotting the hem line and the robe sleeves. He sported a crimson satin turban with spatulated scholar flaps and a silver spike drawing the tie knots into a tiger’s eye. Studying his face, she saw her own husband crenulated with the features. She was accustomed to address her ghost lord now, so she need not have been frightened at the living version of Wu Hung-lin. In fact, Wu T’ai-po had a gentle countenance redolent of a fragrant life.
“Good,” he said, and finally putting aside the document. “I am much occupied and more so now that Autumn Festival is upon us. My sons will be presenting their wives and children to me and we shall all have a grand time — a family
time. I know you must miss your father. I have seen him and he is well.”
“Good of you to say, father-in-law.”
“Do not mention it. I have heard from my old lady that you have been diligent with your chores and industrious within your own pavilion.”
“It is my honor to serve.”
“So it is. So it is.” He leaned forward. “Take a seat beside me.”
Chi Lin gazed at the latticework. She saw the Old Lady of the House’s eyes batting through the design. Chi Lin awaited a sign, but none came, so she took a seat beside her father-in-law hoping that she had not offended her mother-in-law in the act.
“Be comforted,” Wu T’ai-po said. “I know you are the least of wives — a ghost bride, but you also have honored us by being so. I have not forgotten.” He sighed. “Tell me. Have you begun repairs on the Silver Silence . . . I mean, is some work going apace. My son wanted to have it completed before your wedding day, but alas, Heaven saw otherwise. You know the Silver Silence has a special place in my heart.”
Chi Lin nodded, daring not to say that she did know about Peony and wore her clothes and slept in her bed.
“The roof has been retiled,” she said, sharply in an attempt to move away from Wu T’ai-po’s maudlin tone. “Much progress has been made on restoring the lotus pool and bushes have been planted — trees are planned, and autumn flowers are being fetched.”
“Good. Good,” he said. “Have you made improvements to the hall?”
“I plan some,” Chi Lin said. “I am in no need for opulence, but I plan to find a scroll or three to hang and to renew the beadwork near my bed. I can sew and patch the carpeting, and I have my eye on a repaired table and three chairs in the wood shop.”
“My old lady has told me that you were good with the sewing . . . and the worms too. And you have been on an inspection tour.”
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