Gambled Away: A Historical Romance Anthology

by Rose Lerner

  “Zhu is on the way to her wedding when the procession passes by Liang’s tomb. Seeing his name, she can’t go on and begs for the grave to open up. Thunder booms from the sky and the earth splits open, upon which she throws herself into the ground with her true love. The moment she disappears, two butterflies emerge from the grave and fly off together.”

  “Butterflies,” Gao intoned.

  “The butterflies symbolize their spirits finally being free—”

  “I imagined as much.”

  My face heated. I couldn’t tell if Gao was mocking me, but he’d listened well enough so far. “Everyone praises Lady Zhu in the story for her dedication and her sacrifice.”

  “Of course. She wants to be a scholar and dies for a scholar. The story must be a favorite among scholars.”

  His observation surprised me. I’d never thought of it that way.

  “I always liked the story because Zhu takes her life into her own hands,” I confessed. “She is the one who talks her father into letting her study. In the end, she’s the one who commands the earth to open, and it listens to her. People find the ending tragic because she dies, but everyone dies whether they command the heavens or not.”

  Tears stung at the corners of my eyes, but I was afraid to wipe them away. That would be admitting they were there.

  “You see yourself in her,” Gao said quietly. He was watching me so intently.

  “I’ve always lived my life for my family. Everything I’ve done is for the success of my brothers. Zhu lived and died for herself—I’m not like her at all.”

  “You’re loyal to your brother.”

  Of course I was. He was blood.

  My vision blurred as Gao raised a hand to my cheek. His fingertips were rough, but his touch gentle. “The story of Zhu and Liang isn’t your story. You have your own story.”

  He didn’t appear to have moved, but he was closer now. My heart had never beat so hard or so fast. It felt like fear, but I didn’t want to run.

  “Wei-wei is your name?” he asked, his voice so low that I felt it along my spine.

  I flushed with embarrassment. It was a child’s nickname. “Only my family calls me that. My name is Wei-ling.”

  “Wei-ling,” he repeated slowly, as if testing the sound of it on his tongue. It was rare that I heard it like that, without my family name attached.

  Suddenly Gao was before me, closer than I’d ever let any man. I felt the soft brush of his mouth against mine.

  Startled, I jerked back, which left me tottering on the edge of the crate. Gao was the one who had to save me, taking me firmly by the shoulders. I was left breathless, blinking up at him.

  He seemed to have regained his composure. “Shall we go?” he asked quietly.

  I needed his hand to steady me onto my feet. Meanwhile my thoughts were racing. I’d never done such a thing before. My face burned with heat and my knees trembled as I followed beside Gao.

  Suddenly I regretted everything. The way I’d reacted and my loss for words now.

  When I was a child, I’d received a lantern once for the Spring Festival. It was pink and painted with flowers. I’d loved that lantern for an hour. A breeze had caught it while it hung from a tree in our courtyard, tipping the candle inside over and igniting the paper.

  I’d wept after the servants put the fire out as I stared at the ruined shell. I would never have that bit of happiness, the glow of that moment in the same way ever again.

  I wanted the moment with Gao back with the same empty sorrow now. If I was Mingyu or Yue-ying or any woman who had the ability to speak to a man outside the confines of exchanging civilities, then I would know what to say to make him stop and turn to me again.

  Instead I remained quiet and small as we returned to the main part of the market.

  The boy who’d volunteered to guard my horse came forward to greet us. “I took good care of him,” he boasted.

  “Well done.” I dug a coin from my pocket to hand to him, not caring if the amount was extravagant. The boy accepted the cash with an unpracticed bow before running off.

  Gao came up behind me as I freed the reins. “I’ll escort you to the gate.”

  More silence between us. All the while every inch of my skin was aware of him beside me. I didn’t want the night to end.

  It wasn’t until we could see the ward gate that Gao spoke. Each word sounded as if it had been chosen with great care, as if it had taken the entire stroll to piece together.

  “Lady Bai,” he began, without any of the subtle taunting I’d come to expect from him. “Your family is important to you. You feel no fear when it comes to protecting your brother, so I will tell this.

  “Bai Huang asked me to find information about this man Chen over a month ago. Chen Xi Hao wasn’t a frequent visitor to the gaming tables, but he had spent some time here.”

  A lump formed in my throat. “A month ago?”

  The night lanterns cast deep shadows over his face as he regarded me. “Someone summoned Chen here the night he was killed. I can’t say that it was your brother, but I can’t say that it wasn’t.”

  “Did my brother know him well? What else did you find out about Chen?”

  “That’s all I have for you.” His mouth quirked. “And see? It didn’t cost you anything.”

  I thought of the touch of his hand on my cheek and the missed moment between us. There had been a price.

  “Let Wu Kaifeng and the constables do their jobs. There’s nothing for you here,” he said.

  I couldn’t help but think he was talking about more than my search for answers. I was drawn to Gao. When we spoke, it wasn’t through layers of etiquette and niceties. Gao saw through all the many layers I was forced to hide behind. He didn’t just see beyond this scholar’s disguise, but also beyond the proper and educated and Lady Bai and the dutiful daughter Wei-wei. I had always thought these faces were the essence of who I was, but they weren’t. There were parts of me even I didn’t know of.

  “You want me to stay away,” I said.

  “I want you to stay away.”

  I reached out to him, just my hand against his chest for no reason other than that I wanted to. Just so he’d know, and so I’d know, but this time it was Gao who moved away.

  “Go home now, Lady Bai,” he said gently. “If you keep asking questions, you may find answers you don’t want to hear.”

  Chapter 6

  * * *

  I wasn’t ready for the knocking that came upon my chamber door. I pried my eyes open slowly. The light that seeped through the shutters told me it was indeed morning, but I didn’t want to believe it.

  “Lady Bai.”

  Zhou Dan. He remained outside, but his tone was insistent. I rolled over and tried to burrow deeper into my blankets. It felt as if I’d closed my eyes just moments ago.

  “Lord Bai wants to see you before he goes to the records office.”

  I dragged myself out of bed and went through the motions of getting dressed. My maidservant came to comb and fix my hair into a simple knot while I sat with my eyes half closed. She didn’t say anything.

  Huang was waiting for me in the main parlor. I could see that he was done with his tea and morning rice.

  “Elder Brother.” I started to sit.

  “Little Sister.”

  The sharp edge in greeting brought me fully awake. I straightened and remained standing. This was something I’d learned long ago. Better to stand while your counterpart was sitting. My parents tended to be more agreeable in that position.

  Unfortunately, Huang seemed to know the same trick. He rose, giving him a head in height over me. Silently, I cursed the unfairness of it.

  “You were out last night,” he said.

  I met his accusing glare without flinching. “So were you.”

  He hadn’t returned by the time I stabled my horse, and yet he appeared unaffected by the lack of sleep. It must have been the years of late nights in the North Hamlet that gave him this stamina. Once again,
unfair.

  “It’s dangerous for you to venture out by yourself, Wei-wei.”

  If this had been my mother or father, I would have endured the lecture and acted suitably contrite, but this was my brother. I couldn’t count the number of times I’d defended and supported him.

  “And what do you risk, Huang? Your official appointment, your reputation. Our reputation.”

  “None of that is in question here. You’re a woman, defenseless—”

  “And you’re a man,” I threw back at him. “Our family name rests on you, not me.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a servant enter the room with tea before wisely backing away.

  “I know where you’ve been going, Huang.”

  He started to say something, but clamped his mouth shut, his jaw tightening.

  “I know about the gambling dens and Chen Xi Hao and how you’ve been lying.”

  “This is none of your concern,” he said through his teeth.

  “You’re my concern!” I said fervently.

  Didn’t he know how much I had fought for him? How much I continued to protect him?

  Huang’s face was a mask. “Give it to me,” he commanded finally.

  I glanced down at his outstretched hand.

  “There’s only one way you were able to cross the ward gates after curfew. Give me your pass.”

  The forged pass was tucked away in my sleeve. I always kept it with me for fear the servants would find it. With my head high, I handed it over.

  Huang kept his eyes on me as he tore it in two and then tore it again. I tried not to flinch, but I could feel the shred of the paper deep in my heart. That pass represented freedom, even if I’d only enjoyed it for a few nights.

  “I’ll get another,” I declared.

  A muscle ticked along my brother’s jaw. “Then I’ll have the servants keep an eye on you.”

  “Who do you think they’ll side with?”

  I didn’t know what had come over me. All those tired moralists were right. This was what a taste of freedom did to a woman.

  Huang stared down at me. I stared back, refusing to flinch.

  “I wasn’t gambling,” he countered.

  No. Whatever he was involved with, it went much deeper than that. “Tell me.”

  He turned away. “There’s nothing to tell.”

  Long before Huang had passed the imperial exams, he’d had a reputation for being a spendthrift and flower prince. He’d incurred so much debt that a den boss had sent collectors after him. That was when our father had become involved. He had sent Huang away to the far provinces. I hadn’t known then if my brother would ever come back.

  Before that incident, I’d known nothing of gambling dens, usury or the black market.

  “Who is Gao?” I asked.

  His expression darkened. “How do you know that name?”

  “He told me you go to him for information.”

  “Stay away from him, Wei-wei.”

  “That you asked about Chen Xi Hao—”

  “Stay away from him.”

  My mouth clamped shut. Huang was staring down at me, his eyes dark and livid. In our household, we rarely raised our voices. Confrontations were waged with carefully chosen words and pointed silences. My brother had never been so openly angry with me before.

  His jaw worked as he tried to form words. Instead my brother turned on his heel and stormed toward the door. My hands were shaking.

  He had one foot outside before he stopped, turning only partially back toward me. “I know you’re clever, Wei-wei. But you don’t know everything. There are things that I must do that are mine and mine alone.”

  As he left, I realized that my brother had been unable to face me as he spoke the last part.

  * * *

  The next hours were excruciating.

  I tutored my younger brother, sat in the garden, tutored my younger brother, then sat in the garden some more. A lot of time to think while I stared at the carp circling in our pond.

  It was Gao who had sparked my brother’s anger.

  Gao was a constant presence in my mind. This must be, I reasoned, some kind of poetic fascination. Li Bai had been wooed by the moon. I was momentarily captivated by this man, a man I knew was unsuitable far before my brother shouted it at me.

  Any man who would kiss me had to be unsuitable.

  I liked Gao’s confident manner and how easy it was to walk beside him. He was fearless, not worrying or caring about social niceties or boundaries. When I was around him, I could be fearless too.

  Wholly unsuitable. He might as well be the moon.

  I was unsuitable for Gao as well. Still, I wondered what he was doing. Was he thinking of me?

  I began composing a poem about observing the way a leaf fell from a branch and all the little things like the way the sun reflected off it, or the breeze tossed it slightly, that were for that moment only, never to be seen in the same way again.

  It was a painfully obvious allusion to lost opportunities and stolen moments. I quickly hid the paper underneath my bed along with the poems written in my youth about longing and loneliness. Countless images of candles burning alone in the night there.

  I couldn’t find any peace. I couldn’t even find the quiet forbearance I’d practiced a week earlier that had passed for peace. My temper was short and I found my mind wandering to night lanterns and crowded gaming tables, with me pressed against Gao’s side.

  I was as addicted as my brother to the roll of the dice. It was the hope that, by some lucky chance, you could have something that was not rightfully yours.

  When I returned to the study, I found my younger brother reading. The commentary I’d assigned lay unfinished beside him.

  “What have you been doing all morning?” I snapped.

  Chang-min looked up from his reading. It was a thick bookroll containing The Records of the Grand Historian. “Elder Sister,” he began respectfully. “There was no more ink.”

  I glanced down at his paper. The characters had started out in bold strokes before fading gradually away. The last lines were barely visible where my dear little brother had tried his hardest to keep on writing, swiping the inkstone clean.

  I was a shrew for being so harsh with Chang-min. Maintaining the study was my responsibility. I had been reminding myself to send someone to the market for more supplies for days now, but I’d gotten distracted.

  I took a long look at my brother, this quiet boy who had been my charge since I was sixteen. He reminded me so much of Huang when we were growing up. He was handsome in the same way Huang was, though my eldest brother had never been so serious or eager to please.

  Chang-min was my father’s son by his concubine, a woman I’d never seen. He had come to our household at the age of two to be raised as one father’s heirs.

  Though Mother had accepted Chang-min, she always treated him with a distant civility. I’d taken on the responsibility of instructing him from the moment he was able to sit at a desk.

  The boy I’d tutored for over ten years wasn’t so little anymore. He was seventeen and shooting up tall like a bamboo stalk. His shoulders were starting to broaden as well, making him appear not yet a man, but surely no longer a boy.

  Soon I wouldn’t be able to order him about anymore. He would join the ranks of my father and Huang. I would be expected to defer to him.

  But I would still look after him, just as I looked after Huang. I wanted good things for both of my brothers. I wanted them to bring honor to our family in a way I never could.

  “I’ll get more ink,” I told him.

  Chang-min nodded and lowered his head back down to the historical record.

  I made my way through the courtyard to Huang’s study. When I opened the door, his desk stood in disarray. There were pamphlets and notices piled everywhere. I began to rifle through them, straightening where I could. I’d send in someone to clean later, but for now there had to be at least one ink stick somewhere in here.

  There w
ere none in his writing box, so I set it aside to rummage through the drawers. Unfortunately, something had been wedged into the top drawer, making it difficult to open. It looked like a composition book. I worked it free, careful not to tear the blue cover. That was when I realized it wasn’t just any writing book—it was an imperial exam booklet.

  I had never seen one before. The examination date was written on the cover and the paper inside was folded in an accordion style. From what I understood, the exams were collected after the testing period to be evaluated and then stored away in the archives.

  Fascinated, I pulled on the edge of the top page. The paper inside unraveled in one long sheet that stretched out beyond the length of the desk. Tiny calligraphy covered the entire surface, the writing organized into neat, compact columns.

  I couldn’t believe I held an actual examination booklet in my hands. My brothers spent nearly all their lives studying for this exam, and I’d dedicated myself to helping them. It was as close as I could ever get to this pinnacle of learning and achievement.

  I scanned through the series of essays. There was also a section on poetry, including an original composition. I would need to have Chang-min practice that. He wasn’t particularly fond of putting together verses.

  Half an hour must have passed, maybe more as I pored through the booklet. I was so exhilarated to have a peek into the examinations that it didn’t occur to me until the end that Huang shouldn’t have this booklet, even with his position as assistant collator in the imperial archives.

  The examinations were given over a grueling three-day period, during which the candidates couldn’t see or speak to anyone else. The contents of the examination were kept secret, each new sitting pulled from different parts of the canon. Scholars were thus forced to study all of the prescribed texts, unaware of which sections would be chosen.

  At the end of the examination, the candidate had affixed his official chop in red ink.

  Chen Xi Hao.

  I nearly dropped the booklet.

  There had to be a reason my brother had a dead scholar’s examination in his possession. My heart raced as I glanced over the calligraphy. Huang and Chen Xi Hao had sat for the same examination period. They’d both passed at the highest level. Two out of twenty out of thousands.