by Cindy Pon
She kept her head bowed as Master Wong sputtered apologies, waved his manicured hands, and assured them that everything would be sorted, that it was merely a small misunderstanding.
But it was clear to Ai Ling. Her family was not good enough. She was not good enough. She fought the shame mingled with anger that filled her. She had tolerated this farce to please her parents, abide by tradition, but she had only managed to bring disgrace on her family. Gossip would follow, for an unmarriageable daughter was a bad daughter.
She walked home that day in silence, trailing behind her parents, refusing to speak to them. The elaborate clothing made her feel foolish. She pulled the jade hairpin from her hair and cast it aside on the deserted country road, just as her betrothed had cast her aside. But as she walked part of her thought—wasn’t this what she had wanted?
Five months had passed since the disastrous Wong betrothal. It was the beginning of the third moon. The plum blossoms emerged early in the front courtyard, their delicate pink petals scented like rice tea. Ai Ling pressed her nose to the tiny buds. She loved the flowers for their scent as well as their herald of spring.
Her father had tried twice more to arrange a betrothal with prominent families, without success. She would either never marry or would be given to the butcher or cobbler, a family that didn’t have the pretenses of the scholarly class.
Shame and frustration welled within her. Her parents wanted the best for her, a good family to marry into and a comfortable life. Instead she’d been made to feel unworthy. I’m not ready to marry anyway, she thought. But would she grow old as a spinster?
She heard their servant, Mei Zi, clanking away, preparing breakfast. Her mother was usually the first to rise, but she had not seen her in the main hall nor heard her voice in the kitchen. Perhaps she was resting.
She sensed someone and turned. Her father stood before her, dressed in royal blue robes. Ai Ling saw a hint of something she didn’t recognize in his dark eyes.
“What is it, Father?”
“Ai Ling, there is something I must tell you.” He rubbed his face with one hand.
She didn’t like the tone of his voice. Even less so the look in his eyes. Was it worry? Resignation? She didn’t know, and it troubled her. Ai Ling usually knew her father’s moods like her own.
“I’m going on a short journey to the Palace,” he said. “It shouldn’t take more than two months.”
This was entirely unexpected. Her father had never traveled for longer than a few days—and never so far.
“Take me with you!” She realized it was impossible even as she said it. Her father may once have been a high official at the Emperor’s court, but she was no more than a country girl who could count on her fingertips the number of times she’d been outside their little town.
“You know your mother needs you here.” His smile was kind. “Keep her company. Don’t elope in my absence.”
She would have laughed any other time, the suggestion was so ridiculous. “But why do you need to go? Why for so long?”
“Difficult questions, daughter. I’ll tell you everything when I return.” Her father drew closer, retrieving something from the satin pouch tied to his gray sash.
“I have something for you. A small gift for my favorite daughter.” Ai Ling smiled for him. She was his only child.
He opened his palm, revealing a jade piece in the clearest green. The pendant nestled on a thin gold chain. “Father! It’s beautiful.” Her father had always been a man who gave gifts of books, paper, and calligraphy brushes.
“Let’s put it on.” He looped the delicate chain around her neck and closed the clasp. Ai Ling held the pendant in her hand.
“Spirit,” she murmured, recognizing the word carved into pristine green. The pendant was oval, shaped like a thumb-print, with the character carved on both sides in relief.
“It was given to me by a monk, years ago. Before I met your mother.” He took the jade piece between his fingers. “I helped him transcribe a book of religious text in exchange for board at his temple.”
He ran a fingertip over the raised character, his face pensive. “Before I left, he gave me this. He told me to give it to my daughter, if I should ever leave her side for long.” A small smile touched at the corners of his mouth. “But when I said I had no daughter, he merely waved me away.”
Ai Ling’s father let the pendant drop and patted her shoulder. “This monk was wise. He saw much.” Ai Ling met his gaze and realized the look she had not been able to identify earlier was sadness.
She blinked back the mist from her own eyes. “We’ll miss you so.” She threw her arms around his neck, and his body tensed for a moment. She had not embraced him like that since she was a little girl. He enveloped her with strong arms, but pulled away sooner than she was willing to let go.
“We have had our difficulties over your betrothal,” her father said. Ai Ling looked down at her feet, not wanting these last moments to be about her failure as a daughter.
He lifted her chin with a gentle hand. “In truth, my heart was never in them either. They are fools not to see what a priceless gem I offer. People think I spoil you, dote on you. Perhaps I do. But I did not become one of the best-known scholars in court for my shortsightedness or poor judgment.”
He caressed her cheek for one brief moment. “You are special, Ai Ling. Beyond what you mean in my heart. Remember that.”
Her mother arrived late to breakfast, her black hair pulled back, impeccable as ever. But her eyes were red and swollen, even as she gave her daughter a reassuring smile.
Her father left that same morning.
CHAPTER TWO
Life slowed in Father’s absence. There were no more lessons, no more discussions of poetry, history, or philosophy. No patient teacher guided her hand, showing her the strength needed for the bamboo stroke or the delicate dance of orchid leaves on paper. Each day, Ai Ling practiced copying her favorite passages from classical texts to improve her calligraphy. Often she sat in the front courtyard and found a muse—a peony in bloom, a bird pecking at seeds strewn before her—and painted, Father always in her thoughts.
Spring gave way to summer. The longer days dragged. Father had been away for three months, and Ai Ling and her mother had received no letters from him. This wasn’t unusual, as it was difficult to find a messenger willing to carry word to their far-flung town. Still, her mother worried, even as Ai Ling reassured her while hiding her own concern.
But by the seventh moon, not knowing how far she would have to stretch the family savings, her mother dismissed their two house servants. Mei Zi and Ah Jiao waved and smiled on their last day, trying to feign cheer. “We’ll come back as soon as Master Wen returns,” Mei Zi said. The two women were like family. Ai Ling saw her mother surreptitiously wipe away tears as she prepared dinner that evening.
Without the house servants, Ai Ling and her mother began visiting the market square to buy fresh produce and other necessities. After several trips, she ventured out alone, entrusted with a list of items to purchase, while her mother stayed home to manage the household books.
Ai Ling’s first foray from home without a chaperone was short. She hurried to buy the items she had listed on the thin sheet of rice paper. But as each week passed, she became emboldened. She took the time to explore her little town—the side streets with fried fish cake and sticky yam vendors, the old woman with a hunched back and three missing teeth displaying intricately embroidered slippers. Ai Ling discovered that she enjoyed this independence, this newfound freedom.
She was examining a fine slipper stitched with butterflies one summer morning when someone tugged on her braid, then swept a palm across her back. She leaped to her feet to find Master Huang standing behind her, much too close. The merchant smiled, a smile that did not reach past his thin mouth.
“Your single braid caught my eye, Ai Ling. Should you be wandering unchaperoned?”
She stepped back. Master Huang was a successful merchant by trade, but
ruthless and cruel as a person. Ai Ling knew the town gossip. The man was near fifty, and all three wives had failed to give him a son. He had three daughters, two from his first wife, one from the second, and nothing but tears and threats of suicide from the third. The last wife was seventeen years, the same age as she.
“Mother trusts me to do the shopping.” Ai Ling lifted her chin.
“Surely your house servants can manage such menial tasks?” His leer broadened. A small breeze carried the scent of liquor and tobacco to her nose. She fought the urge to take two more paces back, even as the merchant leaned toward her. “Ah, yes. How rude of me. I heard your servants were let go. When will your father return from the Palace, Ai Ling?”
Furious, she bit the inside of her mouth. One could never be rude to an elder, no matter how loathsome. She simply shook her head.
“He was very brave to return to the Palace, considering he barely escaped execution twenty years back,” he cooed.
Father nearly executed? Her face tingled as the blood drained from it.
“You didn’t know?” Master Huang reached out a hand to steady her. The cruel slant of his mouth betrayed his show of concern. At his touch, Ai Ling felt a tightening in her navel and a dizzying sense as if she were hurtling toward him.
I wouldn’t mind seeing this one in my bedchamber.
She heard it as if he had spoken aloud, then felt a hard snap as she fell back within herself. She shuddered. The merchant squeezed her wrist, and she pulled hard, stumbling backward.
“Don’t touch me,” she said in a shrill voice.
The older man’s eyes narrowed for one heartbeat. Then he threw his head back and laughed. She turned and ran, not caring which way she went.
The days melded into one another. Mother and daughter established a routine, and Ai Ling found that she had become used to her father’s absence. That fact disquieted her.
Most nights, after dinner, they pulled chairs from the main hall into the courtyard, and worked on embroidering or sewing by lantern light. Ai Ling enjoyed this time the most, with the long day behind them, perhaps bringing Father closer to his return.
A sliver of moon shone the night she asked her mother about her own betrothal. Her mother smiled into her embroidery. Her fingers danced over a delicate pattern of lotus flowers with a dragonfly hovering above. Ai Ling worked on a new sleep outfit for herself. She chose a soft cotton in celadon from the fabric shop, perfect for summertime.
They sat amid potted dahlias in deep purples and brilliant oranges, brought to bloom by Ai Ling. She had clapped in delight when the first bud unfurled, revealing its gorgeous color.
“It wasn’t arranged,” her mother said.
That much Ai Ling knew, but never the details of their romance.
“Your father had just left the Emperor’s court.”
“The scandal,” Ai Ling said.
Her mother inclined her head and continued with her tale.
“He was thirty years and still unmarried, refusing to take a wife while at court. After leaving, he came to my city in search of employment. He offered to tutor the children of families willing to hire him.” Her mother paused to thread emerald green for the dragonfly.
“What happened to Father in court? Will you never tell?” Ai Ling furrowed her brow as she stitched her nightshirt. She had the right to know.
“That is something you need to ask your father,” her mother said.
Ai Ling didn’t reply. Her mother was right.
“My mother died giving birth to me and my father not long after, from illness.” Her mother bent closer to her embroidery.
“My grandparents took me in. But I grew up with the weight of my parents’ deaths on me.” She paused and lifted her elegant head to admire the moon. Ai Ling felt her sorrow, smothering the exquisite scent of jasmine, dimming the starlight above.
“My mother was considered bad luck, a poor wife, having died in childbirth, but even worse, taking her young husband to the grave with her. I grew up believing I was the cause of such ill fortune. Nobody made me think otherwise.” The crickets chirped their familiar song as her mother sipped cool tea. Ai Ling quickly rose to refill her cup.
“At twenty-one years, I was still unmarried, never having been promised to anyone. I wasn’t a priority among the grandsons who needed to bring home good brides and the granddaughters who needed even better husbands and families to be sent to.”
Ai Ling imagined her mother as a spinster. The bad-luck girl no one could be rid of. Her heart went out to her mother. It wasn’t fair. It never was fair.
“I took on the role of second mother to many of my little nieces and nephews. So I was there the day your father came to interview for the tutoring position, bringing the children in to meet him. He was very good with them. I knew then he would be a good father.” Her mother smiled, her features illuminated by the flickering lantern light.
“He proposed the betrothal to my grandfather three months later.”
“But what happened in between?”
Her mother laughed, throwing back her head so the silver ornaments in her hair tinkled. “That is between your father and me.”
“You fell in love.” Ai Ling said it almost accusingly.
“Yes, we did. It happened under unusual circumstances. I suppose we were both castoffs, me the unlucky orphan girl and he the scandalous scholar ousted from court. Grandfather hesitated; he did care for me. But I spoke to him and gave my consent. We were wed and left my family six months after. I was already with child.”
“And you moved to Ahn Nan?”
“To this very house.”
“What about Father’s family?” Ai Ling spoke from the side of her mouth, a sewing pin between her lips.
“We stopped there first before coming here. But no one would answer the door when we knocked, even as we heard whispers from within.”
Stunned, Ai Ling looked up from her work. “Yes. The Wen family disowned your father, believing the gossip from court. It broke his heart. He hasn’t spoken of it to this day,” her mother said.
Her kind, intelligent father cast out by his own family? This was why she grew up without doting grandparents, isolated from relatives. Why her mother hushed her whenever she asked why they never visited. How could they believe the worst of the gossip, whatever it may have been? Did they not know their own son?
“And then you had me?” Ai Ling asked.
Her mother threaded silver now, accent color for the dragonfly wings. Her face softened. “Yes. When we lost our firstborn, I blamed myself, believing that the curse of ill fortune continued. And then we were blessed with you.”
“Did you want more children, Mother?”
“Of course we did. You were such a joy. Your father used to tote you around in a silk sling to show you off. I still have it tucked in a drawer somewhere.”
“That’s a funny thought!” Ai Ling chuckled, forgetting the pin clasped between her lips.
“We tried but without luck. After two years, I implored your father to take a second wife. But do you know what he said?” She leaned in close as if sharing a secret. “He said, ‘Why would I want another woman in the house? I’m already outnumbered as it is.’” They laughed together, loud enough for the crickets to cease their song.
Her mother wiped her eyes. “He teased, of course. And always kissed me after.” She smiled and laid her craftwork down. “This wears on me. I think I’ll retire.” She rubbed her brow with slender fingers.
Ai Ling bade her mother good night but remained sitting in the courtyard, head tilted toward the evening sky. Her cat, Taro, emerged from behind the jasmine, leaped across the stone floor in one breath, and twined his lithe body about her ankle.
She petted him, felt his rumbling purr even before she heard it. Her mind wandered to the image of her parents in youth, both outcasts, alone until they found each other. She couldn’t imagine the same fate for herself—couldn’t fathom the fortune of ever falling in love.
Ai
Ling pulled the heavy courtyard door open to find Master Huang, stroking his long gray beard. She almost cried out at the sight of him. She had spent the evening after their encounter the previous week shut in her bedchamber, too queasy to eat, unable to speak of it with her mother. When asked if she felt ill, Ai Ling blamed it on her monthly letting, which wasn’t entirely a lie.
“Is your mother in?” Master Huang asked without smiling.
She pressed her palm against the wooden door, stopping the trembling of her hand. She cleared her throat before speaking.
“Yes, she is. I will call her.” She refused to address him by name.
She hated the thought of allowing this man into their home, but there was no way of turning aside someone of his stature. She stepped inside the main hall. Feeling the weight of his leer on her back, she straightened her frame even taller.
“Mother? Master Huang is here to visit.”
Her mother emerged from the kitchen area, patting her hair with one hand. She was dressed in gray cotton house clothes, but managed to look regal.
“Master Huang. What brings us this honor?”
“No, I was rude to arrive unannounced. I met Ai Ling in the market and thought I would pay a visit.”
“Please, sit.” Her mother gestured toward an elm-wood chair. “Ai Ling, some tea.” The pause before she answered him was not lost on Ai Ling. She should have told Mother what had happened—but how could she have explained hearing Master Huang’s thoughts, if they were his thoughts?
Ai Ling retreated into the kitchen. She could see the back of Master Huang’s head and her mother’s profile through the arched doorway. Her mother looked uncomfortable, sitting with her back rigid and her hands clasped before her.
“Master Wen being gone for so long has been a burden, Lady Wen. Is there any news?” Master Huang asked.
Ai Ling held her breath, a jar of loose jasmine tea leaves in one hand.
Her mother studied her hands. “You are kind in your concern for our family. I know my husband will return in good time.” Her mother’s voice grew softer as she spoke. So soft that Ai Ling had to lean toward the doorway to hear. She swallowed the knot that caught in her throat.
