Chapter 27: The Phoenix Pillar Cannot Stay Zhao Se

“Liuguang (Zhuxue) greets the Young Marquis.” The two who were seated nearest the door stood first, offering their salutations with graceful composure.

A faint smile played at the corner of Shen Yu’s lips as he cast a meaningful glance at the pair, then proceeded directly to the bedside, stopping Chacha from rising. “You’re with child; what need is there for such ceremony?” His words brimmed with concern.

Now that she was pregnant, Chacha sensed her standing had indeed shifted in Shen Yu’s eyes. Sweetness welled in her heart, her earlier anxiety swiftly replaced by pride, so she couldn’t help but chide him in mock annoyance, “Why did you kick down the door, Young Marquis? It was perfectly fine, and now you’ve put a hole through it.”

Shen Yu sat beside her, taking her delicate hand in his, and replied with a laugh, “I heard you were expecting and lost myself in excitement.”

Chacha lowered her head with a coy giggle, naturally leaning against Shen Yu’s broad shoulder, her slender hand trailing across his back in a playful gesture.

This display appeared strange in Zhuxue’s eyes. She distinctly recalled the Young Marquis’s expression had been anything but good when she’d gone to the East Courtyard to report Chacha’s pregnancy—it was the same when he had kicked open the door just now, his face dark and brooding… How had his mood changed so swiftly?

Suspicion gnawed at Zhuxue, but before she could puzzle it through, Shen Yu provided the answer.

“Zhuxue tells me you’re with child. Did you have a physician examine you?” His voice was gentle, suffused with affection.

Chacha murmured her assent, casting a glance at the other two women in the room. “Young Marquis, why not let Sister Liuguang and Sister Zhuxue retire? They kept vigil by my side all night and must be exhausted.”

But Shen Yu seemed not to hear, continuing his questioning, “When did the doctor come? How many months along are you? Did you receive confirmation?”

“I summoned a doctor at the hour of the Sheep, but fearing the diagnosis unreliable, I called for another as well. Both assured me it was certain, only then did I allow Zhuxue to find you in the East Courtyard.” Chacha replied obediently, “The doctors say it’s been more than two months.”

Two months… That would have been after Han Chu left for the East Courtyard. Since then, he had indeed visited the West Courtyard three times—twice staying overnight in Chacha’s room; one night he went to Zhuxue’s, but she was indisposed.

Shen Yu’s mind raced through the calculations, though his face remained composed as he smiled. “Doctors from outside are not always trustworthy; sometimes, eager for a reward, they’ll say anything. Let me take your pulse myself.”

As he spoke, he took Chacha’s slender wrist, fingers pressing her pulse in examination. After a long moment, his expression darkened; brow furrowed, he asked coldly, “Are you truly with child, Chacha?”

The question sent a shiver of dread through her. A vague sense of foreboding prickled in her heart, and caring nothing for the presence of others, she hurriedly insisted, “Of course I am—my courses haven’t come in over two months!”

“But that’s not what I’m reading.” Shen Yu cut her off, his tone crisp. “Your pulse is weak and floating—clearly a case of irregular menses.”

Irregular menses! Chacha was stunned. “Young Marquis! That’s impossible! The doctors both said—”

“Oh? Are you doubting my medical skill?” His words were icy.

“No, no, of course not…” Chacha denied frantically, her wrist aching where his fingers pressed.

But Shen Yu said nothing more. He rose from the bed, withdrawing a packet of medicine from his sleeve and tossing it to Zhuxue. “Decoct this and give it to your Sister Chacha.”

Zhuxue caught the packet, scarcely able to believe it. By candlelight she glanced at Shen Yu, only to meet his cold, inscrutable gaze.

Even the slowest of minds would understand now. Zhuxue dared not ponder further; hands trembling, she accepted the order. “Zhuxue understands,” she answered, then hurried out to prepare the medicine.

“No! No! Young Marquis!” Chacha’s eyes widened in terror, confusion clouding her face. “Tomorrow I’ll call another doctor, you’ll see—it has to be true. I’ve never had irregular menses!”

At her words, silence fell over the room. The two remaining women scarcely dared to breathe. Who could say how long the stillness lasted before Shen Yu sighed softly, “Chacha…” His words were double-edged, laden with unfathomable meaning. “Next time, don’t be so foolish.”

“Young Marquis…” Chacha’s tears finally spilled over as she sat sobbing on the bed, still denying, “I didn’t lie to you, I truly…”

Shen Yu, however, would hear no more. Rising unhurriedly, he instructed Liuguang, who stood frozen in shock, “See that she takes the medicine. Then fetch a doctor to keep watch. If anything goes amiss…”

His warning left unfinished, Liuguang dropped to her knees in fright, pledging her obedience.

Shen Yu looked back at Chacha once more. She was weeping bitterly, but what of it? He was no stranger to such affairs, ever cautious. Even if by some chance he’d left her with child, he would never allow her to bear it.

All the more so since he so seldom visited the West Courtyard; who could say whose child it truly was? After Han Chu’s affair, he could tolerate it even less.

Such is fate. Shen Yu sighed coldly, striding out of Zhuihong Pavilion.

*****

At the same moment, in the East Courtyard of Zhuihong Pavilion, Yun Ci too found sleep elusive.

“Zhuying, wheel me outside for a walk,” Yun Ci commanded quietly.

Zhuying knew well her master would spend a restless night, so she refrained from persuasion, pushing him out into the courtyard.

The night was misty, the moon bright and silver, the spring’s waters glimmered coolly, just as they had more than three months ago.

At this same hour, in this very place, a young girl had once cast her zither into the stream in a gesture of finality—the splash sent ripples across the water, and a wave of feeling through someone’s heart, though he realized it too late.

Gazing at the tranquil night, Yun Ci fell into a reverie, regretting this return to the old place. At length he said softly, “Let’s go back.”

Zhuying, ever silent, wheeled him back the way they had come. Seeing that it was late and his master had had his walk, Zhuying ventured, “You’ll be setting out early tomorrow—shouldn’t you rest soon?”

Yun Ci did not reply.

Zhuying, having served him for many years, understood his moods well. If the master did not refuse, he would assent; this silence signaled a preoccupation.

After a brief hesitation, Zhuying ventured again, “Perhaps… you would like to bid Miss Chuxiu farewell?”

This time, Yun Ci replied quickly, “There’s no need.”

Zhuying coughed lightly, forcing a smile. “You and Miss Danxin have both said your goodbyes, only I have not yet had the chance. Since we are returning to Fangzhou tomorrow, may I go pay my respects?”

Having spoken, she held her breath, awaiting his response. After a long moment, Yun Ci finally murmured assent, as if after some inner struggle.

Zhuying let out a silent sigh of relief.

Master and servant made their way in silence toward Han Chu’s quarters, but before they drew near, the sound of a qin drifted toward them on the night air.

Zhuying paused, just about to wheel the chair forward, when Yun Ci raised a hand for her to stop. The two stood motionless, listening intently in the quiet night.

At first, the melody was tranquil, like an orchid in a secluded valley—much like the player herself.

After a while, the notes slowed and softened, turning sorrowful, a plaintive yearning emerging.

The motif recurred, the music twisting in a hundred ways, as though speaking and weeping by turns.

At last, it faded into a mournful wail upon the wind, heavy with suppressed pain—the lingering resonance endless, each refrain more poignant than the last.

Yun Ci felt his own heart twist with a thousand turns, harder to calm than even this ancient tune.

The player was doubtless Han Chu. Earlier that day, Danxin had pushed the zither into her arms, then hurried off before she could protest. Helpless, Han Chu had carried the instrument back to her room, set it down, and gone to wash her hair. After returning from the banquet and finding a free moment, she had unwrapped the silk covering the qin—and gasped in delighted surprise.

It was an exquisite instrument, crafted from paulownia wood, its top layer of paulownia and bottom of catalpa, the strings themselves a rare sight. Han Chu drew in its faint sandalwood scent, noting by the body’s patina that it was a piece of considerable age.

To a lover of the qin, such an instrument was irresistible. Han Chu ran her fingers over its surface, feeling the wood’s smooth warmth and the cool touch of the strings, their sound clear and ethereal, as if played by an immortal.

By her experienced eye, this was surely an antique, if not worth a fortune then certainly rare in the world.

Such a precious zither could never have belonged to Danxin, a mere servant. But since the giver wished to remain anonymous, Han Chu could only feign ignorance.

This qin, like the identity of its donor, stood worlds apart from her. To even serve as a maid would be a humiliation.

The young Lord Yun was noble of character, wealthier than princes, higher than imperial kin. Perhaps, moved by her act of casting away the zither, he had sent her this one out of sympathy. For one as wealthy as he, an antique qin was a trifling gift.

But in Han Chu’s hands, it was priceless. The instrument, its meaning, and the memories it bore were beyond value.

Did she regret it? Han Chu asked herself, refusing his invitation to Fangzhou—was that truly her will?

Ah! Whether by will or not, she could never aspire to the heir of Marquis Lixin, not as one of such lowly birth. After Helian Qi’s incident, and Madam Feng’s earnest counsel, she had long since understood.

As dawn breaks and things begin anew, she must know her place. All she could do was cherish the name “Chuxiu” for the rest of her days, repaying Lord Yun’s regard and kindness in her own way.

With such thoughts, Han Chu regained her composure. Unconsciously, her fingers danced across the strings. The qin was fine, her skill exceptional, and with true feeling poured into the music, this piece was destined to move the world.

Yet on this long, lonely night, with only silence for company, no one was there to listen—no true audience to appreciate it.

Han Chu’s slender fingers flitted over the strings, and without thinking, she played an ancient tune, one whose lyrics she could not voice, yet had long since memorized in her heart—

“Of all partings, east and west rivers must meet again.
Shallow affection, like drifting cloud, still returns in dreams.
Alas, human hearts are fickler than cloud or water, sweet meetings so hard to come by again.
Looking back, of all the heartbreaks, none compare to this one.”

Clearly, Yun Ci outside the courtyard had heard this melody before and knew its words. He listened in silence, and as the final note faded to nothing, his emotions too settled.

From sorrow and regret, his gaze shifted to revelation, to wonder, and even, faintly, to joy.

If he was not mistaken, the lyrics of this song contained two “cloud” characters—clouds drifting unbound, hearts lighter than clouds and water.

The opening line echoed their first meeting; the last captured his feelings in this very moment.

Only now did Yun Ci understand why the girl had once so resolutely cast away her zither. Such feeling, such artistry—how many in the world could comprehend it? Most came merely for the spectacle.

Yet fate had led him to witness her casting the zither, and now to hear her play, on the very eve of parting. He had thought some things would end here, but perhaps another path lay ahead.

Suddenly, Yun Ci recalled the poem “Broken Strings,” whose lines about Han Chu’s skill matched tonight’s performance perfectly.

He remembered the girl’s reverence when she presented the poem, and her playful words, “Are all girls in brothels so full of tricks?” More, he recalled the commotion when the magistrate arrived searching for someone…

In a flash, a thought crossed Yun Ci’s mind; things once murky now seemed clear, stirred by the night’s music.

How many young women in the world are this beautiful and skilled at the qin? How could a poor girl have learned such art, unless—

That single thought sent ripples through his heart, leaving him restless. At length, he looked up at the moon, making a momentous decision.

“Zhuying, look into a certain courtesan.” Yun Ci gazed at the scattered lights of the distant pavilion, his voice calm. “And pass the word—we will delay our departure tomorrow.”