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After verifying that Xiao-yan had downed three teacups—an arbitrarily chosen number—of his prescribed "medication," Jia Yang called in the maidservant idling behind the door.
She had more or less a circle of a face, with a thoroughly benign cast to it and teeth that did not quite fit in her mouth when closed. Although little of her bare skin was exposed, the youth could roughly sketch out the outline of her figure in his mind. Jia Yang concluded that she was built sturdily for a woman; her waist was stocky and dimples were visible on the plump backs of her hands. Moreover, she reminded him of Qiao'er even though the two looked nothing alike, and Jia Yang knew that his most dependable maidservant was a force to be reckoned with.
With these presumptions in mind, the youth had no qualms about directing her to collect and launder the fetid bed sheets. If there was a shudder of annoyance across her features, he pretended not to see it.
Then, Jia Yang looked to the skeleton beside him and meditated on whether or not the maidservant outside had a habit of devouring his allotted provisions. He considered ordering light refreshments to leave behind for the courtesan, but Xiao-yan would have to refrain from solid fare for a few hours, and what was the point if that greedy girl would end up taking it anyway? Together with the man's physique, Jia Yang also suspected that his vomiting symptomized a more serious underlying condition, something he could not cure with mere wishful thinking and nourishment.
He drew the door shut behind him, separating himself from that image of the courtesan kneeled before a tea table. Jia Yang could not explain why he felt almost guilty, as though he had just turned a blind eye to a wretch begging for alms on the side of the street, his own pocket heavy with silver.
Compared to his bland dreams, strolling down the hall of the establishment in the hours of mid-morning was a more surreal experience. A few unclad bodies lay sprawled out on the floor, fixed in uncomfortable orientations yet still so soundly asleep that they approximated the dead. The communal area was all but emptied of clients, who had left furnishings disarrayed in their wake but otherwise little evidence that they ever swept through.
In the daylight, Jia Yang thought it seemed smaller, cramped despite being unadorned: in short, cheap. He felt as though he was touring through some merchant's seasonal residence instead of the infamous Concealed Rapture, Vermilion Lanterns. The juxtaposition was starker than that between ink and paper; the youth could not even say for certain that he was in the same location he had set foot into the evening prior. Jia Yang imagined this situation was probably similar to sleeping a peerless flower and uncovering a stranger in one's bed the morning following, not knowing if it was the delusion of wine or darkness that had painted her so ravishing.
He spotted a silhouette ahead: Qiao'er was waiting on the road, her gaze steely with disappointment, arms crossed, mouth twitching.
Jia Yang could not say he was surprised to see her; she had innumerable eyes and ears all over the city, and their sole task was to divine the profligate young master's whereabouts. For a lowly maidservant, her capabilities—beyond tracking him down—were rather extraordinary from what Jia Yang had observed, but he did not think anything special of it, having grown up under her surveillance. She could locate him after things were said and done, but she had no authority to stop him from setting out in the first place.
He grinned shamelessly at Qiao'er if only to make her cuff him on the shoulder. After verbally and physically taking out her frustrations on Jia Yang, she concluded her chastisements with a coherent phrase: "His esteemed grace, the Grand Secretary, has been awaiting the return of Young Master Jia." The statement made Jia Yang snort.
"The stinking white-haired man can pleasure in his own tea while it still steams. I have had and still have no matters to deliberate over with that senile fellow."
"Young Master!" Came her scandalized protest.
"Did I falter? What need has he to recognize another son? He has his beloved heir, unmatched in terms of facilities for poetry, calligraphy, archery, swordplay," Jia Yang listed lightly then smirked before finishing with, "and unabashed flattery—"
"Jia Yang!" Qiao'er roared, dropping any veneer of reverence she had been endeavoring to recover, her face flushing. "Watch that tongue of yours, you loose-lipped rogue! Both the esteemed Old Master and Eldest Young Master are not of a status that you can speak thus coarsely of! In case-what if they were to hear?"
Jia Yang rolled his eyes so far into his head that he nearly tipped backwards: "Qiao'er, ah, Qiao'er. Is your tongue not more clever and quick than mine? Say if they were to hear a mere servant addressing the Second Young Master of the Jia household in this impudent manner, cursing him violently enough to disturb eight ancestral generations. Out of the two of us, who would bear the scars of a kinder lashing? Let the meadow only worry of growing green; let the huntsman worry of sustaining his bloodline."
That was one of his favorite idioms—from his very limited store—to throw back at her. Jia Yang by no means regarded her as an inferior, but he was never conservative when it came to foregrounding the hierarchy to win an argument.
Qiao'er scrunched up her already plain face into an uglier, almost comical, alignment and was clearly about to retort. But the maidservant had enough sense to slip a sidelong glance at the operator of the chariot, huffing and remembering that there was indeed a spectator present. How inconvenient. Grumbling, she hinted at Jia Yang with a jerk of her neck to board the conveyance.
After seating himself, the youth held out a hand to support Qiao'er still on ground level. She swatted away his help with the aggravation that one reserves for blood-sucking insects and pulled herself on using the door frame.
As their chariot staggered and swayed like a fishing boat caught in a storm, Jia Yang opened his mouth to say something. Qiao'er hurled him a glare, and he wisely relented, passing off his try at conversation as a nodding yawn. His feigned yawn gave birth to a real one, causing him to raise a fist to cover it and giving him an opportunity to sneakily pore over his maidservant's expression.
He did not expect to find her looking so glum when she believed him inattentive. What exactly could she be musing on?
Catching Jia Yang peeking, Qiao'er knit her brows and tightened her jaw once more. "Qiao'er," he said finally, his voice soft as though he was trying to soothe a wounded animal. His maidservant's mood improved at the tone; Jia Yang was confident of this when he saw her chin scrunch up minutely, a signal that she was struggling to maintain her irritation. His smile broadened inwardly at the success of the move.
"Qiao'er," he repeated mournfully, aiming at the debilitated last walls of her fortress.
"Mn," she muttered back while staring down into her lap. "What?"
"That temper will age and wrinkle you. I fear—"
"Jia Yang," the maidservant warned, too late in realizing that her young master had no intentions of repenting as she had been hoping.
"I only fear the face of Qiao'er will get stuck in that arrangement should you not change it! You are long past your prime, old maid!"
The youth burst out in laughter, unrestrained to the point that it cracked and he choked, giving into a renewed bout but this time of coughing. Staring at him, Qiao'er trembled: and not just because the chariot was traversing uneven earth. Anyone else might have thought she was on the verge of another outburst, but Jia Yang was perhaps the most familiar with—therefore the most accurate when reading—her behavior.
Much of this was owing to the detail that Qiao'er was no simple maidservant. She carried with her numerous titles: among them, attendant, caretaker, companion, and wet nurse. Although neither of them would be willing to admit to it, Qiao'er played more of a maternal role in Jia Yang's life than his biological mother had and would ever be able to. After all, the concubine of Grand Secretary Jia had encountered unforeseen complications during childbirth and left for her next incarnation seventeen years ago.
Did the Second Young Master yearn for his mother or did he grow teary upon envisioning her in his sleep?
He watched the maidservant's profile, her lips tightened less viciously than they had been before, her eyes narrowed in concentration but at least now not downcast. He preferred this irked Qiao'er over the dejected stranger who shared her features.
What a silly thought—how is it possible to miss someone whom you have never touched, dream of someone whom you have not seen, love someone whom you do not understand? He was still considering the question as their chariot pulled into the front courtyard.
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Loving the interaction between Jia Yang and Qiao
