A soft, silent shower covered Jinghai town; mist curling into graceful hands leaving a lingering caress over the mountain peaks. These mysterious mountains stretching towards the north of the town, stood mightily – as sturdy as a soldiers overrun with a high-tide of powerful enemies – similarly the overbearing mountains were overrun in the rushing waves of clouds. Peaks after peaks shadowed in the misty cloud and murky downpour lingered further on, as if noting a silent plea of summers end.

It was the ninth month of the new year; after three more the year would end. No festivity, no new remarkable gatherings. The town at this time of the year had fallen into a slothful air lulled by its wet lands and soaking greenery steeped in mud.

Carriages and carts pulling along the road often overturned in the knee-deep sludge, or even get stuck for hours waiting for the servants to run down and push it out of these tricky nooks of the roads. If one happens to be met with more unlucky circumstances, the wheels would come off its axels and be of no further use. The master would then wait draped in his fur, sometime peeking through the cover outside, sometime cursing at the weather in an almost undecipherable tone, while seeking some warmth from his hand-held brazier inside the carriage, knowing well that he was hopelessly waiting hours before the rescue could come.

Often paper umbrellas would float in their colorful apparels from one end of the alley to another, but seldom out from the town, or in the suburbs. From one shopfront, hopping to another hoping to remain as un-wet as could be humanly possible. Few bare bodied slaves too, ran along these paths rushing to help their master bear the weight of the wheels stuck inside mud, while he screamed his lungs out with anger.

“The carriage couldn’t be arranged? Then why did you rush here rather than having something done for once? Don’t tell me the house has every carriage occupied – what did you say to me! Every one of them is engaged? Ha! Taking me as a fool…” and thus the voice echoed in the valleys, losing its timbre as it reached farther and farther down the south.

In the suburbs of the town, down south, there it was the worst hit. The continuous rain of three weeks had seeped into the fields overstretching all around the valley as far as the eyes could see, now appearing as a sea overarching the land till it melted down into the opposite range of bluish grey mysterious mountains far into the south.

Forest and foliage, fresh and lush green forked sparingly. The rain had washed off their dusty paleness and once again filled the landscape with mesmerizing colors. The blues of mountains were stark and sharply contrasted with the rolling white mist, while the sea like fields were softer and reflected like an enamouring mirror, as if capturing a piece of the moving heaven above.

The greens could be said be have become a bit greener and the town livelier by the time the master and servant found their way out the suburbs and rushed into the town. Harkening’s of hawkers had pitched up a notch and mansions of nobles began to be filled up with chattering servants abound, doing the morning preparations.

Rows after rows of maids and servants filing here and there in a set rhythm, as if some hand was pulling the string behind to guide them, keeping anyone from sticking out of tune. The rhythm itself was fine.

“No, no, no! Oh heavens! Hong Tao, look at your steps, will you? look at what you have done! The mistress has been waiting for so long in the main hall, now. Would you care to rush out and look for Young Master? No, run for heaven’s sake! The young master hasn’t reached the house and the carriage broke off! The soup will be cold by the time…”

A silent pebble into the still water.

Still like the timbre broke off in a jerk and rescinding in the same manner. The bird’s song broke upon the magnolia branch. It wasn’t the flowering season, yet the day was mellow and the tune was heartening. Where did it break off to? A little splatter of foots rushing back and forth and then silence lingered in the vacant courtyard. Then, files of maids dressed in fine silks of modest cut, went to east and to the west; to north and to south, and to each direction. The rhythm had dawned upon them once more.

Soon the houses of nobles and commoners alike burst out with vigorous rushing of the dawn. In stark contrast, the gloomy sky and muddy path sketched a wretched picture. The eaves of the roofs of many houses dripped with murky dark water-drops, rolling down in sheets of silvery sparkling train, down the stoned floors of the courtyard. A merry picture yet equally mesmerizing in its unsettling uncanniness. A quiet descends and a shout emerges suddenly as if one has embroiled another in its existence, unceasingly mellow in its likeness.

Through the shade of the free-floating curtain, sliding off the canopy of her bed Wei Zhiruo lamented a while, lying still on her back. Her pale face starkly contrasted with the black free-floating strands of her smooth long hair. The comfortable poise of her leaning back on the wooden headboard, cushioned in cloud like pillows was quite distinguished against the almost paranoid staleness in her eyes.

Flickering in the early morning sunlight, spilling from the nearby window, which had been unceremoniously left opened throughout the night, without taking into account the health of the occupant of the room, and which now slowly let in faint drizzle and turbid smell of broken soil and crushed leaves; the pallid porcelain smooth skin burnt against the dull eyes. Dull, shadow less, mirthless, unapologetically apathetic.

This was not the place she knew of. This room, the boudoir.

Somewhere in the corner laid works, arranged in piles with colored threads along with its wooden frames still mounted with a piece of fabric. Unfinished embroidery works. Pearl beads hanging around the bed, enclosed the view along with the parted muslin curtains. Soft and embroidered with silvery totems of birds and auspicious clouds.

By the window was the wooden screen, crafted to section the room into chambers, giving more privacy to the one inside the bed hiding them from the direct view of the main door opening towards west. Crafted with luxurious rosewood, latticed window screens parted open letting in cold air. The room was filled with a unique taste of incoherent extravagance and unpretentious barrenness or simplicity in its similitude simultaneously. 

Not like her palace at all. Not her home or anywhere she was familiar with. It wasn’t luxurious enough. Bright enough. And the smell that wafted off from the nooks and crannies: the mellowness was something the hard history of the imperial power would never have in its possession.

‘No, its not my palace,’ Wei Zhiruo thought as she laid amongst the soft pillows.

It was unkempt as well. As if for a while, and quite recently too, it had been left on its own. And things appeared to be missing. Broken jars were left strewn over the floor. Someone had raided the room, taken things and left but as if trying to leave few traces or not to be obvious.

The charms strung to the pearl strings suddenly burst into a tune. Wei Zhiruo closed her eyes and lulled the deep ache in her heart to sleep. In fact, she knew something was off about the whole thing. The biggest giveaway, had always been her body. Pale, small in girth, short and weak; she must be approaching seven but still not there – yes, she was young, a child again.