Chapter 1
Edward Quan ·
The day Mother gave birth to me, rain poured down and thunder shook the sky. The midwife was so frightened she spent half the night chanting prayers to the Buddha.
Father paced outside the birthing room exactly one hundred and eighty times. At my first cry, he rushed in.
“A boy or a girl?”
“Congratulations, Your Excellency. A daughter.”
Father's knees went weak. He nearly fell to the floor.
1
Later, he named me Shen Zhaoning. An elegant name, he said, befitting the Chancellor's daughter by his principal wife.
In private, though, he called me “Bruiser.”
The reason was simple. I could crawl at three months, walk at six, and run at one year old. By two, I could shove over the little sons of noble families my own age.
When I was three, the heir to the prince's household next door came to visit with a piece of osmanthus cake.
I stared at it. He wouldn't give it to me.
I hit him.
Afterward, he cried and stuffed it into my hand. I patted his head.
“Good boy.”
I was three that year. He was five.
From then on, he took a detour whenever he saw me.
Mother worried.
She summoned me and earnestly tried to reason with me.
“A-Ning, you're a girl. You must be gentle and dignified. Smile without showing your teeth. Walk as lightly as though you were treading on clouds.”
I looked down at my shoes, which had just been through a mud puddle.
“Mother, how do you tread on clouds?”
She was silent for a long time.
“Never mind,” she said. “Stay on the ground.”
When I was six, Father hired a tutor.
Master Lin was an elderly provincial-examination graduate, said to be very learned.
For our first lesson, he had me memorize Precepts for Women.
I finished in the time it took an incense stick to burn.
He stared at me, then taught me Precepts for Women again.
Another incense stick. Finished again.
He could no longer sit still. On the spot, he wrote Father a letter: this daughter was exceptionally gifted, beyond his ability to teach. Please find someone else.
Father read it and asked me, “Why won't your tutor teach you anymore?”
I answered honestly.
“He says I'm too clever.”
Father said nothing.
He hired another tutor, Master Chen, an elderly palace-examination graduate.
Master Chen really was clever. He skipped Precepts for Women altogether and began with the Analects.
I learned fast. So fast that he had to prepare before every lesson, afraid I'd ask something he couldn't answer.
Once, he explained the line, “The gentleman understands righteousness; the petty man understands profit.”
“Master,” I asked, “what do you call someone who's neither a gentleman nor a petty man?”
He thought for a long time.
“An ordinary person.”
“What should an ordinary person understand, then?”
He couldn't answer.
The next day, he called in sick.
He stayed sick for a whole month.
2
When I was eight, Mother gave me a little brother.
His childhood name was A-Fu. He was so fair and soft that everyone wanted to pinch him.
Mother held him, her eyes full of love.
“A-Ning, you're a big sister now. You must protect your brother.”
I nodded.
And I did.
When A-Fu was two, Concubine Zhou's son pushed him over.
Without a word, I pinned the boy to the ground and made him call me “Big Brother” ten times.
A-Fu stood beside us, clapping.
“You're amazing, Sister!”
Concubine Zhou turned livid and ran to complain to Father.
He came to question me.
“Bruiser, why did you hit someone?”
“He pushed A-Fu.”
“That doesn't mean you can hit him.”
“I didn't. I only had him call me Big Brother a few times.”
Father fell silent.
He went to see Concubine Zhou's son.
The child was crouching in a corner, sniffling.
“Did you call her that?”
He looked up, eyes brimming.
“Ten times.”
Father paused, then turned to me.
“How did you make him agree?”
“I just said, ‘Call me Big Brother. Then I'll let you go.’”
Again, Father had nothing to say.
In the end, he turned and left without another word.
After that, Concubine Zhou took a detour whenever she saw me.
I was ten. A-Fu was two.
One day, he asked, “Sister, why does everyone else have lots of brothers and sisters, but I only have you?”
“Do you want a little brother or sister?”
He nodded.
“Then ask Mother to have another.”
He actually went.
Mother heard his request and sat stunned for a long time.
“A-Fu, that... isn't for me to decide alone.”
He blinked.
“Who decides, then?”
She didn't answer.
He ran back to me, repeated every word, and asked, “Sister, who decides?”
“Father.”
Off he ran to Father.
Father was reading official papers in his study. A-Fu flung himself at his legs and hugged them.
“Father! I want a little brother or sister! Mother says it's up to you!”
The document in Father's hand nearly fell to the floor.
He summoned me.
“Did you teach him to say that?”
“No. He thought of it himself.”
Father gave me a very complicated look.
“Bruiser, could you teach him something else?”
“Yes.”
So I taught A-Fu to recite the Three Character Classic.
When we reached “At four, Rong knew to yield the pears,” he asked, “Sister, why did he have to give up a pear?”
“Because you should let younger people have it.”
A-Fu thought for a moment.
“Then I'm younger. Shouldn't other people let me have things?”
“Yes.”
He thought some more.
“Why don't you let me have them, then?”
I was silent for a long time.
“Because I'm your big sister. If I give way, it's because I choose to. If I don't, it's because I can.”
A-Fu had no answer.
It took him three whole days to digest that.