Chapter 4

The two maids pushed the door open and came inside.

I knew my visit had come to an end for today.

But I hadn’t come away empty-handed.

She hadn’t denied it.

She hadn’t said, “I don’t know that woman.”

She’d said, “Hadn’t she been dead for years?”

She knew who Lingge was.

She knew Lingge was dead.

And she was afraid of her.

A woman who had been dead for more than a decade could still frighten the Grand Preceptor’s wife this badly.

By the time I left the shrine, dusk had fallen.

A lamp was lit in Bamboo Court. It was Matron Zhou.

She sat in my room, clutching the talisman I’d given her the day before.

“Matron?”

“Daoist.” Her voice was a little hoarse. “You were right. There really is an old matter I can’t let go.”

“How long have you been carrying it?”

“Eighteen years.”

Eighteen years.

Exactly my age.

Matron Zhou didn’t tell me a complete story.

She gave me fragments.

Like a mirror smashed to pieces, each shard reflected one angle of the past.

“Eighteen years ago, there was a maid in the residence. Her surname was Fang. Her name was Lingge.”

The first fragment.

“The Old Master brought Lingge back from Jiangnan. He said she was descended from a benefactor. Her family had fallen on hard times, so he took her in as a maid.”

“She could read and write, and she was good at cooking. She was very handy.”

“When she embroidered flowers and birds, they looked alive.”

The second fragment.

“Elder Young Master Pei Huaijin was seventeen then. He studied hard, often staying in his study until midnight. Lingge was responsible for bringing him late-night snacks.”

“They grew close.”

“They were young, after all.”

Matron Zhou rubbed her hands together. “That sort of thing isn’t uncommon in a powerful household. If a young master has a maid he likes by his side and the Old Master turns a blind eye, it usually passes without trouble.”

The third fragment.

“But Madam objected.”

“She said Lingge’s background was unclear and she wasn’t worthy of the Eldest Young Master. She wouldn’t even allow her to become a concubine.”

“The Eldest Young Master argued with Madam. The Old Master stepped in to mediate and said they could discuss marriage after Huaijin passed the imperial examination.”

“That autumn, the Eldest Young Master passed the provincial exam.”

“Everyone in the household thought a happy occasion was just around the corner.”

The fourth fragment—this part, Matron Zhou told very slowly.

“But on the third day after the results were posted, Lingge suddenly disappeared.”

“The people in the residence searched for three days but found no trace of her.”

“Madam said she had stolen something and run away, and that she’d reported it to the authorities. The Old Master stopped her and said, ‘Let it be. She’s already gone.’”

“The Eldest Young Master searched everywhere for her in a frenzy, for a whole month.”

“Then he fell ill.”

“After that, he never recovered.”

Matron Zhou stopped.

The lamp wick crackled once in its oil dish.

“Matron, did Lingge take anything with her when she left?”

“No.” She shook her head. “She took nothing. She even left wearing the coarse cloth clothes provided by the residence.”

“Was anything unusual in the household on the day she disappeared?”

Matron Zhou lowered her head, twisting the talisman between her fingers.

“There was one thing.”

“What was it?”

“There was a bloodstain beneath the bedboard in Lingge’s room. Not much, but it was fresh.”

My heart sank.

“Who checked it at the time?”

“I did.” Matron Zhou’s voice was almost a breath. “Madam told me to clean Lingge’s room. I saw the blood and reported it to her. Madam said it was menstrual blood, and I shouldn’t make a fuss.”

“Did you believe her?”

“I didn’t.” She lifted her head and looked at me. In her cloudy old eyes was something she had held back for eighteen years. “But what could I do? I was a servant in the household. If Madam told me to wipe it away, I wiped it away.”

I didn’t blame her.

A servant was a servant. In a powerful household, sometimes you had to pretend not to see what you had seen.

It wasn’t a question of courage. It was a question of whether you’d survive.

“Matron, one last question.”

“Ask.”

“When was the dry well sealed?”

Matron Zhou went pale.

“It was… the day after Lingge disappeared.”

I didn’t sleep.

I sat by the window and pieced the fragments together again.

Lingge was a descendant of a benefactor whom the Grand Preceptor had brought back from Jiangnan.

Lingge and Pei Huaijin, the Grand Preceptor’s son, had fallen in love.

The Grand Preceptor’s wife opposed them.

Three days after Pei Huaijin passed the provincial examination, Lingge disappeared.

There was blood beneath the floorboards in her room.

The dry well in the rear garden had been sealed the day after Lingge vanished.

After that, Pei Huaijin fell ill and died at the age of twenty-four.

And my father—a wandering Taoist—had “found” a newborn baby girl one day, eighteen years ago.

Inside the cover of his divination book was written: “A Ling song floats over fragrant waters.”

The book contained a drawing of a blue-green jade bangle and a young woman.

Between its covers was a land deed in the Grand Preceptor’s name.

The edges of the puzzle had begun to come together, but the most important piece was still missing—

How had Lingge left?

Had she been driven away, or taken somewhere?

Had she left of her own accord, or been forced?

What had really happened on the day she disappeared?

Matron Zhou didn’t know.

Or rather, that was where what she knew came to an end.