Chapter 4

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A native-born girl of this era, Zhu Xuan had no concept of the phrase “knowledge changes fate.” At this moment, her anger and sense of injustice stemmed solely from Grandmother’s favoritism.

Many years later, when Zhu Xuan had already entered officialdom, she would still recall this morning of her childhood with vivid clarity. She remained fond of pondering through the corridors of time, imagining: if, after arguing with Grandmother at breakfast, she hadn’t stormed out the door, would her fate have followed a more ordinary path?

But now, not yet six years old in this moment, Zhu Xuan’s heart was filled with a nameless fury. She burst out of the house in tears, her mind echoing with the same question—why?

She had always known that Grandmother did not like her. She was not as sensible as her elder siblings, nor as adorable as the younger ones. The child caught in the middle found herself in the most awkward position.

Grandmother’s dislike was evident: she was never the first to receive a piece of meat, and if there were not enough treats to go around, there was rarely any left for her.

Zhu Xuan thought Grandmother’s dislike stopped at such details, and that perhaps it was simply because her personality clashed with Grandmother’s temperament.

So she’d felt aggrieved before, but not overwhelmingly so; she’d felt wronged, but not deeply.

Her heart ached, tears slipping from her eyes again as she ran into the reeds, crouching down with muffled sobs. It dawned on her that Grandmother’s dislike seemed almost innate.

She sat with her sorrow for a while, then, after composing herself, looked up to see the sun had shifted across the sky. She thought it was time to go home, just as she heard footsteps outside the reed thicket.

“Xuan-niang, come home,” called Zhu Lian, searching for her. Zhu Lian knew she liked to play in the reeds.

Zhu Xuan didn’t reply. Zhu Lian’s footsteps faded a little as she called again, “Xuan-niang, come out now, come back with me, and apologize to Grandmother.”

Zhu Xuan had intended to stand up and answer her sister, but upon hearing those words, she changed her mind, determined now to remain hidden.

Apologize? In that case, she wasn’t going home—at least not yet.

She could already picture the scene: if she returned, Grandmother would surely unleash a more furious scolding than before, then Mother and Father would likely rebuke her for being thoughtless, and Grandfather would probably add a few biting remarks as well. At that point, she would have to admit she was in the wrong—if only because they were all her elders.

With that thought, Zhu Xuan not only ignored Zhu Lian, but hid herself even more carefully.

After searching for a while without finding her, Zhu Lian eventually left. Only then did Zhu Xuan emerge from the reeds, a faint, relieved smile breaking through the tear-stained tracks on her face.

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But Zhu Xuan’s relief was short-lived. If she didn’t return home, where else could she go?

She didn’t know. She only knew that she wanted to vanish for a while, to savor a fleeting taste of freedom in this brief escape.

When she did return, a scolding would likely turn into a beating. So be it, she thought, and refused to dwell on it any longer. Picking up a bundle of reed flowers, she wandered instinctively in the opposite direction from home.

The Reed Village was not large. Lush green rice seedlings grew in neat rows, and each family’s house dotted the flatlands, scattered among the paddies. Water channeled through irrigation ditches, carrying the life-blood of the rice fields. After years of digging, the irrigation system in Reed Village had finally taken shape.

Zhu Xuan walked along the path, recognizing the few people she passed along the way.

“Second girl from the Zhu family, where are you off to?” someone called.

Zhu Xuan greeted them openly but gave no hint of her destination. The farmers passing with their oxen suspected nothing and simply continued on their way.

After nearly two miles, Zhu Xuan reached Qingyang Town. Reed Village was close to the town, but since it wasn’t market day, the streets were quiet, with only a few shops open.

Her aunt, Zhu Qing, had married into the Wang family, the town butchers. From a distance, Zhu Xuan saw that the Wang family’s butcher shop was already closed. Their business was always brisk, and the meat usually sold out by noon.

Certain nobody was inside, Zhu Xuan crept past the shop like a little thief.

Turning a corner along the commercial street, she found herself on a new path.

Both sides of the path were planted with green bamboo. Zhu Xuan followed the direction of the bamboo’s growth, and at the end of the path stood the entrance to the primary academy, a place she knew of but had never entered.

Unknowingly, she had wandered here. It was a door painted with tung oil, topped by a plaque inscribed with four bold characters: “Qingyang Primary Academy.”

But Zhu Xuan could only recognize one character: “Yang,” as in “the sun’s warmth tunes the year’s harmony.” She had once secretly learned a snippet from Zhu Lian’s Thousand Character Classic.

Beside the door hung a couplet: four characters on each side, together reading, “To travel far, begin near; persevere, never slacken.”

Zhu Xuan couldn’t read the couplet, so she simply stared up, dazed. In front of the door sat a pair of stone lions, and beside them, a donkey was tied.

The donkey brayed at Zhu Xuan, startling her.

Why was there a donkey here? Who had tethered it?

Zhu Xuan tried pushing the door; it was merely ajar, and opened easily at her touch. For the first time, everything inside beckoned to her.

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White walls and black tiles adorned the building, with a row of glass windows set into the wall. The Princess of the Realm had established glassworks, and after collecting hefty sums from the wealthy, she had begun mass production. The first batches of glass were almost entirely distributed to primary academies and schools around the country.

Bamboo blinds were half-rolled over the windows, sunlight streaming through. Zhu Xuan felt as if the rooms inside were glowing through the glass. She pressed her face to the window, eyes wide as she peered in.

Inside were a dozen or so desks. Zhu Xuan could imagine children sitting there, reading aloud and writing. Above the desks hung a portrait of a tall, long-bearded scholar, whose face radiated kindness.

Both sides of the inner room were lined with portraits as well—elderly men of varying features, all gazing serenely at her. Zhu Xuan frowned. She didn’t recognize any of them.

These old men in the paintings aren’t nearly as well drawn as Father’s work, she thought.

At the very front, before the largest portrait, stood a big black board, alongside a lectern and chair. This must be where the teacher gave lessons, Zhu Xuan mused to herself.

Just as she was studying the scene intently, a gentle female voice sounded beside her.

“Whose child are you? How did you end up here?”

Startled, Zhu Xuan turned and saw, in the sunlight spilling across the veranda, a woman standing there, her figure aglow.

The woman appeared to be around thirty, yet she was unlike any woman Zhu Xuan had ever seen. Her hair was styled in a matron’s bun, adorned with a simple headpiece, and she wore a plain robe of black-collared blue, without any ornamental jewelry.

Her almond-shaped eyes were clear and bright, yet held a hidden sharpness. Her lips, pale and even, lent her an air of quiet authority. Though striking in her austere beauty, she exuded a unique scholarly elegance.

Zhu Xuan opened her mouth, then suddenly remembered something and asked back, “Is that donkey outside yours?”

The woman nodded, “It is.”

Her voice was calm and soothing, and Zhu Xuan instantly felt more at ease with her. Remembering this was a school, she asked, “Are you the wife of the teacher here?”

The woman smiled, a trace of pride flickering in her expression as she replied, “You’re half right.”

Zhu Xuan tilted her head in confusion, and the woman continued, “I’m not the teacher’s wife. I am the new teacher here.”