Chapter Sixty-Six: A Battle of Wits

Luo Dongping escorted Luo’s family over and, on behalf of the Luo family, entered the courtyard to pay respects. The mourning shed had already been set up, but there was no sound of weeping. The deceased, Madam Cui, had no children. In some families, to avoid too much desolation at the mourning hall, nephews and nieces would be made to act as filial sons and daughters, weeping before the altar.

Upon entering the mourning shed, Luo saw only An Zhijin, the An family children, and three helpers; neither An Younian nor Madam Zhu were present. She was taken aback—where had they all gone, leaving the mourning hall unattended? Luo also noticed the An children wore mourning sashes but were not kneeling as filial children at the altar, an even greater surprise—her eldest aunt was always particular about appearances, so why not today?

“Sister-in-law, Elder In-law, you’ve come,” An Zhijin greeted them with tears in his eyes.

“Brother-in-law, my condolences,” Luo Dongping offered.

“Fourth brother, your wife has passed, you must take care of yourself and not grieve too much,” Luo said, accepting the mourning sash handed over by a helper and tying it at her waist. “Zhuzi, bring your siblings to bow before your fourth aunt and offer incense.”

An Kang and his siblings put on their mourning sashes, knelt respectfully on the sackcloth spread on the ground, bowed three times, and placed three sticks of incense in the burner, as a helper handed them over.

Luo glanced around and asked, “Fourth brother, where are eldest uncle and aunt?”

“I won’t agree, no matter what you say!” Liu’s sharp voice came from the main house.

With a bang, the door was thrown open and Madam Liu stormed out. Madam Zhu followed, shouting, “Eldest sister-in-law, it’s only right for nephews and nieces to wear mourning for their aunt. Having Wen’er act as the filial son is not adoption—why can’t you agree?”

“Why should I? Why must Wen’er be the filial son? The deceased was your niece; you favored her in life, and now you want my son to mourn for her in death? That’s too much! I’m telling you, not a chance—you can forget it!” Liu, intent on defending her son, shouted, giving Zhu no face at all.

“You—you—” Zhu, used to having her way, was left speechless by Liu’s direct opposition. She turned to scold An Zhiyuan, “Eldest, are you deaf? You’re just going to stand there while she shouts at your mother?”

An Zhiyuan stepped forward and slapped Liu across the face. “Speak to Mother properly.”

Liu, rubbing her cheek, exchanged a quick glance with her husband. An Kang and An Yi, seeing this, immediately understood—neither husband nor wife wanted Wen’er to act as Madam Cui’s filial son. An Zhiyuan remained in the background and let Liu make a scene.

This was the An Younian family’s affair; An Kang and An Yi had no intention of meddling and watched coldly. Unexpectedly, Liu turned on An Kang, pointing at him. “Zhuzi is also a nephew, and a scholar at that. Wouldn’t it be more fitting for him to mourn as the filial son? Let him do it for your aunt.”

Luo Zhiping’s face darkened, about to rebuke her, but Luo spoke first. “Eldest sister-in-law, it’s shameless of you to suggest such a thing. Do you feel no shame? Since when does a nephew by blood refuse while a distant cousin must mourn instead? Aren’t you afraid your fourth sister-in-law will come for you when her spirit returns on the seventh day?”

An Yi, having seen her mother draw a knife to scare people before, knew that nothing provoked her more than her children being slighted. Whenever someone crossed her siblings, Luo reacted fiercely, utterly unlike her usual self.

People in the countryside were superstitious, and Liu, having been called out, trembled as she glanced at the coffin in the mourning shed, her lips quivering: “Why should I be afraid? I have nothing to feel guilty about—it’s not as if I drowned her son.”

“You gossiping woman! Today, I’ll beat you to death!” Zhu, furious that Liu had brought up the drowned baby, took off her shoe and lunged to hit her.

At that moment, several villagers came in to pay their respects. An Zhijin could no longer bear it and, with a dark face, stepped forward to stop Zhu. “Mother, enough. We don’t need any so-called filial sons or daughters to cry at the mourning.”

“What kind of funeral is this with no one wailing at the altar? We’ll lose face!” Zhu objected.

An Zhijin gazed at the coffin, his voice heavy. “She’s dead—what’s the use of keeping up appearances?”

Zhu still protested, but An Younian interjected, “Enough, let’s do as Third Brother says.”

Villagers continued to come to offer condolences. An Ximei also returned with Zhou Baozi, and the mourning shed grew crowded. But Zhu, ever stingy, only burned two basins of charcoal—one monopolized by An Younian’s family, the other by the women making paper flowers.

An Yi, sitting nearby, couldn’t get close to the fire, shivered repeatedly, and sneezed from the cold.

At noon, An Zhiyao brought Madam Cui’s parents and brothers. Seeing the empty altar with no one mourning, Madam Cui’s mother wailed, “How can it be so cold and cheerless? My poor daughter, not even one mourner for you! My dear child, how bitter your fate, leaving me, your hair yet unwhitened…”

Luo Dongping frowned in distaste and approached An Younian. “Elder In-law, with the New Year approaching, there’s much to do at home. We’ll return tomorrow.”

With that, not waiting for a reply, Luo Dongping said to Luo, “Little sister, bring the children home.”

Custom dictated that relatives should keep vigil overnight. But seeing the three children shivering from the cold, Luo decided not to care what An Younian or Zhu might think. She took An Yi by the hand and led the children back to Jingtang Village with Luo Dongping.

Zhu watched their retreating figures, her gaze venomous.

Back home, both An Yi and An Kang had runny noses. Only An Jian, who practiced martial arts daily and was stronger, was unaffected. An Yi, knowing without a pulse that she’d caught cold from the chill, prepared medicine for herself and An Kang, and had Luo decoct it.

After drinking the medicine, the siblings returned to their rooms and went to bed.

In the middle of the night, snow began to fall and didn’t stop until dawn. The world was a vast white, the biting north wind whirling snowflakes, the cold piercing to the bone. An Yi, wrapped in a cotton-padded jacket, went out to relieve herself, shivering all the way, muttering about the cold as she climbed back into bed and burrowed under the blankets.

“Sister, aren’t you getting up?” An Jian entered, carrying a small iron bucket filled with fire starters.

“It’s freezing outside. I don’t want to get up.” An Yi shrank further into the blankets. “What’s Mother cooking?”

An Jian poured the fire starters into the brazier and added more wood. “Mother and Uncle have gone to Shangtang Village. Eldest brother is frying pickled vegetable pancakes.”

Luo couldn’t bear for her children to suffer through another day of cold. Besides, with the New Year at hand, everything would be kept simple, and it didn’t matter if they didn’t go.

An Yi lay under the quilt a while longer, only getting up once the fire in the brazier had warmed the room. She dressed and went to the kitchen to wash up.

After breakfast, An Yi put on straw sandals and got ready to leave.

“Sister, it’s snowing so hard—where are you going?” An Kang asked.

“To my master’s house. The insecticide is nearly ready. I lost a day yesterday and can’t delay any longer.” An Yi didn’t relish going out in such cold, but someone at the Lu family was waiting. She’d deliberately held off preparing medicine yesterday, so he’d gone a day without it—what if his condition worsened? Would he be furious enough to strike her dead with a single blow?

“But it’s the dead of winter. The bugs are all frozen. Wait until spring, when insects return, and you’ll have plenty of time to make medicine,” An Kang said.

“I’ve come this far—I can’t give up now,” An Yi replied as she laced her sandals. “Elder brother, you taught me this yourself.”

An Kang laughed softly and opened an umbrella for her. “All right, just be careful on the road and don’t slip.”

“I will.” An Yi took the umbrella and set off slowly for the Lu family’s house.

At that moment, Little Master Gong sat in the Lu family’s main room, flipping through a medical text, glancing from time to time at the half-open door. It was getting late—why hadn’t the little girl arrived yet?

A faint click of the lock sounded. Little Master Gong slipped behind the door, peering through a crack. The girl in dark blue cloth entered, closed her umbrella, shut the door, and secured the wooden latch.

He deftly moved back to his seat, pretending to be absorbed in the medical text.

An Yi pushed open the half-closed door and saw him. She smiled, “Good morning, Little Master Gong.”

“Morning,” he replied, closing the book.

“You’ve taken two days’ worth of medicine, so the cold should be gone. Let me check your pulse.” An Yi set her umbrella aside, stepped forward, and placed three fingers on his wrist. “Strange—the cold seems to have worsened?”

“I only took one day’s medicine. Yesterday you didn’t prepare it and just left,” he replied, a hint of grievance in his tone.

An Yi paused, bit her lip, and lowered her head. “I… forgot. I didn’t mean to.”

Seeing her truly remorseful, Little Master Gong’s suspicion that she’d neglected him deliberately wavered. He recalled that five years ago, at ten years old, he too often overlooked things. Smiling, he let it go. “Never mind. Go get the medicine.”

“Oh.” An Yi turned to the side room. Out of his sight, her brows arched and a sly smile played at her lips—a careless child would lower his guard.

She prepared the medicine, brought it for him to drink, applied his ointment, and took the pot to the kitchen. Little Master Gong, now dressed, followed her to the kitchen door. “Do you play chess?”

“No.”

“I’ll teach you.” He went to fetch the chessboard and pieces, leaving her no room to refuse.

An Yi was puzzled—why did he want to teach her chess?

He brought the chess set, placed a small table by the stove, and motioned for her to sit opposite.

“I’m not smart enough—I can’t learn,” An Yi protested, reluctant to play. She feared that if she did, Little Master Gong would see through her. She’d learned to play at six and often played against herself for decades. Her skill wasn’t superb, but certainly not poor.

“That’s all right. I’ll teach you slowly—there’s nothing else to do anyway,” he said, smiling with captivating charm.

An Yi had no choice but to sit down.

“Of all numbers, one is the origin. A chessboard has three hundred and sixty-one intersections…” Little Master Gong began to explain, quoting from the classics.

An Yi inwardly sighed—must he show off with all these archaic sayings? It was exhausting to listen.

He went on to explain various Go terms: what is a liberty, what is a connection, what is a capture. “That’s the basics. I’ll teach you as we play. You take white and start.”

An Yi deliberately fumbled, pretending to be a complete beginner and losing badly.

“You don’t seem slow-witted. How come you’re so dense at chess?” Little Master Gong shook his head in mock disapproval.

“I told you I’m not smart. You made me learn,” An Yi retorted, annoyed, and pushed the pieces aside. “I’m done. I don’t want to learn anymore.”

“Sister, open the door.” An Jian had brought lunch.

“Coming.” An Yi went to close the kitchen door, then opened the main gate to take the lunch box, locked the gate again, and brought the meal inside.

Little Master Gong had moved the chessboard aside—he’d survived on a small bag of rice yesterday and had nothing to eat that morning but her medicine. He was starving.

The ban on meat had ended, so today’s meal included pork ribs stewed with radish and pickled vegetables fried with pig liver. Little Master Gong ate with relish while An Yi watched, full of envy, her own stomach empty.

After lunch, An Yi washed the dishes with hot water from the pot.

“After you wash up, let’s continue with chess,” Little Master Gong suggested, bored and unable to leave the house.

An Yi refused firmly. “I don’t want to. I can’t learn.”

“Chess will improve your intelligence,” he said earnestly.

Annoyed, An Yi nearly retorted, but swallowed her words. She was never impulsive and wouldn’t give herself away over a casual remark. Instead, she tilted her head. “Really?”

“Of course,” he replied, stifling a smile.

“I’ll study after I prepare your medicine,” An Yi said, adding a large ladle of water to the pot and setting it on the stove, tossing in a couple of sticks for fuel and fanning the fire gently.

That afternoon, An Yi suffered through another round of chess lessons, deliberately making mistakes and provoking Little Master Gong to mock her intelligence repeatedly until even the Buddha would have lost his temper.

She stared at the black and white pieces, brows furrowed, and considered adding a sleeping draught to the medicine so he’d just sleep after drinking it.

As snow began to fall again, An Yi rose. “I’ll make up a new dose for you; tomorrow you must prepare it yourself—I may not be able to come.”

“Where are you going now?” Little Master Gong asked, dissatisfied. “You’re not a very attentive doctor.”

“Tomorrow is the Little New Year. I have to stay home and help.”

Little Master Gong frowned. “You didn’t bring rice. What will I eat tomorrow?”

An Yi thought for a moment. “I’ll find a way to sneak food to you.”

Only then did he wave her off with reluctant approval.

She prepared a new dose, placed it in the pot, grabbed the lunch box, opened her umbrella, and made a quick escape from the Lu family’s house.