Chapter Twenty-Six: Maidservants Whisper, Ming Su's Heart Rejoices
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The autumn sun rose high, and fallen leaves glittered like gold.
In the boudoir, at the writing desk.
Baili Ming Su’s slender hands never left the scroll, her mind focused intently on her reading.
Beside the round table, Ping’er and Lian’er threaded needles, working together on embroidery.
Their tasks were leisurely, permitting them to whisper and laugh in private.
“Ping’er, you’ve spent three days with the young master—tell me, what is his temperament like?” Lian’er, embroidering a pair of mandarin ducks, glanced sideways and asked.
“Oh, he’s very nice,” Ping’er tilted her head in recollection, a smile blooming as she lowered her voice, “The young master is approachable and easy to talk to. And you know of his learning.”
At this, Lian’er grew excited and quickly said, “Yes, ever since he entered the city, everyone’s been talking about him, saying his talent eclipses all others, and every poem he writes is a classic. Our lady and the young master truly make a perfect pair. Only…”
Her words faltered, and she sighed, frowning with helplessness, “Only I can’t understand why His Majesty insisted on the young master joining the family by marriage. It’s a cruel thing…”
“Don’t speak recklessly,”
Lian’er’s tongue ran wild, and Ping’er hurried to interrupt.
Lian’er immediately fell silent, covering her mouth in fear.
Discussing the sovereign, especially unfavorably, was a capital offense if overheard.
Even though there were no outsiders present, caution was paramount; disregard now could breed carelessness later, and repeated carelessness inevitably led to rumors.
She gently stroked her pronounced bosom several times before calming herself, glancing at Baili Ming Su, who was still engrossed in her reading, seemingly oblivious. She stuck out her tongue playfully at Ping’er, showing a hint of pink.
Ping’er scolded, “Don’t say such things next time. Our lives are cheap, but if we bring trouble to the young lady or young master, a hundred deaths wouldn’t atone.”
“Mm, I know,” Lian’er nodded vigorously, then said earnestly, “The young master’s talent and temperament are blessings for us as well.”
Ping’er nodded in heartfelt agreement.
As chamber maids, their fates were tied to the character of the household.
Although Han Fu was a son-in-law by marriage, both Ping’er and Lian’er knew the Zhou family greatly valued his talent.
If the young lady and young master were deeply affectionate, their own promotion to companion rooms was only a matter of time.
“But sometimes the young master is a little odd,” Ping’er hesitated, then spoke.
“Odd?” Lian’er grew curious, “How so?”
“He goes running,” Ping’er said.
“Running?” Lian’er was quite surprised, “Why does he do that?”
Asked about this, Ping’er couldn’t help but laugh softly, “He says it’s so he can run quickly if danger arises in the future.”
“Ah?” Lian’er found it amusing and giggled, “The young master is truly interesting.”
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“Not just running,” Ping’er laughed as well, “He also practices boxing—soft and gentle, but he’s always drenched in sweat when finished. He squats up and down, again and again. And then…”
When it came to describing push-ups, Ping’er struggled for words, thinking for a long while before managing, “He also lies on the ground, supporting himself with his hands, moving up and down.”
“It looks strange, but the young master is surely exercising his body,” Lian’er mused for a moment and affirmed.
“Mm.” Ping’er nodded, admiration shining in her eyes, “He’s very diligent, and when he’s reading, he’s just like the young lady—never letting go of his scroll.”
“The young master is wonderful.”
“He is, indeed.”
Both Baili Ming Su’s maids were highly satisfied with Han Fu, believing he and their mistress made an excellent match.
After a moment’s quiet, Lian’er suddenly leaned forward, her expression inscrutable as she lowered her voice, “Ping’er, tonight the young lady and young master will share a room—who do you think she’ll call to attend?”
As chamber maids, it was their duty to attend to the couple in their private moments.
Thus, they had the best view of the pleasures in the boudoir and matured earlier than their peers.
Ping’er blushed and glared, snapping, “Shameful! Talking about such things!”
“What’s wrong?” Lian’er’s cheeks reddened, but she pressed on, “We’re chamber maids—it’s our duty to serve, so discussing it is no harm, right?”
“I think you secretly admire the young master’s talents and are itching for something,” Ping’er retorted with a roll of her eyes.
“You’re talking nonsense!” Lian’er protested angrily, “I’m not the one itching, you are. The young lady said you’d be happy to attend tonight.”
“No, I’m not!” Ping’er stiffened her neck, refusing to yield.
But her flushed, oval face undermined her defiance.
Seeing this, Lian’er chuckled, “Whether you admit it or not, you know in your heart. Maybe I’ll suggest to the young lady that you serve tonight. If the young master has energy left after, he might take you as well.”
“You, you, you…” Ping’er was furious, her eyes shimmering, her cheeks red down to her neck.
Lian’er was quick-witted in arguments—Ping’er was no match.
At the desk.
Wearied by reading, Baili Ming Su rubbed her forehead and asked casually, “What is the young master doing?”
The two maids startled, quickly stood, put aside their work, and approached the desk.
Ping’er replied, “He should be practicing calligraphy.”
Earlier, when she came in, the young lady was so absorbed in her book that she hadn’t reported it.
“Practicing calligraphy?” Baili Ming Su was briefly puzzled, then smiled.
A talent beyond compare, yet still diligent—such effort, never self-sparing, even as a son-in-law by marriage.
Such a husband was truly rare.
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She would observe for a few more days; if nothing unexpected happened, she would entrust her life to him completely.
Seeing Baili Ming Su in high spirits, Ping’er secretly rejoiced and said, “He should be. After returning this morning, he mentioned practicing calligraphy. Only, as I was grinding ink, the young master was summoned by Young Master Yuan Shan. He hasn’t returned, so I came here.”
“What did my cousin want?” Baili Ming Su asked.
She had heard of Zhou Qing being beaten, but didn’t know Han Fu had instigated it, so she couldn’t connect the dots.
“I don’t know,” Ping’er shook her head.
“Mm,” Baili Ming Su nodded, unconcerned. After thinking, she said, “When tidying the young master’s room, bring me a piece of his calligraphy.”
“Understood,” Ping’er replied.
Baili Ming Su then looked out the window, seeing it was nearly midday, and instructed, “It’s time for lunch. Go call the young master, and you two needn’t accompany us later.”
Ping’er turned to leave, while Lian’er helped Baili Ming Su arrange her clothes.
In Han Fu’s small courtyard, within his room.
“Hoo…”
With the paper and ink exhausted, Han Fu let out a long breath, massaging his sore wrist, satisfied with what he had accomplished.
After half a day’s work, Han Fu had finally finished writing the first story of “Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio,” titled “Nie Xiaoqian.”
The story differed from the original; Han Fu, drawing on memory, carefully reconstructed it in simple classical prose—a sort of plagiarism, in truth.
Strictly speaking, it was a form of secondary creation.
The original “Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio” contained nearly five hundred stories, many of which Han Fu had never read, so he couldn’t plagiarize them all.
He would plagiarize those he remembered most vividly: the already written “Nie Xiaoqian,” and the yet unwritten “Painted Skin,” “Ying Ning,” “Lady Xin Fourteen,” and others…
He also altered the backgrounds of the stories.
To avoid trouble, he set all the stories in the Ji Dynasty, the previous dynasty.
The Xu Dynasty’s literary style was dominated by poetry and prose; novels had yet to emerge. If “Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio” appeared, who knew what reaction it would provoke.
As long as it wasn’t ignored…
Han Fu’s ambition was modest; he considered it a way to practice calligraphy while earning a little.
He already had a pen name in mind: “The Scribe.”
A work is born of nature, skillfully captured by chance. Its publication he called “scribing.”
With this, he could comfort the literati of his previous life.
He always felt guilty about plagiarizing so much…
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