Chapter Fourteen: The Tune That Fails to Become a Song

Lingran possessed one admirable quality: a thirst for learning. Only those who have stared death in the face can truly cherish life as she did, so regardless of whether the other noble girls mocked her clumsy hands, she devoted herself wholeheartedly to learning every skill from the tutors. Making pastries was the easiest to grasp, but painting was a different matter altogether.

Shen Zhu, Mo Han, and Xu Shanquan were all genuine talents; though each had her own distinctive style, to Lingran’s eyes, their paintings were astonishingly lifelike. Yuan’er and Li Tangmei lagged behind, earning the scorn of Zhenniang, who dismissed their work as mere pattern tracing. Biqing, Luo Xianghong, and Mo Suxian fared even worse, accused of producing art beneath the level of a child. Biqing laughed it off, Luo Xianghong blushed in embarrassment, and Mo Suxian, proud as ever, was indignant but could not protest.

Biqing stuck out her tongue playfully, “Sister Mo excels at singing and dancing, Sister Luo is skilled in needlework—everyone has their strengths. Why worry about this?”

There was also a girl named Wu Yunxian, who, like Lingran, seemed utterly inept. She appeared incapable of anything, yet did not seem bothered by the tutors’ rebukes, her demeanor wooden and detached. Lingran noticed her presence was barely felt; if not for the scolding, she might have slipped by unnoticed, prompting Lingran’s curiosity. Lingran moved closer and asked, “Sister, are you as new to painting as I am?”

Wu Yunxian was surprised by this approach, her cheeks flushing slightly. “My father never hired anyone to teach me. I can’t even read.”

An illiterate, Lingran thought, feeling sympathy. “What did your father do?”

“He was the Commander of the Hainan Garrison in Guangdong,” Wu Yunxian replied, lowering her head and refusing to answer further no matter what Lingran asked.

Mo Suxian, who had been listening, scoffed, “Her father came to the capital on official business, but was caught consorting with prostitutes and exiled to the Weiyuan Garrison as an ordinary soldier. Clearly, he can’t read a word! Our dynasty’s founder strictly forbade officials from such conduct; if they’re caught, it’s a permanent disgrace. Even a grand amnesty won’t restore their positions. Yet her father dared to seek pleasure in the capital—what audacity!”

Wu Yunxian lowered her head, eyes reddening, but dared not retort. Mo Han, painting quietly, remarked, “Compared to your father, it’s hardly much worse.”

Mo Suxian, enraged, was about to respond but glanced at Zhenniang in the seat of honor and held back, unwilling to make a scene.

Tutor Zhenniang seemed accustomed to the girls’ verbal sparring, barely reacting as she swept her gaze over them.

After painting, the next training was in song and dance, often continuing into the evening. Regardless of their skill, the tutors choreographed group performances for them, and the especially beautiful and talented girls—Mo Han, Shen Zhu, Mo Suxian, Xu Shanquan, and Li Tangmei—took turns as lead dancers.

Especially Li Tangmei, only fifteen yet a marvel in dance, her waist as supple as a willow, her bearing distinctly different from the others. Lingran learned she was the daughter of a Yao chieftain; after the imperial troops subdued the Yao village, the people were nearly wiped out. Li Tangmei, young and lovely, was taken to the capital and sold at a high price to the troupe of noble maidens. Though of another ethnicity, she was well-versed in Han classics, her calligraphy excellent, beautiful, intelligent, and obedient—she quickly became popular.

With such full days of practice, by the time they returned to their rooms, the girls were too exhausted to move much. So, though quarrels occasionally broke out, the days slipped by quickly, with nothing of note happening.

Everyone seemed content with their lot, and Lingran believed such days would continue for a long time.

One day, the girls were gathered in the music room tuning zithers. Lingran’s skill was limited, so Yu Jun, the music tutor, gave her a transverse flute, instructing her to practice the fingerings for the Huangzhong scale, and briefly explained the five primary notes and two secondary, forming twelve pitches. Yu Jun was gentle, perhaps owing to her years surrounded by music.

In fact, the five main notes—gong, shang, jue, zhi, yu—were like 1, 2, 3, 5, 6 in modern solfège, while the two secondary notes corresponded to 4 and 7.

The flute’s fingering was simple; the pitch was controlled by breath, and with practice, Lingran showed some talent. At first, she couldn’t grasp what Yu Jun meant by the Huangzhong scale, but after some trial and error, she realized it was like using the main note as “2” in modern notation. Excited by her discovery, she practiced diligently, but her playing was uneven, painfully shrill, and soon Shen Zhu and the others complained, forcing her outside.

Lingran was secretly pleased, retreating to a corner of the courtyard. Recalling a few tunes she remembered, she chose the simple “Jasmine Flower” and played it falteringly.

After a while, her mouth felt dry, so she stopped to gaze at the flowers filling the garden.

Suddenly, a man’s voice sounded from beyond the wall: “The melody is beautiful, but in your hands, it’s like a cow chewing peonies—utterly wasted!”

Lingran turned; on the pale wall, a fan-shaped window opened into a flowered lattice. On the other side stood Peng Lun, whom she hadn’t seen for days, hands behind his back, eyes slanted in disdain.

“Boring! If it’s so awful, why eavesdrop?” she cursed inwardly, then bowed slightly and prepared to leave.

“Stop!” Peng Lun called unexpectedly.

Lingran turned back, wary, her eyes questioning.

“I was just about to send for you. Since you’re here, come with me,” he said, turning to go.

His commanding tone irked Lingran, and she wanted to refuse. Yet, remembering her situation, she hesitated, then followed through the garden gate.

Peng Lun said nothing as he led her through two courtyards to the small one where he had carried her before.

As soon as they entered, he ordered guards outside and commanded the gate closed, forbidding anyone entry.

Lingran’s heart raced. “Is he attracted to me? Does he mean to take me so casually?” In ancient times, bringing a singer to bed was a trivial matter for a master. The more she thought, the more afraid she became. Peng Lun entered the house, but Lingran stayed outside, unwilling to go in.

Peng Lun turned and frowned at her.

Lingran forced an awkward smile. “If the general has any instructions, I can hear them from here.”

Peng Lun was puzzled, and seeing her timid, secretive manner, he understood and could not help but laugh. He scowled, “Get in here, now!”

Lingran wanted to protest, but Peng Lun’s fierce expression made her nervous. He showed no sign of desire—perhaps she was mistaken? After some deliberation, she entered, unable to resist.

Peng Lun did not close the door, but seated himself in the chief armchair. “Last time you said you would risk anything to save your father. Now, tell me, how will you thank me?”

“Oh!” Lingran breathed a sigh of relief—it was about that matter. Tilting her head, she asked, “Has the general already rescued my father?”

Peng Lun nodded, a hint of pride in his eyes.

Lingran blinked. “What does the general require of me?”