Fang Zesheng did not say a word. By the time Fu Jingxuan’s voice faded, his eyes had already returned to a state of calm. He had the mute uncle push him into the study and closed the door.
Fu Jingxuan stood there for a while before turning back to his room. The night passed in silence.
The next day.
The blue sky was so clear it seemed freshly washed, while birds chirped cheerfully.
Spring had only just begun, yet it felt as if it were already nearing its end. As the accompanying servant for the “bride,” San Bao had earlier sought advice from the elderly woman who sold poached eggs in sugar water at the back gate of the Fu Mansion. He asked her whether a new bride would be mistreated by her in-laws. Upon hearing this, the woman burst into tears, letting the floodgates of her words open. She dragged San Bao along, nagging for hours and recounting every grievance she had ever suffered at the hands of her in-laws. The level of danger she described was akin to a battlefield struggle! She claimed her survival was entirely thanks to her husband shielding her.
The woman’s sobbing was so convulsive that it made San Bao’s heart race with anxiety. If an ordinary family dared to engage in such elaborate scheming, wouldn’t a prestigious household like the Fang family have skinned the master-and-servant pair alive for pulling out a “substitute marriage” trick?
Furthermore, that woman at least had a husband to protect her; with Head Merchant Fang being a cripple, who knew who would be protecting whom? San Bao sighed and groaned while clutching the dozens of eggs he had bought from the poor woman, planning the whole way without any idea how to handle what was to come.
Now, with the eggs not yet finished, the time to face the “enemy” has come. San Bao woke up early, holding a wooden stick in his left hand and a kitchen knife in his right, and forcefully tried to scare the yawning Second Young Master Fu as he stepped outside. “What on earth are you doing?”
San Bao said, “I’m accompanying you to serve tea, Young Master!”
Fu Jingxuan asked, “Serve what tea?”
“When a new relative first enters the household, aren’t they supposed to serve tea to the elders?”
Fu Jingxuan caught a glimpse of a skirt hem peeking out from the courtyard gate and said recklessly, “What elders? Anyone in the Fang family worthy of my tea has long gone west. It would be far more practical to simply pick a day to visit their graves.”
San Bao thought this made sense. Just as he tossed the stick aside, he caught a whiff of thick smoke. The Mute Uncle came running out of the east kitchen, covered in soot and clutching a worn cattail leaf fan, coughing and gagging from the smoke. Fu Jingxuan rushed over and asked, “Uncle Zhou, what happened?”
The mute uncle’s surname was originally Zhou. He used to travel with Fang Changru to manage trade and bookkeeping; he was a head steward by trade, not a domestic servant. Seeing Fu Jingxuan, his eyes reddened slightly, and he gave a bow as a greeting. Fu Jingxuan quickly helped him up and peered into the kitchen. “Are you cooking?”
The mute uncle gestured: I’m not very good at it; I’ve caused the Second Master to choke on the smoke.
Fu Jingxuan shook his head, taking the cattail fan from his hand. “Are you and your master the only ones left in this courtyard? Where is everyone else?”
A flash of melancholy crossed the mute uncle’s eyes, followed by an embarrassed smile. He pointed toward the room, signaling: Second Master, please go back and rest. I’ll get to the cooking; it’ll be ready in a moment.
Fu Jingxuan ignored him and led San Bao into the kitchen. He saw a half-dead rooster lying on the cutting board and a lively carp thrashing in a water bucket. The rice porridge on the stove was soft and fragrant, clearly a dish made often; practice had perfected it. For an ordinary family, a kitchen needs little: one pot and one stove are enough to get by. But the Fang family was different; there were clear divisions for cold appetizers and hot entrees, and even the pastries and sweet soups had their own specific traditions. During his lifetime, Fang Changru had been a man of exquisite taste who never compromised on food or tea. This massive kitchen was decorated on par with a government officials, yet now it was draped in cobwebs and abandoned. Only the pickling jars at their feet were clean, showing they were still frequently used.
Fu Jingxuan closed his eyes for a moment, tossed down the fan, and took the kitchen knife from San Bao. He delivered one final, decisive blow to the neck of the still-breathing rooster, giving it a quick end.
He didn’t know exactly what kind of life Fang Zesheng had been living these past few years. Fu Jingxuan had looked into the cause and effect to some extent; while he didn’t know the exact details of what had happened to the Fang family, it was undeniably true that Madam Wang intended to erase the Fang name from their legacy after Fang Changru’s death.
Fu Jingxuan’s brow furrowed slightly. He brought the knife down on the cutting board more than a dozen times, each strike splitting the meat and sending sprays of blood flying. Once finished, he asked the mute uncle to find a palm-sized cloth bag, filled it with thirteen types of medicinal herbs and spices, blanched the chicken pieces, and set them in the pot. After steaming for half an hour, he took them out and drizzled them with a splash of savory sauce.
The entire dish was prepared in one fluid motion, leaving San Bao staring in open-mouthed shock the whole time. “Young Master,” he said in disbelief, “you actually know how to cook?”
Second Master Fu shot him a glance, holding a plate of fragrant, steaming “Flower-Steamed White Chicken.” He said, “What’s so difficult about cooking? Back then, I learned by osmosis, just watching my mother. After watching long enough, it simply comes naturally.”
San Bao asked, “Then how come I’ve never seen you do it before?”
Second Master Fu laughed. “If I did the cooking myself, what work would be left for you?”
San Bao thought about it and realized he was right; he was instantly moved to tears. He snatched the hand Fu Jingxuan was about to use to fish out the carp and said hurriedly, “Better let me do the rest.”
Fu Jingxuan chuckled and patted his shoulder. He ladled out two bowls of porridge while carrying the plate of steaming white chicken, added a large spoonful of sugar to each, and strolled leisurely toward the study.
Because Fang Zesheng had difficulty moving, the study door was usually left ajar. He hadn’t returned to the bedroom last night, and today he had the mute uncle bring a set of bedding out from the inner chamber to place on the wooden couch behind the ink-wash screen. It was a clear sign that he didn’t want too much contact with Fu Jingxuan.
When Fu Jingxuan entered, he saw several leisure books lying on the desk alongside an unfinished piece of calligraphy. The brushwork flowed like drifting clouds and running water, revealing both strength of character and smooth execution. The only flaw was two drops of ink that had fallen onto the rice paper as if the artist had paused mid-stroke and forgotten the next movement.
Fang Zesheng was reading, so absorbed that he didn’t even hear the footsteps. Fu Jingxuan gently set the wooden tray on the desk and stepped quietly behind him.
The scent of sandalwood curled through the air, and the incense stick beside the brush rack was half-burned before Fu Jingxuan asked with curiosity, “Tell me, will this scholar surnamed Liu really be lured by the fox demon, have his yang energy drained, and miss the imperial examinations in the capital?”
Fang Zesheng was visibly startled. His wandering gaze finally focused on the page that hadn’t been turned for a long time. The book contained a vivid erotic illustration: a bare-chested nine-tailed fox demon entwined with a disheveled, handsome scholar in an intimate embrace. Fu Jingxuan watched with great interest. Seeing no movement for a long while, he rested his left hand on the back of the chair, reached over Fang Zesheng’s shoulder with his right, leaned down to turn the page for him, and teased with a smile:
“I didn’t expect the Head Merchant to look so serious on the outside yet secretly read such erotic book, in private; and with such rapt attention that you forgot to turn the page as well.”
