Chapter Nineteen: Gathering Information

When Xue Yang’s first wife, Madam He, gave birth to their eldest daughter, she suffered a dangerous hemorrhage and barely survived. The physician declared she could never bear children again. As a result, the old Madam Xue intended for Xue Yang to take a concubine. But Xue Yang desired a legitimate son; no matter how promising a concubine was, her children would always be secondary. To secure an heir, Xue Yang divorced Madam He and remarried, taking as his new wife Miss Jin, the daughter of Jin Jiujin, a merchant from Shangyu.

Miss Jin proved fruitful; within a year of entering the household, she bore twin sons—Xue Jingren and Xue Jingxiao.

Nanny Jiang remarked, “At the time, it was the eldest master himself who refused to take a concubine—he insisted on divorcing Madam He. The old madam can’t be blamed for this.”

“But I am, after all, her mother. If I’d raised her better, would things have come to this? How can I not bear some responsibility?” The old Madam Xue sighed, recalling the events of the day. “The eighth girl’s shoulder is injured. When she left, I saw her hesitating, afraid to exert herself, yet she said nothing. She’s a good child. Go and send for a physician for her, see what she needs, and take it from my dowry. That child—her parents are alive, yet she lives as though under a stepmother’s roof.”

The eldest master is partial, Miss Jin lacks discernment. Their daughters must rely on fortune to live with any comfort.

Nanny Jiang received the order and went about her task.

Xue Fanzhi’s room was in Miss Jin’s courtyard, a small three-story building arranged long ago by Xue Qiu. She shared it with Xue Jiaoyue; it was left unsaid who would take which floor.

But Xue Yang and Miss Jin had already decided: Xue Jiaoyue would have the third floor, Xue Fanzhi the second. It was the same in her past life. Due to differences in climate between north and south, the lower floors were more damp.

In her previous life, Xue Fanzhi hadn’t understood—she didn’t care for the upper floors, but Xue Jiaoyue, who disliked them even more, nevertheless obeyed her mother and moved upstairs, while she, who preferred the higher stories, was persuaded to stay below—supposedly to avoid the danger of falling. Who, after all, would fall from a building for no reason?

All these were words spoken by Miss Jin. In this life, they hadn’t let them choose at all. Upon their return, Miss Jin took Xue Jiaoyue straight to the third floor.

Still, the furnishings were identical—a bed, a couch by the bedside, with a dressing table at the head. Her attendant maids had already unpacked her belongings.

Only after returning to her room did Xue Fanzhi have a chance to examine her wound. Her shoulder was mottled with bruises. She sat before the bronze mirror, lost in thought.

Hongxiao, busy making the bed, grew worried at her silence. Fearing her mistress would fall into despair, she came over and offered, “Miss, shall I fetch the mistress to apply some ointment?”

Honglian joined her, though she said nothing, merely observing.

Xue Fanzhi sneered, “What good ointment could she possibly have? If she did, it would go to Xue Jiaoyue first!”

Let’s not forget, Xue Jiaoyue was injured as well.

Her words were not spoken in anger, but in truth. Xue Yang had struck hard. Though he’d used only the scabbard, spring clothes were thin, and the center of her shoulder had been split open. It might even scar.

In her past life, she’d been locked up for half a year upon returning home and had never suffered such an injury, so her skin had remained flawless. Xiao Yi used to say he loved the feel of her smooth, pale flesh.

Now, she would likely be left with a scar.

“Unless she can get her hands on the palace tribute ointment that regenerates flesh and heals scars!”

A humble name, but Xue Fanzhi knew the ointment was anything but ordinary. In her previous life, she’d been stabbed in the abdomen, and Xiao Yi had procured this ointment for her; not a mark remained.

But the ointment was incredibly rare. Even the most honored families, those who commanded the respect of the imperial clan, could not obtain it. It healed scars, nourished skin, and preserved youth. The favored concubines of the harem would go to any lengths to acquire it, but there were only three jars in total, presented as tribute from a small southern vassal state.

Hongxiao did not understand. “Shall I ask the mistress to look for it?”

Xue Fanzhi smiled with false benevolence at Hongxiao. “You’d best tend to your work. Even if she got it, it would go to Lady Seven. Don’t have such foolish hopes.”

Mentioning Xue Jiaoyue made Hongxiao indignant as well. She wanted to say, “Miss, you’re also your mother and the master’s own child, why are you treated like a foundling?” But she was not Honglian, and knew such words solved nothing and would only anger Xue Fanzhi, so she kept silent.

Honglian was about to speak when, at that moment, the bamboo curtain rustled. All three glanced over; it was Miss Jin, clutching something in her hand, entering the room.

Hongxiao glanced at Xue Fanzhi and stepped back. Honglian took a step forward, about to say something, but Hongxiao pulled her back.

Honglian glared at Hongxiao, but Hongxiao paid her no mind, drawing her aside to give mother and daughter their space.

Seeing the servants withdraw, Miss Jin, who had already stepped inside, beckoned Xue Fanzhi over and sat down at the edge of her couch.

Xue Fanzhi remained kneeling before the bronze mirror, unmoving.

Seeing her reflection, Miss Jin flushed with anger. “What, pretending you can’t see me? I’m your mother—turn around and face me.”

Xue Fanzhi straightened her clothes over her shoulder and slowly turned. “Madam, is there something you wish to instruct me?”

In the past, she would have called her mother.

Miss Jin paused, then her face reddened further as she scolded, “You’re an ungrateful brat, impossible to raise well. What could I possibly instruct you? With so many people supporting you, would I dare?”

She set a small white porcelain bottle on the bedside. “I’ve brought you ointment. Truly, you don’t know what’s good for you. I am your mother—would I ever harm you?”

“Then why would I be beaten today if you meant me no harm?” Xue Fanzhi asked with a smile, her tone devoid of any feeling except sarcasm.

Miss Jin was stung again. “So do you want the ointment or not?”

Xue Fanzhi smiled. “Does Lady Seven have any? Is hers better than this one? You bring me the leftovers, afraid I won’t help your Lady Seven in the future? So you use me, and I’m still to thank you?”

Having her intentions laid bare, Miss Jin flushed with shame and anger. “What do you want from me? Will you be satisfied only when I’m dead? Your father hit you on the shoulder, and it didn’t even hurt, but your sister was struck in the face. Why must you always compare yourself to her? Is your face wounded as well?”

Indeed, Xue Jiaoyue’s wound was on her face, and that mattered. But did that make a shoulder wound unimportant?

Had this mother even looked at her injury before deciding it was minor?

One was struck by another’s hand, one by her own fall—which deserved more comfort?

You can never wake someone who pretends to sleep.

Reason should be spoken to those who will listen.

A child’s devotion should be reserved for those who cherish her.

Xue Fanzhi found it all so tiresome. She no longer wished to argue. Bowing her head, she said, “Thank you for your ointment, madam. Grandmother has already sent some. Yours is unnecessary—please keep it for someone who might need it.”

Her tone was distant and resolute. She turned away, refusing to look at Miss Jin again.

Never before had Miss Jin been treated so by her own daughter. It wounded her pride, and her heart as well.