Chapter 1

The capital city had seen alternating spells of sun and rain these past few days, with a faint, earthy dampness carried on the breeze, making the air heavy and stifling.

Ye Ying seemed a bit unsettled by the new environment; a small pimple had blossomed between her brows—not unsightly, in fact, it resembled a charming beauty mark of vermilion.

Originally from Qixian County in Chenliu, just days ago she had been strolling through the lantern market when someone tapped her from behind. She had turned suddenly, dazed for a moment, and when she came to, she found herself aboard the boat of the toothless old woman, Lai.

The boat was crowded with girls all around sixteen or seventeen years old. Seizing a moment when the disembarking crowd was thick, Ye Ying tried to escape once but was caught and dragged back by two burly men.

Now, she had been sold as a maid to the household of the current prime minister, Master Cui.

It was true that one’s outlook often depended on comparison. As someone who had crossed through time and deeply embraced the idea of equality, Ye Ying found herself strangely content when she thought of those companions who had been sold into brothels.

Having once faced a terminal illness and endured unbearable helplessness, only to reclaim her life anew, Ye Ying’s capacity to accept hardship far surpassed that of ordinary people. Clutching her small, battered bundle, she followed the maid through a labyrinth of winding rockery corridors until they reached a secluded courtyard.

Hidden behind a thicket of slender bamboo, a narrow path of bluestone slabs led in and out from the southeast—a winding, tranquil route, where the rustle of leaves whispered softly.

Crossing the garden gate, a subtle scent of ink mingled with an unmistakable herbal fragrance greeted her senses.

Coincidentally, the master of this residence, eldest son Cui Yuan, had fallen ill the previous year and required quiet convalescence.

It was midsummer; sunlight filtered through layers of bamboo leaves, scattering dappled patterns onto the stones, the heat having already waned significantly. Ye Ying stepped into the interplay of light and shadow, inhaling the faintly bitter yet familiar aroma. The oppressive heat that had scorched her was gone, replaced by a refreshing coolness that soothed the restlessness within her heart.

She lifted her eyes and quickly glanced around.

Unlike the opulence and refinement she had passed through earlier, the bamboo garden bore no vermilion lacquer or green tiles. Instead, there were humble bamboo cottages and thatched pavilions, blue bricks and stone fences, an understated elegance in simplicity. Under the east wing corridor, several freshly inked calligraphy scrolls hung to dry; a pile of ancient books lay sunning before the main hall, and if one listened closely, the gentle murmur of flowing water could be heard.

“Well, what a mansion—yet it has a place like this,” she thought.

“You will stay in this room.”

The guiding maid’s tone was professional and firm, neither harsh nor soft, but carried undeniable authority. “The young master prefers quiet. Do not wander unnecessarily and disturb him. And do not approach the study. Though he has a good temper, if he takes offense, no one will be able to intercede.”

The stern warning was both a reminder and a threat.

The maid accompanying Ye Ying, Yulu, questioned, “Then how are we to attend the young master?”

Her tone hinted at suspicion, as if doubting why the head maid was withholding duties from them.

The maid shot her a sharp look and said sternly, “You will be called when needed.”

Being the trusted head maid close to the master, she had no obligation to explain further. Yulu’s face showed some displeasure, but Ye Ying, seemingly unaware of the guarded tone beneath, smiled sweetly.

“Sister,” she said gently, “we are kitchen maids sent by the lady of the house. Could you tell me if the young master has any dietary restrictions or preferences?”

Ye Ying was pretty and had a sweet tongue; in her village, whenever she pleaded like this, none of the elders could resist.

Sure enough, the maid glanced at her but softened her tone somewhat. “Can you read?”

“I know a few simple characters,” Ye Ying replied quickly.

For a country girl, not being illiterate was already an advantage. The maid nodded, “I will have someone copy a list and send it to you. Also, the young master's rule is to eat only at the first and seventh hours; do not miss the times.”

Though the maid’s face remained cold, her manner was precise and without malice, which made Ye Ying grateful. In large households like this, it was common for born-in servants to disdain outsiders and for head maids to bully newcomers.

“Thank you for the reminder. May I know your name?”

“Just call me Bai Zhu.”

“Bai Zhu sister,” Ye Ying smiled, “shall we get our things sorted first?”

Since you can't fight a smiling face, Bai Zhu gave some instructions, telling them they need not begin work today and to settle in well.

After Bai Zhu left, Yulu complained, “All maids, but such airs.”

Ye Ying pretended not to hear and bent down to arrange her bed.

The other maids in the side quarters shared rooms four to a chamber, two per bed, but thanks to the small number of residents in the bamboo garden, they each had their own bed.

The square room held a dressing table, a Rohan couch, a double-door wooden cabinet, two low beds, and individual wash basins and chamber pots—all meticulously clean, better than Ye Ying’s university dormitory.

Preferring to sleep against the wall, she chose the inner bed.

She had few belongings; all her selling money was with Lai, the old woman. She only had a set of clothes, unlikely to wear often, so she tucked them into a trunk beneath the bed.

Seeing Ye Ying indifferent, Yulu began to unpack too, claiming the dressing table and arranging her cosmetics. “Every morning, I’ll comb my hair first. You wait your turn.”

Ye Ying had no need for makeup and preferred to sleep longer, readily agreeing. She made a counterproposal: “I’ll cook; you wash the dishes and prepare ingredients.”

To ensure the eldest son’s convalescence, a small kitchen had been set up in the bamboo garden. Ye Ying was to handle all the cooking; Yulu would assist.

Yulu felt sorry for her hands but washing dishes seemed less taxing than standing over the stove, so she agreed.

With duties assigned, the two grew closer. In the afternoon, Ye Ying went to check the kitchen and list needed supplies for Bai Zhu to order, while Yulu disappeared somewhere visiting.

By dusk, Ye Ying washed up early and lay down.

That night’s meal was the servants’ fare from the main kitchen: two sesame cakes each, a bowl of vegetable soup, and some smoked chicken. Ye Ying ate without appetite.

The chicken was tough and dry, the soup watery and bland, though the cakes remained crisp when fresh. Some parts were burnt and bitter, spoiling the taste.

This communal cooking was no match for Aunt Zhang’s village feast skills; no wonder the eldest son had little appetite.

Having learned culinary arts while growing up, Ye Ying had some confidence in her skills; otherwise, she wouldn’t have been chosen by the lady of the house to come here.

As she pondered how to improve the meals, Yulu returned.

“Where did you go?” Ye Ying asked casually.

Yulu beamed, “Ying’er, have you seen the young master? I heard from a little maid that he looks like jade—he’s the most handsome gentleman in the whole mansion.”

Ah, gossip, then. Ye Ying replied, “Not yet.” She had just arrived and had been learning etiquette under the lady’s maids.

She had heard the eldest son was a top scholar.

A top scholar was the most handsome among the imperial examinees—talented and good-looking.

Ye Ying had loved historical romance novels before crossing over, where if the hero wasn’t the top-ranked scholar, she’d disdain him. Only after real exams did she understand how rare such talent was. Being first in class was already remarkable; provincial or national top ranks were beyond reach.

Hence, such a family with outstanding looks and talent was commonly depicted in novels as constantly surrounded by lovers—a fanciful notion indeed.

“He must be as handsome as Pan An or Song Yu,” Ye Ying sighed.

Yulu clasped her face, “I’d love to be his concubine.”

Ye Ying was startled, “What?”

On the very first day, how did the conversation leap to concubinage?

Yulu brought a bronze mirror from the table and admired herself happily.

Suddenly, she studied Ye Ying with envy. “Ying’er, you are really beautiful! What powder do you use? Let me try some.”

Those who served the master were never ugly, and Yulu was delicate and gentle.

But a single glance at Ye Ying made her seem like sculpted snow and moonlight—her eyes glistening like ripe apricots floating in a clear spring—

Too beautiful.

Ye Ying wore no makeup and had no thought of becoming a concubine. Seeing Yulu’s eager gaze, she planned to braid her bangs tomorrow to partially hide her face.

Being a gentleman’s maid with too striking a beauty was not always a blessing.

The eldest son was twenty-three, unmarried, with no concubines or attendants, and even the maids of the bamboo garden were all discreet and efficient.

Remembering Bai Zhu’s warning, Ye Ying guessed the young master was a difficult man to serve.

Illness often erodes a person’s will; the long-sick tend to become eccentric—either gloomy or irritable. Ye Ying had seen much in hospital wards in her past life.

Clutching the quilt, she turned restlessly but soon fell into a deep sleep.

The summer night breeze carried a hint of moisture, as if rain was imminent. The study’s curtain was half-drawn, and pale moonlight spilled across the floor. Bamboo shadows flickered on the walls through the lattice windows, dancing softly.

Recently, Cui Yuan had taken the afternoon meal sent from the main kitchen: sticky rice porridge with mountain mushrooms, a dish of stewed squab, a plate of three-flavored bamboo shoots, a clam soup, and a few fresh vegetables—very light fare.

The porridge came in a small bowl no larger than a palm; he drank half, nibbled twice on the squab, ate about half the other dishes, then stopped.

His appetite was even less than the maids’, but this had become his daily routine.

Half an hour later, the rain began, drumming against the plum blossom-patterned oil paper outside, as if keeping an ancient rhythm.

When Sang Ye brought the decoction, Cui Yuan was listening to the rain’s art, sketching the bamboo shadows cast on the wall.

Since falling ill, Cui Yuan had resigned his post to rest at home. His days were leisurely, spent in such sketches and writings scattered throughout the study. Bai Zhu had collected them all; he no longer glanced at them.

The calligraphy and paintings of a top scholar, treasures outside, were casually piled in a corner.

“Master, the medicine is ready,” Sang Ye said softly, placing the bowl down and stepping back.

The dark decoction smelled bitter. The calligraphy boy who ground the ink grimaced, but Cui Yuan drank it down in two or three sips. Usually calm and gentle, now he showed decisiveness and resolve.

The study always kept a supply of plum candy pills, a recipe from a Taoist in Lin’an. Made by cooking various herbs with longan honey into syrup, coating dried bayberries, then wrapped with mint and tangerine peel—sucking one eased bitterness, promoted saliva, and nourished the lungs.

The other preserved fruits were not to be eaten excessively. Cui Yuan disliked these candies, thinking them childish, so the two calligraphy boys ate most.

Sang Ye took the bowl and left.

Bai Zhu entered to report, “Master, the new servants have been settled.”

Cui Yuan’s face was bathed in candlelight, thinner and paler than last year, his features sharper for it. His phoenix eyes drooped like tails, nose straight, lips thin—a figure as flawless as jade.

“Do not let them disturb me,” he said coldly. “If trouble arises, handle it as you see fit.”

Bai Zhu bowed. “Yes.”

Despite facing such a face daily, Bai Zhu felt no romantic stirrings.

She and Sang Ye had grown up with him and knew his temperament well. Now ill, he wasted no time on trivialities. Given his condition, marrying was a burden on others; taking concubines would be a waste of his dwindling life. Having many wives would bring quarrels and annoyance.

Nor did he want to leave behind a child born fatherless—that was too pitiful.

After all, the young master himself had lost his parents in childhood.

Bai Zhu could not help but feel pity.

A flicker of hesitation in her movements caught Cui Yuan’s eye.

He set down his brush calmly. “Bai Zhu, get used to it soon.”

He meant: get used to it early.

He would not live long.

He thought Bai Zhu worried about his illness.

He never mentioned it, and everyone else pretended ignorance, enduring day after day, deceiving themselves.

Witnessing the slow death of someone who had been by your side all your life is a hardship beyond words, especially when that person is so outstanding.

Yet he himself was unguarded, never avoiding the topic. The lady of the house kept sending more people into the garden in hopes of leaving him an heir—a subtle reminder.

“Don’t say more,” Bai Zhu choked, tears welling.

The master had suffered so much since childhood, rising before dawn and resting late at night, finally able to pursue his ambitions—how had illness struck him? Was it truly heaven’s jealousy?

“Go cry outside.”

In the flickering candlelight, the top scholar’s expression remained calm, unmoved by his ailment, merely annoyed that the maid’s sobbing disturbed his painting.

Bai Zhu swallowed hard but, hardened by years with Cui Yuan, wiped her face and composed herself without further outbursts.

Soon, Cui Yuan spread the finished painting of bamboo shadows in the rain across the desk, admired it a moment, then ordered her to rest in the study.

The bamboo garden turned off its lights, becoming even more serene and quiet than by day.