Chapter 11: The Official Emblem Shadow on Wild Silkworm Silk

As soon as Shopkeeper Qian finished speaking, Zhao San bent over and left through the door. The charcoal brazier in the back room crackled, sending sparks flying, casting a bluish-purple hue over the bruises on his face.

Meanwhile, in Lijia Village, Shen Guilan was crouched by the stove, adding firewood.

The ceramic pot on the stove bubbled gently, releasing the rich aroma of venison stew—a stew that Gu Changshan had hung on the doorhook last night. Oil droplets had congealed into tiny golden beads on the surface. Xiuwai leaned over the edge of the table, her nose almost touching the bowl.

“Mother, venison smells better than rabbit!” the little girl sniffed, tracing circles on the table edge with her finger. “Uncle Gu’s meat smells better than Aunt Li’s.”

Shen Guilan paused, stirring the soup with her ladle.

She gazed into the dancing flames in the stove and recalled the wild silk cocoon under the lamplight last night—a cocoon resting at the bottom of an old wooden box, pressed down by her daughter’s tiger-head shoe.

The silk shimmered with a cold white glow, flickering with tiny stars under the candlelight, strikingly similar to the “Starshine Embroidery” handkerchief at the county magistrate’s wife’s birthday celebration in her previous life.

“Xiuwai, go bring the blue cloth from the windowsill,” she suddenly said.

The little girl nodded and skipped outside.

Shen Guilan quickly lifted the wooden box, her fingertips lightly brushing over the wild silk. Memories from her past life pierced her temples like ice picks—that year, when she delivered embroidery work for the Zhang family to the county town, she had witnessed the county magistrate’s wife drop an embroidered handkerchief, scolding, “How dare they use this wild silk? Do they think I can’t tell it came from the official treasury?”

Official treasury silk.

Her Adam’s apple moved.

If the origin of this silk were discovered, it wouldn’t just implicate the embroidery workshop; it might even involve her daughter.

That very night, she pulled out all the ordinary silk threads and embroidered a new cold plum design by lamplight.

The branches were outlined in gold thread, petals filled with lake blue silk, and even the stamens were woven from two strands of pale yellow silk. She unraveled the wild silk into finer single strands, wrapped them around a thimble, and hid them in her hair bun.

Three days later, at dawn, Zhao San’s hoarse voice shattered the quiet as he burst through the courtyard gate.

“Widow Shen! Yufeng Trading Company has taken delivery!” He kicked aside a half-brick, his coarse cotton robe dusted with straw. “I hear your embroidery skills have improved? Let me have a look—”

Shen Guilan emerged from the house, holding a bamboo basket covered with blue cloth.

Zhao San yanked off the cloth, scattering the embroidery pieces across the ground with a clatter. “Loose stitches! These plum petals aren’t even flattened!” He squatted and deliberately scraped his finger across the fabric, leaving marks. “Lake blue with gold thread? That’s as tacky as the bridal veil from matchmaker Wang down by the village entrance!”

Xiuwai clutched Shen Guilan’s skirt, shrinking behind her legs.

Shen Guilan lowered her eyes to the mess on the ground, a metallic taste rising in her throat—she had worked three nights on these pieces, each stitch dense and countable.

But she said nothing, only fixed her gaze on Zhao San’s hand: as he bent down to pick up the embroidery, his sleeve slipped back, revealing a half-length bruised mark—the wound from the arrow Gu Changshan had grazed her with days before.

“From now on, embroidery for the Shen family goes to Li Cuihua,” Zhao San straightened, twisting a cruel smile at the corner of his mouth. “You just stick to this broken house—”

His words were cut off by a sharp clack.

As Shen Guilan bent to collect the embroidery, she caught sight of Zhao San’s cloth pouch loosening, a roll of embroidered fabric slipping out.

At its corner was the plum blossom stamen she had embroidered with wild silk last night, the starshine flickering faintly on the handkerchief.

“Brother Zhao, take care on your way,” she said softly, “I have some freshly dried jujubes here—want some for the road?”

Zhao San’s hand abruptly withdrew, the cloth pouch thudding against his leg.

He glared at Shen Guilan, kicked over a tile jar, and stormed off, cursing.

Shen Guilan crouched to gather the scattered embroidery, her peripheral vision catching a half-crushed strand of silk on the snowy ground outside—its cold white glow unmistakably wild silk.

That night, she lit a pine resin lamp and unraveled the remaining threads.

Her bamboo needle flew across the handkerchief; ordinary silk formed the plum petals, but only three strands of wild silk were chosen for the flower’s heart. The needle tapped thrice lightly on the cloth, like three stars nestled within the stamens.

“Mother, are you embroidering stars?” Xiuwai lay against her lap, eyelids drooping with sleep.

“Yes,” Shen Guilan stroked her daughter’s head. “When you grow up, we’ll embroider stars on the handkerchief, so all of Qinghe can see.”

Before dawn the next day, wrapped in a gray cloak, she stepped outside.

The cobblestones of the main street were still frosted; she detoured to the backstreet and knocked on the wooden door of “Chen’s Embroidery Workshop.”

Madam Chen, a woman in her forties, was crouched by the doorstep lighting a stove. Seeing Shen Guilan holding the handkerchief, she frowned. “I told you, we don’t take unfinished work.”

“This handkerchief was embroidered by my distant cousin,” Shen Guilan spread it on the table. “She heard that Madam Liu in the county is hosting a birthday feast and wanted to offer a congratulatory piece.”

Madam Chen’s eyes fixed on the handkerchief and widened.

She leaned in to examine the stitches, her fingertips gently tracing the flower’s heart. “This star embroidery technique—I’ve seen it in the county magistrate’s wife’s room!” She looked up sharply at Shen Guilan. “Where is your cousin? I want to deliver it to Madam Liu personally. Is that alright?”

Shen Guilan lowered her eyes and smiled. “Yes.”

That night, Gu Changshan’s shadow once again crept across the window.

Hanging from the doorhook was the venison leg, tied to a small bamboo tube filled with pine needles. Beneath the pine needles lay a half-burnt corner of cloth.

Shen Guilan soaked the cloth in warm water; charcoal ash sifted down, revealing half of a “Yufeng” imprint—the trading company’s sealing wax mark.

Suddenly, she recalled the roll of embroidered fabric inside Zhao San’s pouch when he left.

Shopkeeper Qian wanted evidence that she privately used official silk, planning to use the authorities to frame her for “counterfeiting official embroidery.”

“A fine scheme to kill with a borrowed knife,” she clenched the cloth corner, knuckles whitening.

But soon she smiled, “Yet you forget whose hand wields the knife’s handle.”

She took a charcoal pencil and traced the characters “Yufeng” onto the cloth corner, slipping it into the embroidery hoop’s inner layer.

The hoop also concealed that strand of wild silk, now glowing coldly under the moonlight like a sword yet to be unsheathed.

Five days later at noon, Madam Chen’s footsteps pounded the courtyard gate.

She held up a notice, her face flushed. “Madam Liu said she wants ten of those starry plum blossoms! Triple the price!” She stared at Shen Guilan. “Who exactly is your cousin? Madam Liu wants to meet her in person!”

Shen Guilan took the notice, her fingertips lightly grazing the gilded “Longevity” character.

Her eyes turned toward the forest behind the house, where snow still lingered, and pine shadows stood like swords planted in the earth.

“He saved me once out of loyalty; twice, out of affection,” she murmured to herself. “But if I only wait to be saved, I will never leave this mountain valley.”

Turning back inside, she retrieved the wooden box hiding the wild silk.

She cut a length and placed it inside the cloth pouch embroidered with “Qinghe Hunter Gu”—a debt to be repaid, and the first step to prying open her fate.

As dusk deepened, Granny Wang, who delivered vegetables, came to borrow needles and thread.

Shen Guilan slipped a handful of dried jujubes into her bamboo basket and whispered, “Granny, when you go to the back mountain tomorrow, could you deliver a message for me? Just say... Guilan’s Embroidery Workshop wants to take wild goods and is looking for a reliable hunter to discuss terms.”

Granny Wang squinted and smiled. “Sure! I’ll definitely bring the message tomorrow!”

Outside, the wind whipped snowflakes against the wall as Shen Guilan gazed at the darkening sky, tying the cloth pouch around her waist.

That strand of wild silk pressed against her skin like a steady, throbbing heartbeat—this time, she would hold the thread of her own destiny.