The night was deep, but the Zhang family estate in Blackrobe Lane was ablaze with light, with all three members of the household busily occupied in their own ways.
Zhang Shen was in the front hall, organizing the account books from the Jiangning Imperial Textile Mill from the past few years.
Shortly after the emperor ascended the throne, he had sent Lin Shan to Jiangning. Nearly two years had passed, and the account books had filled several chests.
This time, when Lin Shan was escorted to the capital under guard, the soldiers had seized all the books and brought them back. Earlier today, after Zhang Shen had an audience with the emperor, the books had been sent over to the Zhang residence.
During the audience, the emperor had been far more cordial than last time, offering him tea and a seat, even addressing Zhang Shen by his courtesy name, Jingyan.
Zhang Shen had put on a face of overwhelming flattery, and with a few smooth words from the emperor, had sworn to be willing to sacrifice everything for the Son of Heaven. He kowtowed profusely, then, still dazed, accepted the monumental task of filling the Jiangning textile mill’s financial deficit within a year.
Eunuch Qiu personally saw off the newly tasked Lord Zhang, then returned to report to the emperor:
"Good heavens, Lord Zhang was absolutely delighted to take on the assignment. He practically hopped away as he left, and on the steps, he bounced so high in his excitement that he nearly tripped and fell."
The emperor was dumbfounded. Since childhood, every minister he had known had come through the strict selection of the imperial examinations. He had never encountered such a wild, utterly uncomposed—downright improper—subject as this.
Taking Zhang Shen’s submitted thank-you memorial, the emperor read it while shaking his head and chuckling:
"The memorial itself is quite mediocre, dry and tepid. The meaning is correct, but it lacks any literary flair. As for the man himself, he’s a bit dull, to cheerfully take on such a hot potato like this. Ah, never mind. At least he’s loyal. I’ll make do with him for now."
But this same Lord Zhang, who had been so flustered in court that he nearly took a spill, was remarkably considerate and meticulous once back at the Zhang estate. Worried that the noise of moving chests and documents at night would disturb the women in the inner quarters, he deliberately stayed in the front hall to handle his official business.
Ironically, not a single one of the women in the inner quarters was resting.
Earlier today, Zhang Shen and Zhu Qingyu had gone out, while Zhang Ruohua had received a stream of buyers coming to pay the market price for goods. She had been busy until now, still working the abacus and recording accounts in the ledger.
Meanwhile, Zhu Qingyu was suffering through a pile of official memorials sent over by Lord Gu Zhao, reading them one by one, starting from those he had supposedly written as practice when he was eight years old.
When Xiong Kun had delivered the documents, he had specially conveyed a message:
"My lord says that the path of scholarship demands broad observation and selective acquisition, deep accumulation and gradual release. He urges Lady Zhu to keep in mind the principle of cautious beginnings and steadfast ends, and never slack off or become lazy. That said, if Lady Zhu finds it truly impossible to learn, it’s no great matter. She need only inform my lord, and he will send someone over with betrothal gifts instead."
When Xiong Kun delivered this message, Zhang Shen had been present, even helping to carry one chest of documents.
So, naturally, Zhang Shen heard the remark as well.
At the mention of betrothal gifts, the normally mild-tempered Zhang Shen instantly wanted to curse out loud.
But Xiong Kun, despite being tall and burly like a bear, proved remarkably nimble when running away. Scenting trouble the moment he saw Zhang Shen’s dark expression, he bolted without delay, not even giving Zhang Shen a chance to yell at him.
Though Zhu Qingyu knew perfectly well that Gu Zhao was using provocation, the warning stirred up a sense of urgency within her. Now, it was late into the night, but she couldn’t sleep, burning the midnight oil over her studies.
The childhoods of different people were clearly not the same. Zhu Qingyu recalled that when she was eight, she had just started elementary school, still reciting "Oh swan, oh swan," and covering her textbooks and notebooks with chaotic doodles.
Gu Zhao, at eight, had already been writing formal policy essays, and wrote them with such rigor that it hardly seemed the work of a child.
Lord Gu in his youth must have been a miserable little boy with no childhood at all, Zhu Qingyu grumbled to herself.
But as she read on, volume after volume, from the first gray light of dawn after a night’s work, all the way through Gu Zhao’s writings from age eight to eighteen, she felt an increasing sense of dissonance.
The text reflects the person. Writing is the expression of a person’s thoughts and the release of their emotions.
This was how, when she had read the plaint petitions at the Office of Transmission, she had glimpsed Lord Zhuang’s compassion for the common people through his words.
Yet reading Gu Zhao’s memorials and essays, she could extract his viewpoints but could not detect any of his emotions at all.
It was as if she was looking at the writing of a cold, emotionless political machine.
This clashed profoundly with the Gu Zhao she knew. The Gu Zhao she had met possessed rich, overwhelming personal emotions—love, hatred, affection, murderous intent—all so intense that every time he directed them at her, they surged like a flood, nearly drowning her.
Every moment she spent with him, he expressed his feelings with such force, and hungered so fiercely for her response, that such a man could never be a cold political automaton.
Why?
What caused such a stark contrast?
This was clearly abnormal.
Zhu Qingyu was no professional psychologist, so she could only try to analyze it from his upbringing.
Was it because Gu Zhao had been sent to the palace as a child study companion, exposed to a high-pressure environment with no outlet for emotions, and then, when he reached the age of youthful love and marriage, he had been forced, by the political currents of the court, to become a monk? That once again severed any chance for emotional connection with others.
Thus, was it possible that Lord Gu was trying for the first time to express his emotions? That was why he was so relentless, so determined to get what he wanted?
And this emotion wasn’t even narrowly romantic love, but a fundamental human need to connect with the outside world.
No wonder it took two similar conditions to meet halfway. No wonder Gu Zhao could become friends with Shen Xu.
Those two, each had something wrong with them!
As Zhu Qingyu clutched the documents, she suddenly felt a pang of sympathy for Gu Zhao.
It was the same feeling she had gotten when Shen Xu told her about his fiancée, who came to see him and then died.
She felt a certain pity for them both, a melancholy undercurrent that, beneath the iron rule of imperial power, everyone struggled to survive.
Zhang Shen, having reviewed the ledgers until nearly dawn, finally returned to the inner courtyard. When he entered and found Zhu Qingyu still awake, he was startled:
"Why aren’t you asleep yet?"
Zhu Qingyu put down the documents and suppressed the fleeting sympathy that had risen in her heart. She thought to herself, he’s so powerful and high-ranking—everything he wants is within easy reach. What need does he have for pity?
To pity him—wouldn’t that be beyond her station entirely.
Both night owls had pulled an all-nighter, and they fell asleep as soon as their heads hit the pillows.
Before long, however, Zhu Qingyu was jolted awake by a clamor next door—a ceaseless banging and clattering that sounded like someone was tearing the house down.
She lay in bed for a while, but it was too loud for her to go back to sleep. So she dressed and walked toward the front yard. There she ran into Nanny Wang, who had just returned from outside, and asked her:
"Nanny Wang, what’s all the racket next door?"
Having just enjoyed the spectacle herself, Nanny Wang replied:
"Ah, Lady, the neighbors are moving! The strangest thing—yesterday, their madam borrowed half a vinegar jug from me, and she hadn’t mentioned moving at all. And now, suddenly, they’ve up and left."
A thought struck Zhu Qingyu. She wondered, No, it couldn’t be. Could it? Is his condition really that serious?
Surely no one would abandon the comfort of a grand marquis estate to squeeze into a narrow little alley like this, would they?
Zhu Qingyu stepped out the door. At the entrance, a matron was directing servants as they hung up lanterns.
Hearing the movement behind her, the matron turned around. Seeing it was Zhu Qingyu, she gave a respectful smile and said,
"Madam Zhu."
Her suspicion confirmed, Zhu Qingyu sighed inwardly. Maintaining a cheerful expression, she replied,
"Matron, you looked after me so well on the boat. It’s been many days since we parted—have you been faring well lately?"
