Chapter Three: Transformation

After Zeng Lang left, the silence returned once more. Lu Ying stepped into the wooden house and, without realizing it, found herself in the room where her younger brother lived. She absentmindedly took a book from the shelf and began to read.

In an era when books were exceedingly precious, their father had left them a wealth of volumes. If they wished, these books could be exchanged for enough money to support the siblings comfortably for ten years. Yet neither of them ever entertained such a thought, nor dared to.

Lu Ying had read some of these books before. Being a woman, her education was limited, and she had never paid them much attention. But now, as she opened the pages, she discovered that every sentence within seemed remarkably clear and easy to comprehend.

The world outside grew dim, and she did not know how much time had passed when Lu Yun’s voice sounded from the side, “Sister, it’s late.”

Lu Ying awoke as if from a dream, raising her head to glance at Lu Yun, slowly closing the book in her hands.

Lu Yun did not notice that her hands were trembling.

The book she held, The Doctrine of the Mean, was a profound Confucian classic—at least, for a girl with limited schooling, it was. Yet, for reasons unknown, as she read, the contents felt simple, the previously obscure knowledge suddenly transparent.

After a moment’s daze, Lu Ying whispered, “You should rest early too.” She longed to continue reading, but their impoverished household could not afford to burn lamps, let alone use precious firewood for light.

Lu Yun, oblivious to his sister’s strange behavior, turned and headed for the bed.

In the days that followed, Lu Ying was delighted to find that the unusual clarity persisted. Unable to do heavy labor due to her injury, she seized every free moment to devour the books.

Her sudden obsession with reading puzzled Lu Yun, but he did not ask. He had heard that after Liu Xiu established the capital at Luoyang, he greatly promoted Confucianism, and scholars were highly esteemed throughout the land. It was said that even the imperial consorts loved to read. His sister’s newfound diligence, then, seemed in keeping with the times.

After several days of recuperation, Lu Ying’s wounds healed completely, and the scar at the back of her head disappeared without a trace.

No longer plagued by headaches, she removed the cloth wrapped around her head, set aside the books for now, and took up the accumulated embroidery to head into town.

Hanyang Street was, in truth, a small town. Here, Lu Yun’s maternal family, the Pings, were local overlords. As such, they cared little for the refined airs of Confucian scholars. Distant relatives of the Ping clan often came hoping to profit, but it was mere wishful thinking. If the siblings’ father had not been rumored to hail from a prominent family, they would never have enjoyed their maternal family’s protection.

Even now, though their maternal relatives kept them at arm’s length, they still provided shelter and gave them a little money during festivals. Because Lu Ying was a Ping cousin, she rarely suffered exploitation when consigning her embroidery to the shops.

After selling her work, Lu Ying had twenty five-zhu coins in hand. Weighing the heavy iron coins, she thought of her brother’s frail form and turned toward the butcher’s shop.

Though pork was common fare, the siblings could scarcely afford it. She went only to buy the bones the butcher would otherwise discard. There was still some meat clinging to them, and most importantly, she had learned that when simmered in a pot, they yielded a rich, savory broth that seemed to revive her brother’s spirits.

She handed over ten coins and received a bundle of pale, stripped bones. She gently asked the butcher, Zhang, to chop them for her.

Ten coins meant little to Zhang, but looking into the young girl’s lovely, pleading eyes, he grinned, stared a moment, then began chopping vigorously.

Soon, Zhang wrapped up the bones and handed them over.

With her heavy bundle, Lu Ying was reluctant to return home. After a moment’s contemplation, she changed direction and headed for Xuan Yuan Temple. A few days prior, she had fallen inexplicably, and since then, strange changes had occurred. She was determined to uncover the cause of her fall. Though she believed Zeng Lang’s explanation, caution compelled her to inspect the site for herself.

Lu Ying did not notice that she herself had changed—become more cautious and thorough.

Xuan Yuan Temple was a modest Daoist shrine built halfway up the mountain. In these times, with Confucianism on the rise, Daoist temples suffered dwindling incense offerings, and the gate was no longer bustling.

As Lu Ying reached the foot of the mountain, she heard a commotion from a hollow to the right. Amidst the clamor rose a familiar cry, and faintly, a woman’s tearful plea.

That sobbing voice—wasn’t it her second cousin?

Heart pounding, Lu Ying hurried toward the sound.

She climbed over a low hill and saw, at the foot of Xuan Yun Temple, a group of ten or so people gathered at the most open spot. The slender figure, hands covering her face, sobbing quietly again and again, was indeed her second cousin.

Her second cousin had married early, and Lu Ying was never close to her. Yet she remembered, two years ago, when her brother fell ill, she knelt outside her grandfather’s courtyard, begging in vain for help. But late that night, as she returned home in despair, her second cousin came secretly and pressed thirty coins into her hand.

Seeing her cousin in distress, Lu Ying quickened her pace.

In a moment, she stood behind her second cousin. But instead of rushing forward, Lu Ying looked up at the center of the crowd.

There stood a man and a woman. The man, about thirty, with an honest farmer’s face and a tall frame, was her cousin’s husband.

Yet, at this moment, her cousin’s husband was supporting the waist of a young woman whose belly was beginning to swell, his gaze full of guilt and unease as he looked at his wife.

Amidst the din and murmurs, the young woman, ordinary in appearance but younger than Lu Ying’s cousin, looked at her tearfully, sobbing, “Sister, I didn’t mean to… I only admired Wu Lang!” She wept harder than her cousin, unable to finish her words for her tears.

Lu Ying’s cousin was stunned by the scene, her eyes hollow as she stared at her husband, tears flowing silently and endlessly down her cheeks.