Chapter Fifty-Three: The Sound of the Flute

Night had deepened.

The moon hung at the tips of the willows, and the wind swept falling peach blossoms to the ground.

Lu Ying replenished the candle’s glow, massaged her aching arms, and then lifted her head. In the golden light, she caught sight of her younger brother Lu Yun’s handsome, youthful face. At fourteen years old by traditional reckoning, the boy had grown taller, his frame stretching thanks to good meals and restful sleep these days. Seeing her brother now nearly level with her own ear, Lu Ying thought to herself: Yun is growing fast; he mustn’t lack for meat.

Sensing his sister’s gaze, the boy turned to her, his dark eyes full of puzzled innocence. “Sister?”

“It’s nothing, keep writing,” Lu Ying replied with a gentle smile, bowing her head once more. Without this younger brother, even with all her strength, she would be little more than rootless duckweed; she was determined to see him prosper and rise.

Lowering her eyes, she dipped her brush in ink and wrote the character for “strategy” on the bamboo slip.

At that moment, a melodious flute began to moan softly through the moonlit night, drifting from next door. It was the fifteenth of the month; outside, the full moon bathed the world in silver, the sky was crystal clear, and the occasional cloud floated by as light as cotton. On such a night, with such music, Lu Ying felt as if she could hear the gentle caress of the spring breeze, feel the longing and yearning of a distant heart, sense the ache of love and endless melancholy…

As she listened, Lu Ying set aside the bamboo slip and followed the sound on silent feet. Soon, she reached the wall that Yin Che often climbed. She leaned lightly against it; sure enough, the flute’s song was coming from the other side—so near it seemed almost at her ear, yet so far as if separated by mountains and rivers.

There she stood, gazing at her moonlit shadow stretched long on the ground, listening to the drifting music. After a while, she could not help but sigh softly.

Within the flute’s song, she heard care and longing. Since the death of her parents, Lu Ying realized, aside from her brother, no one had ever cared for her so deeply. The flute’s melody turned gentle and tender, as if the player’s beloved was flawless in every way, the very image of perfection.

That someone could still think so well of her, no matter her actions—Lu Ying’s heart welled with sudden longing: if only he were an ordinary boy from a common family in Hanyang; how wonderful that would be. Marrying such a man would mean a lifetime of reliance.

As these thoughts drifted through her mind, a low, cautious call came from the other side of the wall, the voice of a youth: “Ying, is that you?”

Lu Ying froze, and after a moment, answered softly, “Yes.”

Her voice was barely more than a breath, yet the boy heard her clearly. Joy trembled in his voice. “It’s you, Ying.” He paused, then, as if suppressing his excitement, his muffled words came through the wall—uncertain, indistinct. “Ying, I wish I could see you.”

Gathering his courage, the youth seemed determined to speak what he otherwise dared not in the daylight of ordinary days. “Ying, last night I dreamed of you again… I saw you dressed in vermilion silk, adorned like a noble lady. As I approached, your maids helped you down from the carriage… Ying, you were so beautiful in my dream.”

Lu Ying tilted her head, feeling the restless spring breeze against her cheek, scented with flowers. She listened, motionless, as the boy murmured the words he would never utter when the sun was high.

His voice was low, almost dreamlike. “I was mounted on a tall white horse, and I just looked at you and smiled, and smiled… But as I smiled, I realized my face was wet with tears. Ying, I truly wish I could see you.”

Just then, her brother’s voice called from inside the house. “Sister?”

Hearing her brother’s call, Lu Ying turned her face toward the wall, speaking softly and tenderly, “I have to go.”

In reply, the flute’s song rose, more clear and sweet than before, the sorrow replaced by a note of joy and sweetness.

By candlelight, Lu Yun wrote with great concentration. Only when he finished the bamboo slip did he lift his head. Seeing his sister standing at the doorway, half bathed in the pure moonlight, he grinned. “Sister, you went to listen to Yin Che’s flute, didn’t you? He really plays beautifully.”

With a look of longing, he added, “Our teacher always mentions Yin Che. Just yesterday, he recited one of his essays. Sister, if I had talent like his, I’d surely be recommended as a scholar before I’m twenty. How wonderful to be a scholar! With knowledge like that, one’s name would be known in the capital, recognized everywhere! If only I had such talent, you wouldn’t have to rack your brains trying to get me recommended for filial piety.”

In these times, the title of scholar was not what it would become under the later Tang dynasty’s civil service exams. The requirements were much stricter—a man’s learning had to be famed for hundreds of miles before he might be recommended. Lu Yun knew he lacked such gifts; if he wanted advancement, he’d have to rely on the path of virtue and hope to be selected for his filial conduct.

As he spoke, he glanced at his sister, a thought rising unbidden: if only she were a man, she would certainly become a scholar!

Candles were expensive, so the siblings dared not use too much. After writing for a while, they extinguished the flame, washed their hands and feet in the moonlight streaming through the window and door, tidied the room, and returned to their beds.

Lu Ying lay on her soft couch, eyes wide open, gazing at the clear moonlight outside the window, listening to the flute that still circled in the night air. Only after a long time did she finally drift into sleep.

Vaguely, she remembered that the flute’s song lingered almost until dawn.

The next morning, after sending her brother off, Lu Ying too left the house. With their current speed, the two could write fifty characters a day to sell, which was typical. Yet as more people took up writing, starting yesterday, Lu Ying noticed she had to lower her price—two bamboo slips for a single iron coin—before people would buy.

In theory, twenty or thirty coins a day was enough for the two of them to eat and live. But for the long run, it was not enough. Her brother was growing up; he needed to study, to travel, to buy recommended texts, and to prepare for the recommendation as a filial son. With all these expenses, their daily earnings would fall far short.

Considering this, Lu Ying remembered they still had two or three hundred iron coins at home. Perhaps, if she wandered the market, she might find a more profitable venture.

Basket in hand, she walked through the bustling marketplace. The market was as before, and so was Lu Ying. Yet the gazes that followed her now held a shade more curiosity than before.

She caught snatches of gossip drifting her way, “Was it really she who blinded the eyes of San Niuzi’s four men?” “Such boldness for a young woman.” “How does she still dare go out?”

Hearing the whispers, Lu Ying smiled to herself. When she passed the butcher’s stall, the butcher greeted her with unusual deference and caution, “Ying, I have some fine shank meat today; would you like a piece?”

Lu Ying turned and smiled, “No, not today.” With that, she walked on. Seeing his usually fierce and burly uncle speak so politely to a lovely young woman, a plump youth asked, puzzled, “Uncle, are you afraid of her?”

No sooner had the words left his mouth than his uncle brought a heavy hand down on his head, nearly making the boy collapse. The butcher growled, “What do you know, you little brat? That Ying is truly bold. Imagine—four grown men, and with one handful of lime she blinded them all, never so much as trembling in the legs. Just think, who would dare cross a girl like that?”