Chapter Ninety-Seven: The Performance

In the silence, Wang Shang spoke. “Let me do it.” He nodded to the maid. “Bring the qin.”

“Yes, sir.”

Before long, the maid returned, cradling the instrument in her arms. With due reverence, she handed it to Wang Shang.

Once the qin was set, Wang Shang turned his head and asked, “What shall I play?” In the moonlight, his profile was sharply defined, his features luminous. The dark hair draped over his shoulder danced with the movement, brushing across his deep eyes. In that moment, Ati felt her chest tighten painfully, as if her very heart were being squeezed.

Lu Ying did not notice Ati’s distress. With a gentle smile, she said, “Phoenix Seeks the Phoenix.”

At those words, everyone turned to look at Lu Ying in surprise, their faces etched with confusion.

Wang Shang frowned. “What did you say?” As he spoke, Wen Qing beside him suddenly felt his throat go dry.

Lu Ying did not answer Wang Shang. Instead, she cleared her throat and, in a voice as pure and graceful as music itself, began to recite, “There was a daughter of the Zhuo family in Linqiong, named Wenjun. Her brows from afar were like distant mountains, her face ever as radiant as the lotus, her skin soft as cream, her talents unmatched...” Her voice floated like spring water, winding gently, stirring ripples of longing in the hearts of all who listened.

The story of Sima Xiangru and Zhuo Wenjun had been passed down through generations—there were few who did not know it. Yet, though her tale was legendary, rarely had anyone rendered it in such a style—half recitation, half song—breathing life into that long-lost romance and rebellion.

No one had expected that when Lu Ying named “Phoenix Seeks the Phoenix,” she did not intend to declare passion for anyone present but rather to sing a passing legend. Now their minds settled, and they listened with genuine interest.

As her clear voice flowed on like a gentle stream, Wang Shang’s ten fingers swept across the strings, and a serene, melodious tune arose. He played with extraordinary skill, every rise and fall painting the legendary beauty with vivid detail.

Lu Ying sat upright, her brows lowered, and continued in her clear tone, “In Chengdu, there was a youth named Sima Xiangru. Young and orphaned, he excelled at the qin. One day, while visiting the magistrate’s home, he learned that Wenjun was newly widowed, her beauty unrivaled, her talents supreme. Thus, he played ‘Phoenix Seeks the Phoenix’ to confess his heart.”

At this, the music shifted, taking on the rhythm of “Phoenix Seeks the Phoenix.”

Truth be told, this song was not favored by the people of the time. It was too intimate, too uninhibited—not the tune of a gentleman. Yet all the young nobles present, in the bloom of their youth, had surely dreamed of such a gifted and peerless beauty as their equal and companion.

Thus, men like Wang Shang had played “Phoenix Seeks the Phoenix” many times in secret.

As the lyrics “O phoenix, phoenix, return to your home. Roam the world in search of your mate. There is a fair maiden in this hall. Though near in chamber, far in heart, my soul is tormented. How can we unite as mandarin ducks...” drifted with the music, Lu Ying plucked a bamboo leaf, placed it at her lips, and began to play along with the qin.

The qin’s tone was resolute, the bamboo’s notes pure and lingering. For a moment, everyone seemed to see a pair of heavenly phoenixes circling among the clouds, entwining their necks in song, dancing side by side, their wings unfurled—embodying the bliss and freedom of mortal life.

All who listened were utterly enchanted.

Even the Chen family women sitting apart gazed on, entranced.

The sound of stringed instruments was not rare in this world, but qin masters belonged to the houses of nobility; one seldom heard such music in the marketplace, and when one did, it was most often the soulless work of artisans.

But whether Wang Shang or Lu Ying, each possessed true skill—their sound was pure, their emotion deep, their technique masterful, and their expression rich enough to convey boundless longing and tender yearning.

When the song was drawing to its close, fading into the darkness, suddenly Lu Ying flicked her bamboo leaf upward and a sorrowful, poignant melody arose.

Wang Shang started, but his attainment in the way of the qin was profound; he swiftly adapted and followed her lead.

As Wang Shang’s playing took on a mournful tone, Lu Ying pinched the bamboo leaf at her lips and continued to sing, “Alas, the green mountains endure, but the human heart is fickle. The vow remains, but the lover’s heart is gone.”

Having uttered those words, she held the bamboo leaf once more between her lips and began to play “The Song of White-Haired Lament,” which Zhuo Wenjun composed in later years.

She had always been a woman of deep feeling, giving the best years of her youth to a man who had nothing.

She had given up a life of endless luxury to pour wine in a tavern for him, supporting his studies through hardship.

She endured the scorn and reproach of the world, the abandonment and curses of kin.

She had only him.

And he? No sooner had wealth and comfort come to him, after only a few days of good fortune, he began to despise her, to seek a concubine.

“Spring flowers vie in beauty, colors outshining white. The qin still lies by the throne, but new songs replace the old. By the Brocade River are mandarin ducks; in the Han Palace, there are trees. As things change, alas, so do people, blinded by desire and unawakened! The red strings snap, the bright mirror cracks, the morning dew dries, the bloom fades. The Song of White-Haired Lament grieves parting—eat well and forget me! The Brocade River flows on; with you, I part forever!”

The mournful music gradually turned cold, then resolute.

She was a proud woman—when he wavered, she left without hesitation. To him she said: “Hearing you have divided affections, I have come to say farewell!” Standing in the lonely autumn wind, she had no tears left to shed, only the broken strings in her hand singing of her lost dreams, and the yearning of all women through a thousand years: to find a true heart, and never part until hair turns white.

As they listened, Ati and Xiao Yan and the other girls wept as if their hearts were breaking. Even the maids hidden in the shadows were in tears.

Amidst sobs and sniffling, Lu Ying slowly removed the bamboo slip from her lips. With downcast eyes, she played with the slender leaf, and, mingling her voice with the fading notes of Wang Shang’s qin, sang softly, “Rushed and fleeting, the peach blossoms of March follow the flowing water; drifting and lost, in February, the kite’s string snaps. Ah! My beloved, if only in our next life, you were a woman and I were a man.”

Wang Shang’s music gradually faded into silence.

In that moment, all—nuns and youths alike—were lost in the world they had conjured.

In this era, music was never performed in such fashion: with instrumental accompaniment and clear singing, telling a story from beginning to end, a whole life’s tale.

It could be said that Lu Ying had created a new trend.

For a time, everyone was captivated, intoxicated.

Amid this enchantment, Lu Ying turned her head. In the moonlight, she looked quietly at the eldest Zhao son, lost in thought.

Perhaps her gaze was too intent, for he looked up, puzzled, and met her eyes.

Meeting his gaze, Lu Ying offered a faint smile, then spoke coldly, “Zhao family son, it is said you and your wife were once deeply devoted, your love undiminished since your wedding?”

At her words, the young man’s face went pale, and a trace of embarrassment flashed across his features.

Lu Ying glanced at him, then at Madam Qian, who sat not far behind him. With a curl of her lips, she sighed coolly, “What a pity. In this world, nothing is more fragile than a man’s vow. You have been married barely a year, haven’t you? Yet in just a year, you have already brought your wife the pain of heartbreak and the misery of betrayal…”

Zhao’s face drained of color. He stammered, “I—I—was just playing around, she won’t mind…”

He had always thought so, but now he wasn’t so sure. Especially after hearing “The Song of White-Haired Lament,” he seemed to recall his gentle wife’s eyes, so sorrowful when his mother had suggested he take a concubine.

…Could it be that, though she never said it, she had always cared?

…She was always gentle and yielding before him, always endlessly kind—could she also be hurt and despairing?

…If she were wounded, would she also choose to leave without looking back, as Zhuo Wenjun did? Would she, too, one day say: “Hearing you have divided affections, I have come to say farewell”?

Suddenly, the young Zhao’s heart was in turmoil.

He and his wife had grown up together; since he could remember, his greatest wish was to catch a glimpse of her from afar. In the months before their wedding, he often awoke from dreams, smiling with joy.

On their wedding night, holding his wife, his first thought was: “Now that I have her, there is nothing more I lack.”

He had always known he was happy with his wife—deeply, genuinely happy.

Only, as time wore on, he assumed that since she had married him, she would never leave.

He always believed that whatever he did, she would look at him with gentle eyes, because she loved him so much.

He simply thought: all men take concubines, it means nothing; it doesn’t threaten her position, she won’t care.

But—did she really not care?

Now, the young Zhao was anxious, uncertain.

While his face shifted from pale to green and back again, the others began to talk and laugh quietly. To Wang Shang and the others, to the Chen ladies, Lu Ying’s performance was brilliant—a song to savor long after tonight. Her rebuke of the Zhao youth was, in their view, unnecessary—after all, a couple’s business was their own.

Of course, whether she interfered or not had nothing to do with them.

Only Ati and the other girls turned their eyes toward Lu Ying in unison.

It was only now that they realized they had truly come to like this daughter of a ruined house, this girl whose station was so far from their own.

After a long while, Ati quietly reached out and gripped Lu Ying’s sleeve, tears still in her eyes. Looking at her, she said earnestly, “A Ying, you are wonderful. I have always wanted to say these things, but I never knew how. You are really, truly wonderful.”

Xiao Yan, beside her, added, “A Ying is truly a good, good person.”

Amid the chattering, only Madam Qian seemed uneasy. She looked anxiously at the Zhao youth; seeing his pale, distraught face, never once turning to look at her, she turned to her younger brother and whispered, “Little brother, what do you think she means?”

The tall, sturdy youth looked up, glanced at Zhao, then at his sister, and suddenly said, “Sister, did you offend Madam Lu?” Seeing her uneasy look, he added nervously, “Sister, I think this Zhao fellow won’t want you anymore.” The Zhao youth’s attention to Miss Qian had been nothing more than a moment’s impulse—a fleeting fancy, a man’s idle amusement, barely worth calling affection.

Yet now, after Lu’s reminder, and knowing he was fond of his wife, it likely couldn’t continue.

His poor sister, after finally climbing close to a great family’s son, was now left with nothing but a fleeting dream.

But more than that, after being involved with Zhao, her reputation would surely suffer.

Very quickly, Miss Qian understood the gravity of the situation. Her face turned as pale as snow. Unconsciously, she edged closer to the Zhao youth, her voice low and plaintive. “Zhao? Zhao?”