Chapter 54: The Young Lady

After ordering their drinks, Ji Yun led Lu Beigu to the table and introduced him to the man there.

“This is my classmate from the state academy, Han Ziyu, from the Han clan of Luzhou.”

The Han clan of Luzhou?

Lu Beigu was baffled. This wasn’t Tang Dynasty, where you had to memorize a roster of heroes before stepping out—how was he supposed to know who some “clan” was?

But Ji Yun’s demeanor suggested this “Han clan of Luzhou” was quite renowned.

At the very least, far more illustrious than the Zhou family—after all, Ji Yun had ignored Zhou Mingyuan and his father entirely, yet showed considerable respect to these two.

In truth, the Han clan was indeed prominent in Luzhou, owning vast estates and enterprises, bearing the air of old-time magnates.

The reason such powerful families in Luzhou weren’t crushed by the authorities was that this place differed from the prefectures within the Sichuan Basin.

As Lu Beigu had seen on his way to Chengdu, Luzhou had not only Han people but also a large number of Liao tribes.

The Liao tribes of Luzhou were scattered into clans bearing surnames like Luo, Hu, and Gou, forming dozens of tribes, each farming in their own villages; yet due to their customs being vastly different from the Han’s, armed clashes between the two groups were frequent.

During the late Tang and Five Dynasties, no one had the energy to govern this region, so to stand against these Liao tribes, powerful Han families naturally emerged.

As the saying went, “The Han clan produces scholars, the Xian clan produces warriors.” Over centuries of Han-Liao conflict since the early Tang, the Han and Xian families had come to hold unquestioned special status in the region.

The Han clan was the only Han family in Luzhou that could be mentioned in the same breath as the Xian clan.

Now, back to the present.

Han Ziyu was barely in his twenties, his face fair, his features radiating the refined air of lifelong privilege.

“This is Lu Beigu, whom I’ve mentioned to you before.”

Hearing Ji Yun’s introduction, Han Ziyu gave a slight nod, his gaze sweeping over Lu Beigu, then said: “I’ve long heard of your reputation, Young Master Lu. Ji Yun often speaks of your ‘Heavenly River,’ praising its literary brilliance.”

Since he didn’t know who the man was, Lu Beigu could only offer polite words.

“Your praise is too generous—I am unworthy.”

Beside Han Ziyu sat a young woman, much younger, dressed in a pale blue ruqun, her hair adorned only with a single white magnolia blossom, appearing ethereal and refined.

“Probably siblings?” Lu Beigu thought.

His reasoning was simple: reverse deduction.

At this age, Cheng Yi and Cheng Hao, like him, were preparing for the imperial exams; Zhu Xi was still far from being born, so Neo-Confucianism had yet to rise.

Thus, in Great Song society, women—even beyond public festivals—could go out under certain conditions, not yet confined to the “never leave the inner chambers” standard.

For married women, if they needed to go out, they typically wore a veil hat.

The veil hat, originating in the Yonghui era of the early Tang, was a tall-crowned, wide-brimmed straw hat with a thin, translucent veil hanging around the brim, meant to maintain distance from the opposite sex and prevent private exchanges.

The scholar-official class strictly enforced this; urban women sometimes followed suit, but rural peasant women certainly did not—you couldn’t expect laborers who worked the fields or climbed mountains to wear a hat that would make them sweat buckets.

For unmarried girls who had not yet reached their coming-of-age ceremony, the Confucian restraints were relatively lax: as long as they were accompanied by a male relative—father, grandfather, or brother—they could appear in public without veils.

Given her young age, she was almost certainly his sister.

“This is my younger sister, San Niang,” Han Ziyu introduced.

As expected.

In Great Song society, although a girl could go out in public if accompanied, her name was not revealed to strangers—only her childhood name or birth order could be used.

“Greetings, Young Master Lu.”

The young woman rose, hands folded before her abdomen, bowed her head and knelt slightly, performing a wanfu bow.

“Greetings, San Niang.”

Lu Beigu returned the bow, thus formally acknowledging Han San Niang.

The drinks hadn’t arrived yet; they couldn’t just sit in silence, so Lu Beigu asked: “Do you both come every year to witness the Buddha Bathing Festival at Fawang Temple?”

“Indeed,” Han Ziyu replied. “The festival is grand—we come every year to pray for blessings.”

“And you, Young Master Lu? Do you come every year? Are you from Hejiang?”

Lu Beigu answered frankly: “No, I’m from Gulin. I study at the Hejiang County Academy. To be honest, I’ve never seen the Buddha Bathing Festival at Fawang Temple—I’ve only heard of it.”

Though Lu Beigu’s attire was plain, his speech was sincere and free of flattery, and Han Ziyu internally nodded in approval.

As for talent, that remained to be seen—but as for bearing, Ji Yun had not wasted their time introducing them to some nobody.

“Ah,” said Han Ziyu, “then you mustn’t miss the Buddha Bathing Festival. The daytime procession begins at dawn, and after noon, the temple holds a Chan gathering of refined monks—this year, many esteemed monks from other Sichuan temples are said to be coming.”

Given his family’s standing, he was naturally a guest of honor at the temple, and spoke of these matters with casual certainty, not boasting.

But any gathering held in the temple after such a festival—no doubt had entry requirements; it wouldn’t be open to just anyone.

At this moment, Ji Yun added: “Han Brother is a ‘Great Dānyuè’ of Fawang Temple—not the same as my status as a ‘Merit Donor’—so you’ll certainly be invited to the Chan gathering.”

The term “Great Dānyuè,” in Great Song society, referred specifically to patrons who donated vast sums of wealth or land to Buddhist temples; the temple would engrave their names on merit steles to honor their virtue.

Those who donated greatly were called “Dānyuè”; those who donated substantially but not as much were called “Merit Donors.”

Lu Beigu nodded. Clearly, this man’s family was exceptionally wealthy—likely richer than the Ji family, the great book merchants.

At that moment, the old man brought over a bowl of perilla drink, then placed a small plate beside it, holding a tea cake: the tea buds tightly curled, the entire cake gleaming a deep green in the coarse ceramic dish.

Lu Beigu studied it closely—it seemed much like modern compressed tea.

The old man held up a small green stone mallet and a fine sieve and asked: “Would the guest care to try preparing tea by hand?”

“I don’t know how.”

Lu Beigu answered honestly, then turned to Ji Yun: “Do you?”

“How would I? I know how to drink it!” Ji Yun exclaimed.

“I’ll do it.”

At that moment, Han San Niang took over. She rolled up her sleeves, revealing a pale arm, placed the tea cake on mulberry paper, and gently crushed it with the mallet.

Then she began boiling water, whisking the tea with a bamboo whisk until froth like snow formed.

Slowly, the tea’s fragrance unfurled along the fine ripples on the water’s surface.

(End of Chapter)