Chapter 21: Zhi Shao Warms the Bed

On the fourteenth day of the first month, lanterns were being tested.

Outside the courtyard, on the street, government officials were erecting colorful pavilions, hanging lanterns and decorations, and arranging various performers to rehearse music and acrobatic plays, so they could earn a few coins for food on the fifteenth.

The eastern and western branches of the Jia household, along with the two Lai brothers, each led a group of maids and servants, hanging lanterns everywhere.

Servant girls who had slipped away from their duties crept out to marvel and point at the dazzling array of hanging lanterns.

Early that morning, Baoyu, Daiyu, and the three young ladies of the spring clan were busy composing riddles for the lanterns.

Given the number of lanterns in the garden, this was no light task.

Yet they worked with great enthusiasm—unable to let others see their own riddles, yet eager to sneak a peek at others’, they laughed, chased each other, and filled the air with joy.

Tomorrow Jia Cong would attend the Nanxi Literary Gathering; Jia She paid no attention, but Jia Zheng took great interest.

He even arranged a carriage and horses for him in advance, assigning two servants to attend him, and this warmth restored a little heat to Jia Cong’s previously cold heart.

Afternoon came, and Yingchun’s maid Siqi came to find him, bringing a pair of embroidered cloud-walking boots made by Yingchun herself, saying he should wear them to the literary gathering.

In the afternoon, when Siqi and Shishu left, he had already sent word to thank them.

Finally, Jia Zheng invited him to dine at Mengpo Study, spoke to him at length about his reading, and then let him return.

Tanchun said the sky was heavily overcast today; tomorrow would surely be a snowy day, and the mountain ravines near Nanxi would be even colder, so she sent him this cloak for warmth.

The gloom in Jia Cong’s heart, caused by Jia She’s covetousness toward Zhi Shao, was greatly dispelled by these people’s thoughtfulness and concern.

They had finally finished everything by the fourteenth.

In the evening, Jia Cong went to Mengpo Study’s study to thank Jia Zheng.

Tanchun also had Shishu bring a delicate purple-copper-inlaid-blue hand warmer, filled with ample silver frost charcoal, so Jia Cong could warm his hands on the road and keep them from stiffening while writing.

That day, Yingchun had noticed Jia Cong’s worn-out shoe uppers in Rongqing Hall, and upon returning, she resolved to make him a new pair, spending an entire day stitching the soles with Siqi’s help.

When he returned to Linku Yard, his new robe was ready; Zhi Shao’s needlework was exceptional—the new robe fit him perfectly from head to toe.

Jia Cong did not go to the back courtyard to thank Yingchun and Tanchun, for they lived with Jia Mu, who had always been cold toward him as a grandson; the back courtyard was no place for him to go.

Fortunately, Jia Cong now had some silver; when the kitchen meals were insufficient, he secretly bought food outside and sometimes brought back bamboo charcoal as well.

Not long after Siqi left, Shishu came again, bringing a bright red Xingxingzhan cloak, saying it was newly made this year and had only been worn once on New Year’s Eve.

Zhi Shao lit the bamboo charcoal until the room warmed slightly, but the thin quilt on the bed still felt icy; outside, snow began to fall.

When night fell dark, a wailing west wind swept through, and the cold seeped into the bones.

Though unspoken plainly, she still harbored a quiet longing for Jia Cong’s participation in the refined, elevated Nanxi Literary Gathering.

Jia Cong went as usual to the desk—this habit, from past life to present, remained unchanged: before sleep, he wrote a few lines and read a few pages.

Though the eastern and western branches of the Jia household teemed with filth and demons, there were still warm-hearted people among them.

Jia Zheng stroked his beard and smiled at Jia Cong, deeply pleased with this nephew, whose mind brimmed with literary grace and whose manners were respectful and proper, and he offered him words of encouragement.

Zhi Shao shed all but her undergarments, slipped into the bed to warm it for Jia Cong first.

As his personal maid, she had done this since childhood; Jia Cong had long since grown accustomed to it.

Outside, the wind and snow grew fiercer; the dry, stiff window paper rattled as the wind sucked at it.

Jia Cong yawned, preparing to get into bed—he must rise early tomorrow to begin his journey.

As he reached the bed, he found Zhi Shao curled up asleep within the quilt, her face flushed pink like a delicate peony blossom.

For days, Zhi Shao had worked day and night to finish his new robe; last night she had slept less than two hours, and today she had spent the entire morning stitching the final seams.

These past days, she had also carried the burden of Jia She’s vile demands; the dual pressures had exhausted her utterly—she had barely warmed the bed before falling into deep, dead sleep.

Normally, Zhi Shao slept on the small stool beside his bed, so she could rise at night to pour water or cover him; that stool was too hard for Jia Cong to sleep on.

Seeing her sleep so peacefully, he did not wish to wake her.

In wealthy households, personal maids grew up alongside the young masters and ladies; warming their beds and sleeping beside them was ordinary from childhood.

But girls matured early; this year, Zhi Shao’s body had begun to slenderize, and though she still warmed his bed in the cold, she no longer dared to sleep beside him—she had grown up a little.

Gently, Jia Cong shifted Zhi Shao’s body inward, then took her quilt from the small stool and draped it over himself.

The bed, warmed and fragrant from her body, felt wonderfully comfortable and soothing to lie upon.

In his past life, he had known many romantic entanglements, but in this life he was still a child, and had no such thoughts.

That night he slept more deeply and peacefully than ever, waking only when the east began to pale—only to find the quilt beside him empty.

The door creaked open, a gust of cold wind rushed in; from the corner of his eye, Jia Cong saw the world outside blanketed in white.

Zhi Shao entered with a basin of washing water, her face still flushed with shy redness; last night, she had woken in the middle of the night and intended to return to her small stool.

But she feared waking Jia Cong—he must be well-rested for the literary gathering—and dared not move, remaining curled in the quilt until dawn crept in.

She had warmed his bed and slept beside him countless times since childhood; yet today, something felt strange, and her heart fluttered with unfamiliar shame, even making her legs feel weak.

Zhi Shao helped Jia Cong rise and dress, then carefully combed his hair with a fine-toothed comb, tying it into a topknot.

Since the day he earned silver by selling his calligraphy, Jia Cong had often found ways to buy treats and indulge his appetite; as a boy, he naturally loved food, and with silver in hand, his first priority was never to go hungry.

After more than ten days, his complexion had improved greatly—his cheeks now held a touch of color, no longer the gaunt, frightening appearance of before.

The new robe was made of silver-bamboo-patterned pale-silk Sichuan brocade; this was the first time Zhi Shao had seen Jia Cong wear such fine fabric.

As the saying goes, even a Buddha needs gold to shine, and a man needs fine clothes to look his best—truly, not a word untrue.

Zhi Shao saw him in his pale, elegant, bright robe, the belt cinched tight, accentuating his straight back, upright arms, and sharp shoulders, like a jade tree standing in the wind.

His thick, glossy black hair was pinned with a single xiuyu hairpin; Zhi Shao knew the xiuyu was not valuable, yet it looked exquisite tucked into his hair.

His dark hair set off his now-rosy cheeks, his thick, arched brows, eyes like autumn pools, the clean lines of his nose and lips like mountain streams—there was an ineffable beauty to him.

Zhi Shao stared, spellbound; since childhood she had known her third master was handsome, but his wretched life had always hidden it.

Since that day he nearly died from Old Master Jia’s beating and was revived, he had changed—he was wiser, steadier, more responsible.

It was as if, in the blink of an eye, he had transformed from an ignorant child into a man one could rely upon.

Her heart fluttered like a startled deer; suddenly, she understood why she had felt such unprecedented shyness last night.

(End of Chapter)