Chapter 75: The Gentle Hand

Ping’er’s face flushed red as she retorted, “Lady, that’s nonsense—just a child, what’s there to care about or not care about?”

Wang Xifeng teased a few more words, then added, “No one ever expected the family would produce someone like this.”

“The old lady’s heart holds only Baoyu; even our Second Master is pushed aside. But with Baoyu’s habit of dawdling in the inner quarters, it won’t be easy for him to ever hold up the family name.”

Ping’er was sharp; though Wang Xifeng spoke only half, she understood the meaning—she looked down on Baoyu and was resentful on behalf of her husband.

But she dared not take up the thread; her nature was gentle, and she only wished for a quiet life—those tangled matters were not for someone of her station to meddle in.

Wang Xifeng went on, “Cong-ge is also a blood brother to Second Master—this bond is the closest; he’ll surely be a help in the future.”

Ping’er knew Jia Cong had suffered terribly in the Eastern Courtyard as a child, and had only recently found peace in the Western Mansion.

If he were used as a pawn and dragged into those affairs, his future in this grand household would be perilous.

Ping’er had always been kindhearted; though she lived beside the sharp and ruthless Wang Xifeng, she treated others with goodness and was well-regarded in the household.

Though she had no deep bond with Jia Cong, she felt sympathy for this illegitimate son who had been despised since childhood, and knew he was a diligent, striving boy—she didn’t want him caught up in these affairs.

“Yes, take it over today and tell Zijuan the recipe—when Lin Meimei wants to eat it, she can ask Zijuan to have the kitchen prepare it.”

She added, “I see Second Master holds him in high esteem—more so than Baoyu. Cong-ge clearly feels grateful to him, yet we’ve had little contact on our side.”

Wang Xifeng sneered, “You’re right—Second Master esteems Cong-brother so highly, and Cong-brother is grateful to him; in time, he’ll surely favor Baoyu.”

Jia Cong’s freshly washed hair was glossy black, faintly scented with herbal leaves; Qingwen combed it gently, one hand steadying the comb, the other smoothing the strands.

Jia Cong thought of how Zhi Shao had once combed his hair this way.

Wu’er’s face flushed as she told Jia Cong, “Third Master, I’ve prepared the snow lotus root and herbs—today I can still brew a pot of White Jade Soup, but tomorrow when we go to Luocang Mountain, we won’t be able to make it.”

Early that morning, Qingwen had boiled a pot of soapberry water, washed Jia Cong’s hair thoroughly, dried it with several cotton cloths, let it air-dry, then carefully combed it with a fine-toothed comb.

All because Baoyu was struck a few times with the ruler, they persuaded the old lady to excuse Cong-brother from filial rites, barring him even from Rongqing Hall.

Her own aunt had been foolish enough to drag Second Master down.

Qingwen gazed at Jia Cong’s refined face in the mirror—his eyes bright with a smile—and her movements grew even gentler.

…

Qingwen, blushing, stuck out her tongue at Wu’er: “As if you’ve never been infatuated with Third Master.”

If Jia Cong learned the truth, Second Master’s favor might halve—and then her husband would gain a true brother as an ally.

Wang Xifeng left the rest unsaid, for it was unfit to speak aloud to Ping’er.

Tomorrow Jia Cong would register at Qingshan Academy; all their luggage was packed, and five or six trunks stood neatly arranged in the room.

Wu’er entered the courtyard, saw Qingwen’s expression, and burst into laughter: “Just comb his hair properly—why are you staring into the mirror like a fool?”

White Jade Soup was Wu’er’s name for the medicinal dish—not elegant, but vivid and memorable.

Jia Cong smiled as if he hadn’t heard—just the tender musings of two girls newly come of age.

Jiazhao Year, fourth day of the fourth month.

“Lately, when you’ve gone, has Lin Meimei’s complexion improved?”

Since that time he’d visited Daiyu with Tanchun, Jia Cong had not gone again—he couldn’t enter Rongqing Hall—and it had been some time since he’d seen Daiyu.

The main reason: he didn’t want to stir up trouble before heading to the academy, causing unnecessary hardship for himself and Daiyu—there would be plenty of time ahead.

“Lin Meimei’s complexion has improved greatly—she looks better now than before she fell ill. Third Master’s White Jade Soup truly has such miraculous effects.”

“White Jade Soup nourishes the lungs and yin, and helps with coughing up blood—but it’s no miracle pill. It’s not some divine remedy.”

“How has Lin Meimei’s mood been lately?”

“Lin Meimei’s mood has been quite good—she smiles every time she sees me, talks a lot, and I always find her writing; her desk is piled high with sheets.”

“White Jade Soup is made with herbs and snow lotus root—it replenishes qi. You deliver it every evening; Lin Meimei is always frail, and evening meals are most nourishing.”

“Or perhaps Lin Meimei’s mood has improved—mind is the root of all illness; when the mind is well, the complexion naturally improves.”

Outside in the courtyard, Juan’er’s voice called: “Lin Meimei, Zijuan-jie, hello.”

“Is Third Master at home?”

Jia Cong hurriedly told Qingwen to secure his hairpin and stepped out to find Daiyu standing gracefully in the courtyard, followed by a pretty maid in green dress and red jacket—Zijuan, Daiyu’s personal maid.

Wu’er was right—Daiyu’s complexion had indeed improved greatly; her cheeks glowed with a warm hue, like jade bathed in sunset, moonlight haloed in radiance, exquisitely lovely.

“Lin Meimei, why have you come? Are you fully recovered?”

“Thank you, Third Brother Cong, for sending Wu’er with the medicinal dishes every day—I’m fully recovered now. Zijuan, bring the things.”

Jia Cong saw Zijuan holding a small book box of Xiangfei bamboo; Daiyu took out two newly bound books with blue covers and silk threads.

Daiyu smiled, her eyes bright: “I loved the calligraphy you gave me last time—these two hand-copied volumes are my gift in return, Third Brother.”

“These are my father’s personal annotations on the Four Books, written from his own insights. When I was young, Father taught me the Four Books; when I came south, I brought his handwritten notes with me.”

“In my free time, I’d open them to feel close to him. Third Brother is about to enter the academy—these will be useful to you. I copied them out for you.”

So that was why Wu’er said Daiyu was always writing when she came with the dishes—she’d been copying this very thing.

The two hand-copied volumes were thick; opening them revealed dense, delicate script—Daiyu must have spent much effort on them; Jia Cong’s heart warmed.

Master Jing’an had once given him a copy of the Four Books: Collected Annotations—precious, but as one of his stature, it was written from a scholarly perspective, not tailored for imperial exams.

Jia Cong had read through it yesterday; it offered profound, high-level guidance for the exams, deeply enlightening—perfect as a foundation for learning, yet not fully adapted to exam needs.

But this hand-copied volume from Daiyu was Lin Ruhai’s personal reflections from his own exam preparation—every word, every phrase rooted in the path of the imperial examinations.

Lin Ruhai had once earned the title of Proclaimer of the Third Rank—proof of how refined and brilliant his insights were; this copy was practically a secret key to passing the exams.

Daiyu, raised by her father and steeped in poetry and classics, understood perfectly how valuable this gift was to Jia Cong—and she had given it straight to his heart.

Jia Cong’s face filled with gratitude: “Jia Cong deeply thanks Lin Meimei for this generous gift—I will treasure this copy with all my heart.”

Daiyu smiled: “Third Brother Cong, no need for formal thanks—I only hope you make progress every day, and soon pluck the osmanthus from the Moon Palace.”

The entire Jia family, though clearly in decline, remained lost in dreams of wealth and luxury—only Jia Cong would value this gift.

Had it been Baoyu or Jia Lian, they’d have treated it as the babbling of a money-grubber or mere paper to pad a table.

In Qingzhi Studio, bamboo rustled gently; spring sunlight warmed the courtyard, illuminating the two slender, jade-like figures—time itself lay still and sweet.

(End of Chapter)