Chapter Seven: The Flower Spirit

In the days that followed, Tong’er truly went into the mountains every day. The nuns at the convent merely noticed that she was leaving more frequently than before, but even when they secretly followed her, all they saw was Tong’er chopping firewood with greater diligence. These nuns all knew that Jiang Li had exchanged forty strings of copper coins for a basketful of pastries. Whenever Jiang Li stepped outside her room, she could hear their mocking remarks. Jiang Li listened but never grew angry; she simply stood aside, smiling at them. After a few such encounters, even the nuns found it tiresome and stopped.

Every night at midnight, Tong’er would slip out and only sneak back at the hour of the Rat. Clever as she was, she managed to avoid the nuns and, to her surprise, everything went smoothly. While Tong’er was out, Jiang Li waited for her in their shabby room. The hours of waiting were dull—there were no sutras in the convent, nor did Jiang Li have pen or paper. Awake, she no longer spent endless days sewing shoe soles; she simply sat quietly, lost in her thoughts.

But those tranquil days did not last long. Perhaps it was unbearable to see the two of them living so peacefully. Master Jing’an began to torment them once more. For instance, their daily porridge became even thinner, resembling little more than others’ leftovers.

“My lady, they’re getting more and more outrageous,” Tong’er said bitterly. “It must be the doing of Madam Ji!”

Tong’er referred to the current wife of the Prime Minister in the capital as “Madam Ji”—no doubt Jiang Li had always permitted this behind closed doors. Jiang Li wasn’t bothered. At first, everyone thought she would not survive, and Madam Ji must have felt relieved. Who would have expected her to live, and even become cheerful? Seeing her in such high spirits surely made Madam Ji uncomfortable, and so Master Jing’an was sent to make her suffer.

Master Jing’an would not dare to openly beat or scold her. Yet, for a girl barely of age, hunger and cold, and the humiliation of falling from grace, were punishment enough. But Jiang Li was not the real Second Miss Jiang. Hardship was hardly new to her; even at her lowest, she had been worse off than the original Jiang Er Miss ever was.

Having been so far down, she no longer saw anything as insurmountable.

By the nineteenth of May, the basket of pastries was empty. Tong’er crouched by the basket, carefully scraping the crumbs into a small dish with a wooden spoon. “Miss, have a little of this to fill your stomach,” she said.

They had not eaten for a day and a night. The previous day, the nuns had deliberately smashed the thin porridge sent to them; there was no other food in the kitchen. Any remaining pastries had been thrown to the monkeys in the rear forest of Helin Temple. Now both girls were famished.

Jiang Li gazed out the window. Though the mountain was cooler than the valley below, summer was near, and the days had grown noticeably longer. The sun was nearly set; soon, night would fall. She said, “I won’t eat. You go ahead.”

Tong’er stared at the crumbs, swallowing hard, but shook her head. “If you don’t eat, I won’t either.”

“It’s all right. We’ll have something better soon.” Jiang Li smiled.

Tong’er was even more bewildered.

Jiang Li rose and went to the corner of the room, where a large wooden chest stood. She opened it. The chest was so big that the paltry contents inside looked even more pitiful—just a few yellowed garments, not even half filling the chest. This was all the property Second Miss Jiang had brought from the capital six years ago. If there had ever been anything of value, it was long gone; all that remained were these worn clothes.

Tong’er came over as well. Jiang Li ran her hands over the garments and fished out a gray nun’s robe. Clearly, all the finer clothes were gone. What was left was coarse and ill-fitting for a girl grown taller in six years. No one at the convent would make Jiang Li new clothes, so she wore ill-fitting, short garments. This lone nun’s robe had been given her when a young nun left the order at New Year’s—a rare piece that happened to fit her.

Normally, Second Miss Jiang never wore this well-fitting robe, as if to remind herself she was not like these nuns—that one day she would return to the capital as a lady of the Jiang family. But now Jiang Li had no choice; she needed to see someone tonight, and it would be inappropriate to appear in too-short clothes.

Tong’er asked, “Miss, are you really going to wear this?”

Jiang Li nodded. “This one will do.”

By the time she dressed, the sun had completely set and night had come to Mount Qingcheng. The two of them sat by the dim oil lamp, waiting. It was long after midnight when Jiang Li finally stood up. “Let’s go out.”

Tong’er asked, “Where to?”

“To eat, of course.” Jiang Li smiled.

Puzzled, Tong’er followed as Jiang Li led her to the main hall. Inside, a clay statue of a goddess stood on the altar. The convent rarely saw visitors; worshippers all went to the nearby Helin Temple. Jiang Li went up to the statue, took the offering of fruit from the altar, and handed the plate to Tong’er. “Eat.”

Tong’er was terrified. The nuns were all asleep and never rose at night. In a whisper, she protested, “Miss, that’s an offering for the goddess!”

Jiang Li shrugged. “So?”

“What if the nuns find out tomorrow?” Tong’er wrung her hands. “Let’s put it back.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Jiang Li reassured her. “Even if they notice, there’s nothing they can do.”

“But this is the goddess,” Tong’er still hesitated, “If we eat the offering, isn’t that a great disrespect?”

Jiang Li laughed softly. “A clay idol can’t even save itself. Do you really expect it to protect you? It’s just a doll made of mud; what does respect matter? In the end, you must walk your own path. Relying on the goddess won’t do.”

Tong’er stared at her, speechless. The Second Miss Jiang she knew would never have uttered such shocking words.

They were both momentarily stunned when a soft laugh drifted down from above. The sound was light, but in the silent night and the empty temple, it was startlingly clear.

Tong’er looked up, and her eyes grew wide in disbelief. She pointed into the distance, stammering, “A… a flower spirit?”

On the roof of the small temple, someone was seated—a man clad all in black, but draped with a long crimson cloak embroidered with black peonies, making him appear both bewitching and flamboyant.

The moon shone bright through the thinning mist, gradually illuminating the young man’s features. His long, arched brows swept toward his temples, bold and untamed. His eyes were narrow, dark, and seemed to brim with unspoken emotion, lashes long and thick. His nose was straight and proud, and his lips curled in a faint, almost mocking smile. At the corner of one eye was a tiny crimson mole, no larger than a grain of rice, adding an intimate touch to his already unearthly beauty beneath the moonlight.

In the mortal world, April’s blossoms are spent, but on this mountain, the peach trees had only just begun to bloom. By mid-May, they burst forth in overlapping layers, their vibrant hues unable to outshine the man on the rooftop. Instead, his presence seemed to render the sea of peach blossoms mere embellishment, as if he stood apart from the world, smiling coldly at those who struggled within it.

Jiang Li, clad in a nun’s gray robe with her long black hair unbound, looked as serene as a lotus acolyte at Buddha’s feet. She lifted her candle and gazed upward, meeting the man’s eyes. Her gaze was calm as still water.

One was pure and ethereal, detached from the world; the other, dazzling and bewitching, capable of stealing souls. The vast world was split neatly in two—half as bright as spring, half as dark as the abyss. The brightness was an illusion; the abyss, a tempting gift.

Their eyes met across the distance—a confrontation as much as a connection.

No one saw the flicker of surprise in Jiang Li’s heart.

Why was it him?