Chapter Ten: Restoring the Strings

“Tonghua? Tonghua?” Jiang Zhuo threw off her outer robe and got out of bed, trying to feel Tonghua’s forehead. Was she ill? Jiang Zhuo was a little worried.

But in the darkness, what met her gaze was Tonghua’s tear-filled eyes.

“Why are you crying? Are you homesick? Or did something happen during the day?” Jiang Zhuo asked with concern.

“…No, none of that,” Tonghua said stubbornly, wiping away her tears.

“That’s good,” Jiang Zhuo sighed in relief. Still worried, she took her quilt and lay down beside Tonghua.

Although the girl occasionally sniffled, her breathing was steady—she didn’t seem to be sick.

Just as Jiang Zhuo began to relax and was about to drift off, Tonghua spoke softly.

“…I’m just feeling sorry for Miss.”

“Why do you say that?” Jiang Zhuo turned over, now more awake.

“Miss has always been exceptionally beautiful since childhood and plays the pipa so well. Even the Prince of Jing… Though Miss doesn’t say anything, I saw how he looked when he brought you into the palace today. I know he has feelings for you. But at this very moment, Master has resigned from his post and returned home, so our Miss can only live in this humble room and serve as a court lady who is constantly mistreated. I really, truly…” Tonghua’s voice faltered, her nose catching as she struggled to finish.

Jiang Zhuo roughly understood what Tonghua meant. Tonghua was a household slave, about the same age as her, sent to the Jiang residence from a young age to care for her. She was deeply attached and loathed seeing her suffer any injustice.

Jiang Zhuo sighed. If Tonghua knew the hardships she endured in her previous life, the girl would surely weep bitterly.

“Tonghua, you said the Prince of Jing likes me. How can you tell?”

Jiang Zhuo considered this carefully, feeling it necessary to share her thoughts.

“That… anyone with eyes can see,” Tonghua said, puzzled by the question. “The whole capital says the Prince of Jing isn’t fond of women, but today he waited at the palace gate, took the initiative to guide Miss, and spoke so much to you…”

“Tonghua, you must remember,” Jiang Zhuo’s tone grew serious in the darkness, “A man who talks a lot to you doesn’t necessarily truly like you. Sometimes he might just want to show off his power and status. If he weren’t here today, Nurse Li could have guided me just as well. His presence isn’t indispensable, and I have no need to be grateful or deeply moved by it.”

“Then…” Tonghua looked a little confused, “What kind of behavior truly shows a man’s genuine affection for a woman?”

Jiang Zhuo was stumped by the question. Though she had lived this life again with a decade more experience, she had never been genuinely cared for by a man.

“…Maybe it’s the opposite? If he truly likes you, he should be willing to listen to you, patiently understand your past, and wholeheartedly comprehend your situation and needs. Perhaps for men, listening and understanding require more patience than empty talk.”

After pondering seriously for a while, Jiang Zhuo carefully answered.

Tonghua was silent beside her, not responding for a long time.

After a moment, soft snoring began.

That stubborn girl!

Feeling that her sincere comfort had been betrayed, Jiang Zhuo bit her lip, wrapped herself in the quilt, and turned over to sleep.

…

Snowflakes drifted in the wind as a man clad in a black fox-fur cloak stood before a nameless tombstone.

The spirit of Jiang Zhuo stood silently by his side.

Why was he having the mountain dug? To cultivate fields? To search for something lost?

Yet he had gathered her bones and erected a gravestone for her alone.

The world was vast, the forest silent.

Sometimes Jiang Zhuo felt he had come for her and her alone.

How vain.

She smiled wryly. She had never been truly loved while alive, and now, as a skeleton, she was still hopelessly deluded.

“—Miss! Time to get up! If you sleep any longer, you’ll be late again!”

Tonghua’s voice pierced through the dream.

Half-awake, Jiang Zhuo rubbed her eyes twice.

Recalling the sharp-featured man from her dream, she felt a vague familiarity but was certain she had never met him.

He wore armor and bore wounds on his hands—likely a general or some military officer.

Jiang Zhuo resolved that in this life, she must find him.

After learning that Jiang Dun had resigned and returned home, it seemed the palace had forgotten about Jiang Zhuo entirely.

As Nurse Li said, Jiang Zhuo was merely holding an idle post in the Department of Ceremonial Affairs. The two sisters Qin Tao hadn’t arranged any tasks for her.

Her pipa strings had broken and needed replacement.

Sorting silkworm threads, twisting them together, boiling the strings to set their shape, twisting and dyeing them.

This was what Jiang Zhuo had been doing these past few days in the Department of Ceremonial Affairs.

The palace maids usually ignored Jiang Zhuo’s comings and goings as a mere relative of the household, but seeing her working on strings sparked interest.

Especially when Jiang Zhuo dyed the strings with herbal extracts, a crowd gathered.

“Jiang Si-yue’s pipa is as beautiful as she is; even the strings are colorful.”

“Indeed, I’ve never seen strings that need dyeing. Is there some secret to this?”

“Who cares about secrets! It’s just pretty!”

Amid the chatter and praise, Jiang Zhuo didn’t hold back and confidently explained.

“Palace strings are rich and deep, their sound like bells and chimes, dyed crimson red with madder root to symbolize ceremony; Shang strings are cold and distant, crisp like ice cracking, dyed indigo blue; Jiao strings are round and clear, like orioles singing in willows, dyed golden yellow with gardenia fruit; Zhi strings are bright and piercing, like vivid flames dancing, dyed vermilion with cinnabar; and Yu strings are dark and lingering, like night winds moaning, dyed jet black with soap pods, representing winter and the closing of a melody.”

“Truly a refined lady, so knowledgeable. We’ve never heard of this before.”

“Dyeing strings different colors makes it easier for beginners to learn! Jiang Si-yue is so clever!”

Jiang Zhuo smiled and continued, “Dyeing the strings not only helps distinguish notes but also preserves them, extending their lifespan.”

“That’s because the noble lady has leisure time. People like us who play for a living don’t have time to study such things.”

Jiang Zhuo glanced over to see the speaker—a seventeen or eighteen-year-old girl leaning against the wall, her expression cold and disdainful.