In late spring, a warm breeze rustles, and clumps of willow catkins drift like drifting snowflakes, drifting leisurely through the carved window lattices and quietly settling in a thin layer on the inkstone, as if casting a gentle veil over this quaint object. I sit by the window, biting my wolf-hair brush, absorbed in revising a new storybook. My thoughts flow from the tip of my pen, lost in the story's twists and turns.
Mo Zhu walked in with light steps, carrying a celadon bowl. Her skirt brushed against the copper door sill, creating a subtle rustling sound like a gentle melody. The bowl was filled with sour plum soup, and the sharp, angular ice cubes reflected a cool, translucent light in the sunlight, like the twinkling stars on a cold night.
"Miss," Mo Zhu's voice was filled with a hint of vigilance and dissatisfaction. "Chun Tao from the Liu family's courtyard just circled three times outside the moon gate. Look at her sneaky behavior. Last time at the poetry club, she was humiliated by you. Her eyes were almost popping out of her head. Who knows what evil plan she's up to again."
My pen paused on the paragraph about the heroine's battle of wits with her stepmother, and memories of past lives suddenly surged back like a surging tide. It was also during this season, with willow catkins fluttering, that I, after drinking the red bean porridge Chuntao had brought me, fell into a state of vomiting and diarrhea. At that time, Mrs. Liu knelt before my father, weeping bitterly, as if she had suffered a profound injustice, accusing me of consuming something raw and cold because she wanted the coolness. Thinking back now, I suspect that beneath the surface of that bowl of porridge lay the poison of oleander, a sinister act. I subconsciously traced the dark patterns on the corner of the table with my fingertips. They were the entwined lotus leaves carved by my biological mother when she was still alive. Time has worn them smooth, but it cannot erase my longing for her or the memory of past suffering.
"Bring the sour plum soup to the young marquis." I gently pushed the plate aside, and the ice cubes hit the bowl with a crisp sound, like jade beads falling on a plate. "Go to the kitchen and watch. You must watch the chef prepare all the meals today, starting from washing the rice. You can't let up for a moment."
Mo Zhu had barely left when a clanging sound came from the direction of the martial arts arena, like weapons clashing or a heavy object falling. Then, the young marquis rushed in, carrying a gilded wooden sword. The red silk thread attached to the sword's tassel fluttered wildly, sweeping over the inkstone. Pine smoke ink splattered like a cloud of black onto the gold embroidery of his lake-blue brocade robe, adding a touch of unruly grace to the ornate garment. He excitedly rushed to the table, shaking the oil-paper bag in his hand. The jade belt buckle on his waist gleamed warmly and dazzlingly in the sunlight, like ripples on a turquoise lake.
"Sister!" The young marquis' voice was filled with joy and excitement. "Mr. Jiang sent someone to deliver some sugar paintings! They say Master Zhang has used a new method. The wings of the sugar paintings can move!"
He eagerly opened the box. Instantly, a lifelike sugar-painted phoenix appeared before my eyes, its wings actually fluttering gently, as if about to soar. The sugar threads on its tail were artfully laced with gold dust, and the interplay of light and shadow made it even more dazzling, like a divine bird reborn from the ashes. Inside, a piece of plain silk was inscribed in delicate, flower-adorned small calligraphy: "I heard you've been working hard lately, so I've prepared some malt sugar to relieve your fatigue." Seeing this familiar handwriting, I couldn't help but recall Jiang Yan's appearance three days ago, disguised as a servant, infiltrating the poetry club. Back then, he'd pulled his bamboo hat down low and, while no one was paying attention, slipped the sugar painting into my hand. The warmth from his fingertips lingered on my skin, and my earlobes suddenly felt hot.
"Sister, why is your face red?" The young marquis came very close to me out of curiosity, and the handle of the wooden sword in his hand almost poked my chin. "Are you angry with that old hag Liu again? If she dares to bully you again, I'll go chop down the osmanthus tree in her yard and see how she can still be so arrogant!"
"Go away, stop messing around here." I gently slapped his hand away, and out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a pink dress passing by the moonlit gate. Looking closely, I saw Chuntao hiding behind a willow tree, the silk flowers in her hair swaying precariously in the wind, making her look flustered and panicked. When she saw me looking, she turned and ran like a startled rabbit. The silk flower caught on the willow branch and floated slowly into the pond, stirring ripples that seemed to stir waves in my heart as well.
As the night deepened, the night watch drum struck the second watch, and the cicadas' cacophony of the day gradually faded. The entire world seemed shrouded in a veil of tranquility. I sat quietly under the porch, draped in my ermine cloak. The moonlight, like water, blanketed the courtyard in a layer of silver frost, creating a dreamlike wonderland. Mo Zhu brought a bowl of Tremella fuciformis soup in a white porcelain bowl. Lily petals floated leisurely on the broth. While seemingly refreshing and elegant, it lingered a subtle bitterness, hinting at something unusual beneath.
"The kitchen said this soup was sent from the Liu family courtyard, and they added lilies from the south." Mo Zhu's voice was very low, his thumb subconsciously stroking the edge of the bowl, his eyes revealing worry, "Or..."
"Drink." I calmly scooped up a spoonful of Tremella soup. The moonlight shattered in the soup, like a handful of silver coins, shimmering with a cool light. "But change the bowl," I said, pointing to the celadon bowl, which shone coldly in the moonlight. It was the same bowl the young marquis had used to drink his sour plum soup this morning.
Just as I slowly poured the last spoonful of soup into the flowers, a sharp scream suddenly erupted from the Liu family's courtyard, piercing the stillness of the night sky, like the shrill cry of a night owl, chilling and terrifying. I remained composed, calmly donning my coat and heading towards the source of the sound. When I arrived, I saw Chuntao slumped under the veranda, tremella soup still stained the corners of her mouth, her face as pale as rice paper, her eyes filled with fear and despair. Liu stood on the steps, holding a sheep-horn palace lantern. Her pearl headband trembled with her body, making a subtle clinking sound, as if reflecting her inner panic.
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