goddaughter
Just after the Double Ninth Festival, the autumn rain began to fall intermittently. After passing Tongguan, the rain intensified, pattering against the carriage canopy with a dull thud, and the horses' hooves splashed up tiny droplets of water as they trod across the muddy road.
Yu Xuanji sat in the Wen family's carriage, the low screeching of the wheels over the wet pavement echoing in her ears. She pulled her hands further into her sleeves. Madam Wen handed her a thin blanket, saying softly, "You're cold, cover yourself with this."
She nodded and whispered a thank you. Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced at Madam Wen sitting opposite her. She was a graceful middle-aged woman with a simple hairpin in her hair, adorned with a South Sea pearl that gleamed with a warm luster. In her hands, she held a gilded hand warmer, the steam from its lid gently enveloping her snow-white knuckles.
Wen Tingyun rode a horse on one side of their carriage.
"We're almost at the post station. Just bear with it. Once we get there, have a pot of hot ginger soup to warm yourself up," Wen Tingyun said to Madam Wen with a smile.
Madam Wen nodded, her gaze softening: "Don't get wet yourself. Where's your straw hat?"
Wen Tingyun shook his head and said no, pulling his raincoat tighter around himself.
Xuanji lowered her head, pretending to look at the embroidery on her clothes. A strange bittersweet feeling welled up inside her—she had never seen such a couple before, so gentle and intimate. Like a warm charcoal fire in a cold night, protecting them from the wind and rain.
As evening fell, the caravan stopped at a post station. The postmaster in the courtyard busied himself welcoming them and leading them inside to light a fire. The air was filled with the aroma of burning charcoal and the damp chill of autumn.
When Madam Wen took off her outer cloak, a few damp fallen leaves clung to her shoulder. Wen Tingyun reached out to brush them away for her, and then smoothly untied the knot in her cloak.
Xuanji stared in disbelief until Madam Wen called to her, "Xuanji, come here and warm your hands."
She then walked over and sat down next to Madam Wen. An elderly nanny, with her hair neatly combed and wearing a dark blue satin vest, brought in two bowls of ginger soup, one for Madam Wen and one for Xuanji. She said softly, "Madam, warm yourself up."
Madam Wen took it and smiled at Xuanji, saying, "This is Granny Li, an old woman who has been with me since I was a child. She is now the one who takes care of most of the things around me."
Granny Li nodded slightly to Xuanji, her gaze kind yet shrewd: "If Miss Yu has any shortages, or if the servants have been negligent in any way, just come and find this old servant." Her tone was gentle, yet she possessed an undeniable authority, clearly indicating her high standing in the household.
The fire crackled and popped, and the heat seeped in through my sleeves, gradually restoring feeling to my frozen fingers.
At night, the room at the inn was simple but clean and tidy. Madam Wen specially instructed Granny Li to add an extra layer of new cotton to her bedding, and the quilt smelled of sunshine.
Xuanji curled up in the quilt, listening to the pattering rain outside, and a long-lost sense of peace welled up in her heart.
In the fourth year of the Tianqi reign, Yu Xuanji accompanied the Wen couple to the capital.
The city gates of Chang'an were tall and imposing. The carriage slowly passed through the gate openings, and a wide-open space suddenly appeared before us—markets and wards lined the streets, and houses stretched as far as the eye could see. The leaves of the locust trees lining the streets were turning yellow, swaying in the drizzle, and occasionally a sparrow would flutter its wings and fly by.
Lady Wen said to her, "Look, this is autumn in Chang'an."
The Wen residence was located in Xuanping Ward in the south of the city. It was not large, and its vermilion gate was solid and imposing. Although the gold paint on the "Wen" character on the gate plaque had faded somewhat, it still remained dignified and elegant. There were not many servants in the residence, but they all came forward to greet Madam Wen and Wen Tingyun and respectfully invite them to get out of the carriage.
"Send Xuanji to the East Courtyard first," Madam Wen instructed, pointing to the maid beside her. "Shiliu, you will be in charge of taking care of Xuanji from now on. Make sure the fire in the stove is burning brighter, and send her some nourishing soup in the evening."
Shiliu stepped forward at the call; she was a maid of about sixteen. She had a pleasing round face and fair skin, like a newly ripened peach. Her eyes were large and bright, and she wore a clean, lotus-colored vest, looking very clever and refreshing. Shiliu gave Xuanji a crisp curtsy, her voice clear and melodious: "This servant, Shiliu, greets Miss. If you need anything in the future, please don't hesitate to ask."
Seeing this, Xuanji also slightly curtsied in return and said softly, "Thank you for your trouble, Sister Shiliu."
Walking along the blue brick corridor, we arrived at the east courtyard. The room was already heated by underfloor heating, and a warm feeling filled the air. Shiliu smiled and handed over a hot towel, and then a maid brought over a wooden box: "This is what the master instructed, saying that since the young lady has just arrived in Chang'an, she must not catch a cold."
The mystery was revealed when the box was opened—it contained a brocade cloak embroidered with delicate chrysanthemum patterns and had a soft texture.
The night was deep, and the rain was still falling. Xuanji sat on the couch, her fingertips tracing the pattern on her cloak, a complex emotion suddenly welling up in her heart.
The next day, in the backyard of the Wen residence. Ginkgo leaves, scattered by the rain, covered the stone slabs, creating a golden carpet. Stepping on them produced an extremely subtle, almost soft "rustling" sound.
As Yu Xuanji followed Madam Wen into the corridor, she faintly heard the sound of reading aloud coming from the courtyard. She changed into clean clothes, tied her hair up, and bowed to Wen Tingyun according to etiquette. Wen Tingyun nodded slightly and led her to a brightly lit lecture hall in the east wing.
"This is my newly accepted disciple, Yu Xuanji, who is fourteen years old this year." Wen Tingyun's voice was not loud, but it carried an undeniable clarity. "From now on, we will study poetry and prose together and exchange ideas."
There were already four people seated in the hall, all of whom were Wen Tingyun's disciples:
The eldest, Lu Jingxiu, appeared to be seventeen or eighteen years old. He had handsome features and a gentle demeanor. Upon seeing her, he smiled and nodded. "I have long admired your poetic talent, Junior Sister. It is my great pleasure to meet you today."
To the left sat a boy of about sixteen or seventeen, dressed in an indigo robe. His face bore a seven-tenths resemblance to Wen Tingyun, but with a touch more youthful sharpness. "This is my son, Wen Jue," Wen Jue nodded to Xuanji.
Du Mubai, on the right, wore a moon-white robe. He had thin lips and sharp eyes, and his ambiguous smile held a hint of ruthlessness. He called out, "Junior Sister."
The last one is Wen Xiang'er, a girl of similar age to Xuanji. She is Wen Tingyun's daughter, 13 years old this year, a lively and active age. She is wearing an apricot-yellow jacket, with bright eyes, and does not hide her curiosity when she looks at Xuanji.
Wen Tingyun gestured for her to sit down next to Wen Xiang'er. Wen Xiang'er skipped and grabbed Xuanji's hand, "I've finally got a sister to keep me company." Xuanji smiled slightly, "Hello, Xiang'er."
The days after enrolling in school were much busier than she had imagined.
In the mornings, they would recite classics and historical texts; in the afternoons, they would practice calligraphy and compose poetry; and in the evenings, Wen Tingyun would either recount anecdotes about poets or critique his students' work. Occasionally, his wife would listen in and prepare hot tea and snacks for her students.
The following morning, during class, the disciples handed in their completed assignments to Wen Tingyun, who then asked Xuanji to stay behind alone.
Xuanji felt uneasy.
Wen Tingyun, however, did not look at Xuanji's writing. Pointing at Xuanji's characters, he frowned slightly: "The strokes are unsteady, and the strength is uneven. Did you not practice calligraphy properly when you were young?"
Xuanji blushed and lowered his head: "...Yes."
Wen Tingyun said no more, took a scroll of calligraphy from the bookshelf, and spread it out on the table: "This is Wang Xizhi's 'Preface to the Sacred Teachings'. Copy it three times first."
Xuanji picked up his brush as instructed, but by the time he reached the second line, the characters already appeared scattered and disorganized.
Wen Tingyun observed quietly for a moment, then dismissed Xuanji. He bent down to demonstrate: "Hold the brush upright. Press down with the thumb, hook with the index finger, support with the middle finger, and keep the wrist suspended without leaning."
"Look—the beginning of the stroke should conceal the tip, and the ending stroke should restrain the momentum. Don't rush blindly." He lightly tapped the tip of his brush to indicate the position of the stroke.
Xuanji replied in a low voice, "Yes."
Wen Tingyun stepped back and said calmly, "Write again."
Xuanji bit her lip, picked up her pen, hesitated slightly on the paper, and finally wrote slowly. Although still clumsy, it was a bit more steady than before.
"Hmm." Wen Tingyun nodded slightly. "Practice diligently, and you'll see results in three months."
Just then, Madam Wen brought in tea and saw this scene. She smiled and teased, "Your husband is more patient with her than he is with Xiang'er."
Seeing Xuanji's somewhat flustered expression, Wen Tingyun smiled gently: "Xuanji has poetic talent, but if his handwriting is ugly, people will always say that his writing does not match his calligraphy."
Xuanji raised his eyes, his gaze flashing, then immediately lowered them again: "This student will remember."
In the afternoon, the study was quiet. Wang Tie was still on the desk, but Xuanji's eyes unconsciously fell on another scroll of paper—it was Wen Tingyun's handwriting correcting his students' homework, clear and upright.
She hesitated for a moment, then secretly hid one.
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