Flower Stealing Master

Song Qingshu had barely stepped inside when he saw two attendants supporting a silver-haired old woman who came toward him to greet him. ‘This must be the Old Ancestress the maidservant mentioned.’ He was about to bow when she pulled him into her arms with a cry of “my heart, my life!” and burst into tears.

Song Qingshu’s expression was extraordinary. He was a man of twenty-odd years, and here he was being gathered up like a small child. Awkward as it was, he let out a quiet breath of relief — he had been dreading not knowing what to call her, and this had neatly resolved the problem for him.

“I’ve missed you so terribly.” The silver-haired old lady took his hand and looked at him with eyes full of delight, then seemed to remember herself and indicated the others in the room. “Go and pay your respects to your aunt, your mother — and don’t forget your sister-in-law.”

Song Qingshu read the direction of her gaze and matched each person to her words. Two typical middle-aged women: the aunt had restless, uncertain eyes — clearly a woman without much strength of will — while the young lord’s mother carried herself with a composed and dignified bearing that placed her a cut above.

He paid his respects carefully to each of them in turn. When he came to the sister-in-law the old lady had mentioned, he stopped for a moment. A young woman sat quietly to one side, her manner gentle and restrained, her features fine and delicate. She was in the fullest bloom of her youth — yet something in her eyes was missing, a quality of living interest, as though nothing in the world particularly engaged her.

“My respects, sister-in-law.” He noticed that everyone else in the room was dressed in bright, vibrant colours — every robe rich and vivid. She alone wore plain, undyed clothes. ‘Could she be in mourning? A widow?’

The young woman nodded, offered a few brief words in return, and said nothing more. Her manner was cool and detached, but no one in the room appeared to find it unusual.

The silver-haired old lady spoke again: “Send for the young ladies — Bao-ge is back today, let us all be merry together. No need to go to lessons.”

The agreement was given, and two people went off to fetch them.

Song Qingshu had already felt a suspicion forming on the boat when Taohong described all those intermarried clans. Now, with everyone in the household calling the young lord “Bao-ge” and “Second Young Master Bao,” and with the family name Jia besides —

‘Has Dream of the Red Chamber actually walked into this story?’

He felt somewhat at sea — but accepted it quickly enough. This world was already thoroughly chaotic; one more classic novel bleeding in was hardly surprising. And thinking of the various remarkable women of Dream of the Red Chamber — Lin Daiyu, Xue Baochai, Qin Keqing, each with their own distinct beauty — he found he had rather more to look forward to than to dread.

While he was still happily lost in that thought, three young ladies arrived, escorted by three nurses and five or six maidservants. Song Qingshu reflected that the daughters of the nobility had every advantage — generations of beautiful mothers, combined with lives of ease, had done their work.

The first was pleasingly rounded, of medium height, with fresh-rose cheeks and a smooth, creamy complexion, quiet and gentle in manner, and pleasing to look upon.

The second was slender-waisted and tall, with an oval face, bright eyes, and gracefully curved brows — her every glance alive with spirit, a quality of rare distinction about her that made the world seem ordinary by comparison.

The third was slight and small, still not quite grown.

All three were dressed alike in the same style of ornaments and garments.

‘These three must be Yingchun, Tanchun, and Xichun,’ Song Qingshu thought. Though in this version of the world, if the Jia family’s influence rested on a sister in the imperial palace, there might be no room for a Yuan-chun.

The three young ladies, taking the figure before them entirely as their brother, let their delight show in their expressions, and gathered close to ask him questions in low, eager voices.

Song Qingshu, wreathed in the soft, sweet fragrance of three young women, found his thoughts drifting pleasantly. ‘No wonder that young lord carries a hint of the powdered and perfumed about him. Growing up in a world entirely of women, he could hardly have come out otherwise.’

From the inner rooms came the sound of laughter and a carrying voice: “I’ve come late — I wasn’t here to welcome the returning traveller!”

Song Qingshu was puzzled. Every other person in the room had been quiet and decorous, composed in manner. ‘Who could this be, arriving with such cheerful disregard for ceremony?’

A moment later a figure swept in through the rear doorway, surrounded by a cluster of attendants and maidservants.

This person was dressed unlike any of the young ladies — magnificent and radiant as a goddess descended to the world. On her head a golden eight-treasure hairpiece set with pearls, pinned with a sunrise five-phoenix hanging-pearl ornament. Around her neck a wreath of solid-gold coiling serpent links. At her waist a pale green palace sash, and at her hip a paired rose-jade pendant. Her jacket was deep red foreign satin embroidered with golden thread and a hundred butterflies among flowers, over which she wore a five-coloured cut-silk stone-blue silver-fox outer robe, and below, an emerald-scattered floral foreign crepe skirt.

Her eyes were phoenix-shaped, slightly upturned at the outer corners. Her brows curved like willow leaves, drawn to fine points. Her powdered face wore the warmth of spring with none of the coldness of authority. Her red lips seemed to carry a smile before she had spoken a word.

Song Qingshu felt a quiet alert go through him. ‘This is a woman of sharp intelligence and formidable energy — I’ll need to be very careful with her.’

He couldn’t help looking a moment longer. Her figure was graceful and alive — the kind that made a man’s mind stray.

Grandmother Jia laughed. “Fiery Phoenix, still the same boisterous creature — your young brother-in-law is hardly a stranger, what ‘returning traveller’ are you talking about?”

Song Qingshu filed that quietly away — another suspicion confirmed. The lively, shapely young woman was Wang Xifeng.

“But he’s been away on a long journey,” Wang Xifeng said with a bright laugh. “A traveller returned from afar — of course he counts!”

“There’s never any use arguing with that tongue of yours,” Grandmother Jia said with an affectionate shake of her head. “The hour is getting late — have them prepare the evening meal.” Then, to Song Qingshu: “Your father and your uncle are occupied — we won’t wait for them. Frankly, the meal is more enjoyable without them. Oh — and where is Lian-ge?” The last question was directed at Wang Xifeng.

“He’s been running all over the place managing the construction of the Grand View Garden,” Wang Xifeng said with a smile. “No need to wait for him.”

“That work must be exhausting for him.” Grandmother Jia nodded.

Wang Xifeng looked delighted. “It’s only what he should be doing.”

While they were talking, maidservants had already begun laying the table. Grandmother Jia remained in her place of honour. Wang Xifeng moved briskly to arrange the chopsticks. Lady Wang served the soup. And the quiet young widow who had caught Song Qingshu’s attention earlier came forward carrying the rice.

Thanks to having read Dream of the Red Chamber in his previous life, Song Qingshu had now mapped out most of the people in the room. The young lord was Jia Baoyu. The silver-haired old woman was Grandmother Jia. The aunt with the restless eyes was Lady Xing. As for the young widow — she must be Li Wan, the widow of Jia Zhu, Jia Baoyu’s elder brother.

Grandmother Jia took the central seat on the main couch. Lady Xing and Lady Wang sat next in order, and then all eyes moved to Song Qingshu.

‘Baoyu certainly has an exceptional standing in this household,’ he thought with private astonishment. Wang Xifeng and Li Wan were both his sisters-in-law, and yet they were deferring to him.

He responded without hesitation, settling into the appropriate seat. Yingchun, Tanchun, and Xichun followed in turn, with Li Wan and Wang Xifeng last.

Maidservants stood in attendance with fly-whisks, rinsing basins, and napkins. Song Qingshu, having spent time in two imperial palaces, was entirely at home with such details. His only real concern was that everyone at this table knew Baoyu intimately — if the conversation at dinner grew personal, the gaps in his knowledge would be difficult to paper over.

That concern turned out to be premature, and pleasantly so. The Jia household evidently had a firm rule about meals: no talking at table. The many attendants and maidservants waiting in the outer room could not be heard to produce so much as a cough.

The meal concluded in silence. Maidservants brought tea on small lacquered trays.

Grandmother Jia waved her hand. “The rest of you may go. Let us talk freely.” Lady Xing and Lady Wang rose at once, exchanged a few words of pleasantry, and withdrew, taking Wang Xifeng and Li Wan with them.

Once they had gone, Grandmother Jia beckoned Song Qingshu to sit close beside her. “Now — tell me all about where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”

Song Qingshu felt the difficulty immediately. Domestic small talk was precisely the kind of thing most likely to expose him — especially with someone who adored Jia Baoyu as thoroughly as Grandmother Jia evidently did. He managed a few vague and general answers, and found himself glancing at the darkening sky outside.

‘I wonder if Zhiruo and Qi Fang have gotten safely away.’

Song Qingshu had barely stepped inside when he saw two attendants supporting a silver-haired old woman who came toward him to greet him. ‘This must be the Old Ancestress the maidservant mentioned.’ He was about to bow when she pulled him into her arms with a cry of “my heart, my life!” and burst into tears.

Song Qingshu’s expression was extraordinary. He was a man of twenty-odd years, and here he was being gathered up like a small child. Awkward as it was, he let out a quiet breath of relief — he had been dreading not knowing what to call her, and this had neatly resolved the problem for him.

“I’ve missed you so terribly.” The silver-haired old lady took his hand and looked at him with eyes full of delight, then seemed to remember herself and indicated the others in the room. “Go and pay your respects to your aunt, your mother — and don’t forget your sister-in-law.”

Song Qingshu read the direction of her gaze and matched each person to her words. Two typical middle-aged women: the aunt had restless, uncertain eyes — clearly a woman without much strength of will — while the young lord’s mother carried herself with a composed and dignified bearing that placed her a cut above.

He paid his respects carefully to each of them in turn. When he came to the sister-in-law the old lady had mentioned, he stopped for a moment. A young woman sat quietly to one side, her manner gentle and restrained, her features fine and delicate. She was in the fullest bloom of her youth — yet something in her eyes was missing, a quality of living interest, as though nothing in the world particularly engaged her.

“My respects, sister-in-law.” He noticed that everyone else in the room was dressed in bright, vibrant colours — every robe rich and vivid. She alone wore plain, undyed clothes. ‘Could she be in mourning? A widow?’

The young woman nodded, offered a few brief words in return, and said nothing more. Her manner was cool and detached, but no one in the room appeared to find it unusual.

The silver-haired old lady spoke again: “Send for the young ladies — Bao-ge is back today, let us all be merry together. No need to go to lessons.”

The agreement was given, and two people went off to fetch them.

Song Qingshu had already felt a suspicion forming on the boat when Taohong described all those intermarried clans. Now, with everyone in the household calling the young lord “Bao-ge” and “Second Young Master Bao,” and with the family name Jia besides —

‘Has Dream of the Red Chamber actually walked into this story?’

He felt somewhat at sea — but accepted it quickly enough. This world was already thoroughly chaotic; one more classic novel bleeding in was hardly surprising. And thinking of the various remarkable women of Dream of the Red Chamber — Lin Daiyu, Xue Baochai, Qin Keqing, each with their own distinct beauty — he found he had rather more to look forward to than to dread.

While he was still happily lost in that thought, three young ladies arrived, escorted by three nurses and five or six maidservants. Song Qingshu reflected that the daughters of the nobility had every advantage — generations of beautiful mothers, combined with lives of ease, had done their work.

The first was pleasingly rounded, of medium height, with fresh-rose cheeks and a smooth, creamy complexion, quiet and gentle in manner, and pleasing to look upon.

The second was slender-waisted and tall, with an oval face, bright eyes, and gracefully curved brows — her every glance alive with spirit, a quality of rare distinction about her that made the world seem ordinary by comparison.

The third was slight and small, still not quite grown.

All three were dressed alike in the same style of ornaments and garments.

‘These three must be Yingchun, Tanchun, and Xichun,’ Song Qingshu thought. Though in this version of the world, if the Jia family’s influence rested on a sister in the imperial palace, there might be no room for a Yuan-chun.

The three young ladies, taking the figure before them entirely as their brother, let their delight show in their expressions, and gathered close to ask him questions in low, eager voices.

Song Qingshu, wreathed in the soft, sweet fragrance of three young women, found his thoughts drifting pleasantly. ‘No wonder that young lord carries a hint of the powdered and perfumed about him. Growing up in a world entirely of women, he could hardly have come out otherwise.’

From the inner rooms came the sound of laughter and a carrying voice: “I’ve come late — I wasn’t here to welcome the returning traveller!”

Song Qingshu was puzzled. Every other person in the room had been quiet and decorous, composed in manner. ‘Who could this be, arriving with such cheerful disregard for ceremony?’

A moment later a figure swept in through the rear doorway, surrounded by a cluster of attendants and maidservants.

This person was dressed unlike any of the young ladies — magnificent and radiant as a goddess descended to the world. On her head a golden eight-treasure hairpiece set with pearls, pinned with a sunrise five-phoenix hanging-pearl ornament. Around her neck a wreath of solid-gold coiling serpent links. At her waist a pale green palace sash, and at her hip a paired rose-jade pendant. Her jacket was deep red foreign satin embroidered with golden thread and a hundred butterflies among flowers, over which she wore a five-coloured cut-silk stone-blue silver-fox outer robe, and below, an emerald-scattered floral foreign crepe skirt.

Her eyes were phoenix-shaped, slightly upturned at the outer corners. Her brows curved like willow leaves, drawn to fine points. Her powdered face wore the warmth of spring with none of the coldness of authority. Her red lips seemed to carry a smile before she had spoken a word.

Song Qingshu felt a quiet alert go through him. ‘This is a woman of sharp intelligence and formidable energy — I’ll need to be very careful with her.’

He couldn’t help looking a moment longer. Her figure was graceful and alive — the kind that made a man’s mind stray.

Grandmother Jia laughed. “Fiery Phoenix, still the same boisterous creature — your young brother-in-law is hardly a stranger, what ‘returning traveller’ are you talking about?”

Song Qingshu filed that quietly away — another suspicion confirmed. The lively, shapely young woman was Wang Xifeng.

“But he’s been away on a long journey,” Wang Xifeng said with a bright laugh. “A traveller returned from afar — of course he counts!”

“There’s never any use arguing with that tongue of yours,” Grandmother Jia said with an affectionate shake of her head. “The hour is getting late — have them prepare the evening meal.” Then, to Song Qingshu: “Your father and your uncle are occupied — we won’t wait for them. Frankly, the meal is more enjoyable without them. Oh — and where is Lian-ge?” The last question was directed at Wang Xifeng.

“He’s been running all over the place managing the construction of the Grand View Garden,” Wang Xifeng said with a smile. “No need to wait for him.”

“That work must be exhausting for him.” Grandmother Jia nodded.

Wang Xifeng looked delighted. “It’s only what he should be doing.”

While they were talking, maidservants had already begun laying the table. Grandmother Jia remained in her place of honour. Wang Xifeng moved briskly to arrange the chopsticks. Lady Wang served the soup. And the quiet young widow who had caught Song Qingshu’s attention earlier came forward carrying the rice.

Thanks to having read Dream of the Red Chamber in his previous life, Song Qingshu had now mapped out most of the people in the room. The young lord was Jia Baoyu. The silver-haired old woman was Grandmother Jia. The aunt with the restless eyes was Lady Xing. As for the young widow — she must be Li Wan, the widow of Jia Zhu, Jia Baoyu’s elder brother.

Grandmother Jia took the central seat on the main couch. Lady Xing and Lady Wang sat next in order, and then all eyes moved to Song Qingshu.

‘Baoyu certainly has an exceptional standing in this household,’ he thought with private astonishment. Wang Xifeng and Li Wan were both his sisters-in-law, and yet they were deferring to him.

He responded without hesitation, settling into the appropriate seat. Yingchun, Tanchun, and Xichun followed in turn, with Li Wan and Wang Xifeng last.

Maidservants stood in attendance with fly-whisks, rinsing basins, and napkins. Song Qingshu, having spent time in two imperial palaces, was entirely at home with such details. His only real concern was that everyone at this table knew Baoyu intimately — if the conversation at dinner grew personal, the gaps in his knowledge would be difficult to paper over.

That concern turned out to be premature, and pleasantly so. The Jia household evidently had a firm rule about meals: no talking at table. The many attendants and maidservants waiting in the outer room could not be heard to produce so much as a cough.

The meal concluded in silence. Maidservants brought tea on small lacquered trays.

Grandmother Jia waved her hand. “The rest of you may go. Let us talk freely.” Lady Xing and Lady Wang rose at once, exchanged a few words of pleasantry, and withdrew, taking Wang Xifeng and Li Wan with them.

Once they had gone, Grandmother Jia beckoned Song Qingshu to sit close beside her. “Now — tell me all about where you’ve been and what you’ve been up to.”

Song Qingshu felt the difficulty immediately. Domestic small talk was precisely the kind of thing most likely to expose him — especially with someone who adored Jia Baoyu as thoroughly as Grandmother Jia evidently did. He managed a few vague and general answers, and found himself glancing at the darkening sky outside.

‘I wonder if Zhiruo and Qi Fang have gotten safely away.’

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