The Story of Minglan

The autumn sun slanted across the carved lattice windows of Bianjing. I held half an unfinished handkerchief and watched my mother, Wei Xiaoniang, reclining on the couch as she drank a bowl of freshly simmered bird's nest soup. The broth was creamy white, flecked with golden osmanthus blossoms. But when she lowered her head, I noticed the tea stains seeping into the subtle pattern beneath her sleeve. Yesterday afternoon, Zhou-niang, one of the principal wife's attendants, had deliberately knocked the teacup from her hand while delivering tonics. “Miss, it's time for lunch,” Lvzhi called softly, though her gaze fell on the white jade bangle around Mother's wrist. Lin Xiaoniang had sent it over the day before, saying it was a gift for her pregnant younger sister. But the entwined lotus pattern engraved on the inside of the bangle clearly marked it as an item from the principal wife's dowry. I gently rubbed the corner of my handkerchief. The embroidery needle had pricked a faint red mark into my palm, yet it was still blunter than the hearts of the people in this household. The Sheng family's inner quarters had never been a peaceful place. Father, Sheng Hong, was currently serving at the Hanlin Academy, while the principal wife, Wang-shi, managed the household. Then there was Lin Xiaoniang, Molan, who was so good at pretending to be virtuous and shedding tears in front of Father. Ever since Mother became pregnant, our rooms had suddenly grown lively. Today, the principal wife sent tonics; tomorrow, Lin Xiaoniang would send someone with clothes. Even my usually distant older sister Rulan had come by twice, claiming she wanted to see “how the autumn begonias in my younger sister's room were doing.”