Chapter Twenty-Three
Dark Night
She walked to Lady Wei Wan half-seventh of the morning of the sixteenth day.
She had at the inside of her left cuff the small clay jar of the daughter of the laundress. She had at the inside of her right the rolled wax tablet of the four days' notations. She had at the inside of her under-robe, between the cotton at the right of her ribs and the linen wrap of the long Daoist grey, the husband's letter of the third moon of 748 folded a second time at the three folds in the careful unhurried fold he had set in the inn at the third watch of the morning of the eleventh.
She walked east through the back lanes of Yongchong at the slow Daoist walk of a nun walking to her elder's courtyard at the dawn-drum hour of a day she had not, in any hour since the seventh at its half-mark of yesterday, decided.
The kiln-master of the south wall had been past the dawn drum at the gate of the southern Buddhist hospital. The brother-of-the-bones had set the daughter, by the laundress's small clay jar, beside the brazier of the second house of the south hall at the third watch of the night. The laundress had been beside the brazier since just past the dawn drum, sitting on the small wooden stool with her hands at her lap.
She had not, at the small clay jar, lifted her hands.
The laundress had inclined her head a finger's width when Wanjun had set the jar at the lower edge of the brazier.
She had taken, from Wanjun's right hand, the stalk of the southern willow.
She had set the willow at the lower edge of the jar.
She had not wept.
Wanjun had not, beside the brazier, lifted her own hand.
She had walked out the third door from the gate past the dawn drum. She had walked east. She had walked the back lanes of the third southern arcade to the public lane behind the western edge of Anyi Ward.
The dawn drum had been at the fifth watch. She had reached the western edge of Anyi by the half-quarter past the seventh.
She walked the lane east.
She walked to the gate of the courtyard of Lady Wei Wan.
\ \ \*
Lady Wei Wan was at the inner door in the dark blue under-robe of a woman of fifty in the second moon of an unhurried late spring.
The blue tinge at the left corner of her lip had been the blue tinge of a woman whose heart had been at the second decade of an unhurried slow failing since the spring of last year. She did not, at the inner door, lift her hand.
"Daughter."
"Mother."
"You came."
"I came."
She inclined her head a finger's width.
The maid-of-the-courtyard set, beside the inner door, the small clay bowl of warm water cooled to the inside-of-the-wrist temperature that the old lady had set, by the steady patient idiom of her household, at the inner door for any guest who arrived the middle of the seventh hour of any morning.
Wanjun did not wash her hands.
The old lady walked, slow, to the bench at the southern wall of the inner court. She did not, in walking, set her right hand against the wall as she had set it three weeks ago midway into the seventh. She sat at the bench. She set her hands at her lap. She inclined her head.
Wanjun sat at the second stool at the bench.
At the second stool she did not speak.
The old lady did not ask.
She sat.
She held her hands at her lap for perhaps half an hour.
Wanjun sat.
She held her hands at her lap for the same count.
Through the half-hour she did not lift her eyes.
She did not weep. At the second stool she set neither the small clay jar at the bench nor drew out the letter of the third moon of 748.
She held them at the inside of her cuffs.
At the half-quarter past mid-eighth hour, the old lady lifted her right hand from her lap.
She set it, briefly, on the back of Wanjun's left hand at the bench.
She did not press.
She set her hand back at her lap.
Wanjun, at the bench, wept.
She wept for perhaps fifty breaths.
She wept in silence. She did not set her hands at her face, did not lift her hand to the inside of her left sleeve. She wept in the patient unhurried way of a woman who had decided, the seventh hour at its midpoint of the morning of the sixteenth day at the gate of Lady Wei Wan's courtyard, that she would not, at the second stool, weep in any way she had not, in eighteen months, allowed herself to weep.
The old lady did not turn at the bench.
Through the fifty breaths she did not lift her hand a second time.
She held her hands at her lap.
\ \ \*
At mid-eighth hour Wanjun lifted her eyes.
"Mother."
"Daughter."
"He has been with me at the writing-desk for eighteen months."
"He has."
"I opened the box."
"You opened it."
"He had set, in the inn at the third watch of the eleventh of the third moon of the autumn of 748, a letter on the pale yellow paper of the silk-traders of Liangzhou. The letter, mother, was for me. The letter named, at the lower edge, five men. Three were the An clan. One was the man of the silk-shop of the second arcade. One — circled — was a name the letter named as the man who would, in two seasons, be the second name at the Daming Palace."
"Yang Guozhong."
"Yang Guozhong."
The old lady inclined her head a finger's width.
She held her hands at her lap.
"Daughter."
"Mother."
"I read, in the autumn of 748, a piece of news at the second arcade of the eastern wards. The news was a small clean notice in the second column of the prefecture's public lists on the matter of the appointment of one Yang Guozhong to the second tier of the Court of the Imperial Stables. I had, by my own household's reading, set the name in my private register against the small clean idiom of a man whose appointment to the second tier of the Court of the Imperial Stables at the autumn of 748 was, at the seventh moon of 749, an appointment to the third tier of the Court of the Imperial Treasury. I had set the name in my private register, daughter, because the name had been the name of a Pingkang dancer's cousin in the autumn of 729 and the name of a private courier of the late Empress Wang's eldest brother in the autumn of 739. The name, daughter, has been the careful unhurried climbing of a man whose hand at any rung in the last twenty years has not, in any reading, been the hand at the rung above it."
"Mother."
"Daughter."
"He has been climbing toward Yang Guifei since the autumn of 739."
"He has."
"By the second moon of next year, daughter, he will be at the second tier of the chancellors."
"By the second moon."
"By the second moon."
The old lady set her right hand at her lap.
At the bench she did not lift her hand.
"Daughter."
"Mother."
"You will not, this season, lay this letter at any audience."
"I will not."
"You will not, daughter, lay it at any audience for perhaps five years."
"For perhaps five years."
"For perhaps five years."
She inclined her head.
\ \ \*
"Mother."
"Daughter."
"The man of the silk-shop of the second arcade."
"The silk-merchant."
"Master Zhang Cong."
"Yes."
"Is, by the third confirming at the rim of the well of the An compound at the third quarter of the seventh hour of the morning of the twelfth day, the killer of the household."
"He is."
"Mother."
"Daughter."
"By the fourth confirming at the platform-bed of the second house of the south hall of the southern Buddhist hospital half-seventh of yesterday afternoon, he is the father of the daughter he set at the inner court of the An clan in the spring of last year and the man who killed her at the willows of Bashang mid-second watch of the morning of the eleventh day."
"He is."
"Mother."
"Daughter."
"By the husband's letter of the third moon of 748, he is one of the five men of the kiln-mark."
"He is."
"By the picture of the four confirmings."
"By what she had kept of the four."
"I will, mother, walk into his compound."
The old lady did not, at the bench, lift her hand.
She set her right hand at her lap and held it there for perhaps fifteen breaths.
At the bench she did not lift her eyes.
"Daughter."
"Mother."
"You will, in walking, take the Sogdian."
"I will."
"You will not, daughter, in any reading of the laying of the husband's letter for perhaps five years, in any reading of the weight of it of the climbing of the man at the third tier of the Court of the Imperial Treasury, in any reading of the slow private record of the second moon of next year, walk into the seven-doored compound of the second arcade in any season other than this one."
"In no other season, mother."
"Because the season, daughter."
"Because the season, mother, is the season the man does not yet know I have read the slow private record of his climbing in the husband's letter."
"And the season is the one in which the man knows — by the cup at the noon-drum, the cat in the lane, and the senior clerk reading at the dusk drum — that I have read what she had kept of him by the kiln-mark."
"The season, daughter, is the season."
"It is, mother."
She inclined her head.
\ \ \*
The old lady rose mid-ninth hour.
She walked, slow, to the writing-table of the small inner study at the eastern wall of the inner court of her own courtyard. She drew, from the inner drawer of her own writing-desk, a small clay jar of the kind a Han woman of fifty kept against the day a daughter of her household had decided to walk, in the cotton of an unfinished case, into the seven-doored compound of a Han silk-merchant of the second arcade who had killed her own husband.
She set the jar on the writing-table.
She drew, from the inner drawer of the second cabinet, a small folded square of plain paper.
She set the paper at the corner of the table.
She walked back to the bench.
"Daughter."
"Mother."
"You will, in walking, take this jar to your own kitchen yard. You will set it on the corner of the brazier. You will not, in setting it, ask Nanny Zhou what is in the jar. You will not, on the night the lady decides to walk into the seven-doored compound, leave the jar at the kitchen yard. You will, by the careful unhurried idiom of a daughter of mine, take the jar at the inside of her right sleeve."
"Mother."
"The jar, daughter, is a small private apothecary's compound an old friend of mine at the Pingkang of the second arcade has, in the careful unhurried idiom of a Pingkang proprietress of the third decade, set in my household against any season I would, in any week, set my own hand beside the brazier of an unfinished evening. The jar, daughter, by my friend at the Pingkang, is the small private compound of a Han wife of the eastern wards who has decided that, in the careful unhurried idiom of a Han wife at the third decade of a household whose husband had been a man at a writing-desk for seven years, she would not, on the evening of an unfinished case, walk into the seven-doored compound of a Han silk-merchant of the second arcade without the small careful private compound at her own sleeve."
She set her hand on the small clay jar.
"It is not, daughter, the slow Sogdian compound of the second-day apothecary's storeroom that the brother at the brick-kiln set out for you at the noon-drum of the eleventh day."
"Mother."
"It is, daughter, the small careful private compound of a Han wife of the eastern wards whose Han wife had decided, on the evening of an unfinished case, that the seven doors would, by the careful unhurried idiom of a Han wife, be reduced to six."
At the bench she did not lift her eyes.
Wanjun took the small clay jar.
She set it at the inside of her right sleeve at the careful place she had set, at the second hall yesterday, the small bronze pin of her father.
She inclined her head.
"Mother."
"Daughter."
"On the evening I walk in, mother, the seven doors will not be reduced to six."
"They will not."
"Because, mother, I will, on the evening I walk in, set the man at the prefect's audience at the dawn drum of the morning after."
"You will."
"Because the death of the man, mother, by the careful unhurried idiom of a Han wife of the eastern wards, is not, by my reading, the lesson the man has been keeping in his own ledger against the weight of it of two seasons hence. The lesson, mother, by my reading, is the prefect in mid-second-moon next year. The lesson is the prefect's audience at the dusk drum of the day the man at the third tier of the Court of the Imperial Treasury takes office at the second."
"Daughter."
"The man's death, mother, would clean the ledger. I will not, this evening, clean it."
The old lady held her gaze for perhaps eight breaths.
She inclined her head a finger's width.
"Daughter."
"Mother."
"Take the jar nevertheless."
"I will, mother."
\ \ \*
She walked back to Yongchong mid-eleventh-hour.
She walked at the slow Daoist walk of a nun returning to her ward at the late morning. She walked alone. She walked through the back lanes of Anyi and the public lane behind the western edge of the third eastern ward and east at the second arcade.
She reached her own rear gate at the noon-drum.
Nanny was at the inner door.
She had been beside the brazier of the kitchen yard the seventh at its half-mark and had been at the inner door mid-eighth and had been at the inner door mid-ninth and had been at the inner door every half-hour since.
"Mistress."
"Nanny."
"You walked."
"I walked, Nanny."
"The old mother of Anyi."
"The old mother of Anyi, Nanny."
She walked, in the grey, to the writing-room.
She set the small clay jar of Lady Wei Wan at the corner of the kitchen-yard brazier where Nanny had, in the half-noon-drum hour, set the small clay water-jar of the boiled water cooled to the inside-of-the-wrist temperature.
She drew, from the inside of her under-robe, the husband's letter of the third moon of 748.
She set the letter at the centre of the writing-desk.
She set, on the desk, the wax tablet of the four days' notations.
That afternoon she did not lift the small clay jar.
That afternoon she did not, light a third lamp.
\ \ \*
She wrote, in her own careful hand, on a fresh slip of plain paper:
Gongzi. By the dusk drum of the seventeenth day, at the second alcove of the tea-house of the Sparrow Bridge, by the inner door at the southern wall. By the brother at the brick-kiln, the apothecary's compound of the second day at the third strength. By Madam Khorshid at the Pingkang, the slow private record of the watch of the keeper of the dusk drum at the second cup of the noon-drum of the second day from this evening. By Ah-Sa, the second back lane of the western quadrant of the Eastern Market at the third watch. By the brother of the abbey of Princess Yuzhen's quiet cousin, the religious cover at the inner door of the seventh door. By the gongzi, the eighth-gate plan at the third watch.
The lady, gongzi, will walk in the cotton half-mourning, with the small clay jar of the apothecary's compound at the inside of the right sleeve and the small bronze pin of the lady's father at the inside of the right cuff. The lady will, gongzi, not walk to the man's death. The lady will walk to the man's audience at the prefect at the dawn drum of the morning after.
The lady will, into the middle of the seventh hour of the dusk of the seventeenth day, be at the second alcove. The gongzi will, by his own discretion, be there.
She rolled the slip.
She tied it.
She walked to the rear gate at the noon-drum.
The bakery-apprentice was, in the half-noon-drum hour, in the lane.
She set the rolled slip in his hand.
"Master."
"Lady."
"By the An caravanserai. By Ah-Sa at the inner gate. By the second hour. Bring the answer."
"Lady."
He inclined his head.
He left at the run.
\ \ \*
She walked back to the writing-room.
At the writing-desk she did not, sit.
She walked, slow, to the cabinet behind the cistern.
She drew out, from the bottom of the second cabinet, the half-mourning cotton.
She set it on the bench.
She drew out, from the inside of the half-mourning's cuff, the small bronze pin of her father.
She set the pin on the bench beside the cotton.
She walked, slow, to the writing-room.
She drew, from the inner drawer of the writing-desk, a small fresh wax tablet.
She set it at the centre of the desk.
She wrote, in the careful small hand she used for wax:
The cup. The cat. The pin. The shard. The licence. The eighth gate. The drum-keeper. The husband's letter. The five names. The fifth.
She set the stylus down.
She read the ten words.
She rolled the tablet at the wax.
She set the tablet on the desk beside the lacquered letter-box, where the lid was, at the half-noon-drum hour of the morning of the sixteenth day, open.
She closed the lid.
She did not lock it.
She set her hand at the corner of the closed lid for perhaps four breaths.
She lifted her hand.
\ \ \*
The bakery-apprentice came back in the second hour with the answer.
The answer was in the careful private hand of An Naxia of the An caravanserai of the western quadrant of the Western Market:
Lady. the middle of the seventh hour of the dusk of the seventeenth day, at the second alcove. By Ah-Sa, the second back lane and the third watch. By me, the eighth gate and the measure of the third watch. By Madam Khorshid, the keeper of the dusk drum and the second cup of the noon-drum. By the brother at the brick-kiln, the apothecary's compound at the third strength. By the abbess of Princess Yuzhen's quiet cousin, the religious cover at the inner door of the seventh door. By the lady, the cotton half-mourning, the small clay jar, the small bronze pin, and — by my asking, lady, at the inside of my own ribs at the second pillar of the inner hall of the An compound at the third quarter of the seventh hour of the morning of the twelfth day — the lady's right hand at my left sleeve at the cuff, briefly, at the second alcove, before the dusk drum.
She read the slip a second time.
At the writing-desk she did not, allow her hand to lift to the inside of her left sleeve.
She rolled the slip.
She set it on the desk beside the wax tablet.
She set, on the slip, the small bronze pin from the bench by the cistern.
She did not light the second lamp.
She walked, slow, to the inner court.
She sat at the bench by the cistern in the early afternoon light.
She held against the inside of her chest the picture of the eighteenth day at the dusk drum.
The dusk drum of the seventeenth day was the half-day. The dusk drum of the eighteenth was what she had kept of one day and one watch beyond it. The lady would, as it neared its midpoint the third watch of the eighteenth day, walk into the seven-doored compound. The lady would, past the dawn drum of the nineteenth, be at the prefect's audience.
She did not weep.
She kept his reckoning.
She rose.
She walked back to the writing-room.
She set the brush at the inkstone.
She drew a clean fresh sheet of the prefecture's plain paper.
She wrote, in her own careful hand:
The Lady Cui of Yongchong respectfully requests, of the prefect of the third southern arcade, an audience past the dawn drum of the morning of the nineteenth day in the matter of the An clan of the Western Market.
She rolled the petition.
She tied it.
She set it on the desk beside the lacquered letter-box.
That afternoon she did not, send it.
She set her hand at the corner of the closed lid.
She held it there for perhaps a hundred breaths.
She did not lift the lid.
She rose.
She walked to the kitchen door.
Nanny Zhou had set, beside the brazier, the small clay water-jar.
She drank.