That day, watching Zhou Sui’an walk a little more hurriedly than usual, Chu Linlang—who had never been one for poetry—suddenly felt the sting of a verse: “Only the new one’s laughter is heard, never the old one’s tears.”
She recalled a story told at a ladies’ tea gathering: the wife of a clerk said she fed her husband rice mixed with lard every day. Once a graceful scholar, in half a year, he grew fat and blotchy. The wife boasted that she did it deliberately to ward off unwanted romantic entanglements. At the time, Chu Linlang had despised such cruelty.
But now, seeing her carefully nurtured Zhou Sui’an rushing off to meet his childhood companion, she regretted not rendering more lard in the past. Too late now. Still, she wondered when exactly Zhou Sui’an had learned of Miss Yin’s visit.
At supper, Chu Linlang sat with her mother‑in‑law, her husband, her sister‑in‑law, and the Yin family guests. Her daughter Yuan’er was kept away, lest a child’s chatter disturb propriety. The dining hall, usually quiet, was lively for once.
Miss Yin Xuefang, at Madam Zhao’s insistence, did not avoid sitting beside Zhou Sui’an. She ate shyly, only a few bites before declaring herself full. Madam Zhao beamed at her ladylike manners—until she turned and saw Chu Linlang happily sucking on a prawn.
Eating prawns requires peeling, which is hardly elegant. With few servants at hand, no one else touched them. But Chu Linlang loved fish and shrimp; without hesitation, she peeled and ate, calm and unashamed. Zhou Sui’an did not mind—he knew his wife ate with the same devotion she gave to divining with her tortoise shell. Raised on salt boats, fighting rough men for food, she had learned to eat quickly or go hungry.
After marriage, Madam Zhao often scolded her, forcing her to improve her manners. Yet today, hungry from being out, she reverted to old habits. Madam Zhao’s disapproving glance made Zhou Sui’an nudge her under the table. She ignored him, ate three prawns, then wiped her hands and smiled at Yin Xuefang: “I heard you lived in Cangzhou with your father. Why visit Lianzhou now?”
Yin Xuefang glanced at her mother, then said softly: “Mother wished to travel for relief, and passing through Lianzhou, remembered old friends, so we came.”
Chu Linlang laughed lightly: “Oh? But winter is hardly the season for travel.”
Yin Xuefang quickly glanced at Zhou Sui’an, then lowered her head: “Mother was restless, so we came out…”
At that moment, Zhou Sui’an’s younger sister, Zhou Lingxiu, blurted: “That’s not right! I heard Mother and Brother say he went to Cangzhou last month, wrote poetry with you in the snow, and invited you here!”
The table fell silent. Zhou Sui’an hurriedly offered shrimp to his wife, speaking loudly. Yin Xuefang blushed scarlet. Madam Zhao glared at her daughter.
Confused, Zhou Lingxiu asked: “Did I say something wrong?”
Before anyone could smooth things over, Chu Linlang smiled and cut in: “Little sister, mind your words. Miss Yin is newly widowed. Half a month ago, her husband had not yet passed a hundred days. To meet a man then would be scandalous. Do not slander her reputation.”
In this dynasty, widows could remarry, but only after a hundred days. To rush before mourning ended was shameful.
Chu Linlang remembered Zhou Sui’an ’s trip to Cangzhou. Since then, he had been distracted, writing endlessly, sending letters by servants. She had thought it official business. Now she wondered—were those letters filled with tender words?
Madam Zhao realized her daughter had overheard a private conversation and exposed it. She wished she could silence her. Quickly, she said: “There was no secret meeting. I asked my son to deliver a letter to Madam Liu. Meeting Miss Yin was natural.”
Madam Liu added: “Indeed, I had written to my sister. I did not expect your son to deliver it himself. My leg was ill and the roads were icy, so I asked Fang’er to accompany him to buy local goods. Nothing improper.”
The two women rescued the moment, turning talk to scenery and temples.
Zhou Sui’an glanced uneasily at his wife. She was shrewd—would she make a scene? But Chu Linlang, satisfied with what she had learned, said no more. She poured herself wine, drained it in one gulp, and excused herself with a bow: “The wine is strong. I must retire. Please enjoy.”
She swept from the hall. Zhou Sui’an quickly followed.
Madam Liu, watching, asked cautiously: “Your daughter‑in‑law seems capable, but her temper… is she easy to live with?”
Madam Zhao sighed: “You are my close friend; I will not hide it. My son insisted on marrying her, a salt merchant’s illegitimate daughter. She is clever, but not refined. Still, she is dutiful to me. Her parents never favored her, poor child. She has been here many years—what can I do? She has not borne a son, but I cannot cast her out. As for her temper—this household is mine. She cannot overturn it.”
Madam Liu, still worried, whispered: “My daughter is unfortunate. I hoped to find her a kind husband, perhaps as a second wife. But she respects you and feels fated to your family. She does not seek status, only true affection, children, and a kind mother‑in‑law. Then her father and I could rest in peace.”
Their words made thirteen‑year‑old Zhou Lingxiu realize why her sister‑in‑law had left the table. She adored her sister‑in‑law and wanted to defend her, but Madam Zhao silenced her sharply.
Yin Xuefang pretended not to hear and moved to the window. Snow fell again.
Outside, Zhou Sui’an took a red oil‑paper umbrella from his servant and hurried after Chu Linlang, shielding her from the snow. From afar, they looked like a tender couple beneath the umbrella. Yin Xuefang sighed with envy.
But under the umbrella, Chu Linlang did not accept his gesture. She strode ahead, steaming with anger. Zhou Sui’an followed, gently removing her cloak, asking softly: “The cold is harsh. Will you take hot tea?”
She did not take the cup. Instead, she turned, her eyes sharp: “Tell me—what is Mother’s plan? And what is yours?”
Her eyes, usually smiling, now tightened with rare severity. Zhou Sui’an felt her gaze pierce him, anger rising—not at her, but at his meddling mother and loose‑tongued sister. He was weary of being interrogated at home after burdens outside.
His mother had once urged him to take a concubine, but he had dismissed it. The physician said Linlang was not gravely ill; with care, she might yet conceive. Others had borne children after years of barrenness. Yet he was twenty‑six, soon twenty‑seven. His colleagues already had children, while he had none. Anxiety gnawed at him. His mother had sent him to Cangzhou, arranging for him to meet the newly widowed Miss Yin. Only then did he realize her intent.
Had it been any other woman, he would have walked away. But Miss Yin was the girl he had known since childhood. Her face still held traces of youthful innocence, her eyes once bright now shadowed with grief. Her sorrow touched him more deeply than beauty ever could.
At Mirror Lake’s tea house, when Yin Xuefang softly recited her mournful verses, Zhou Sui’an’s long‑dormant poetic spirit stirred, and he answered her with lines of his own. Such refined pleasures were far removed from the clatter of Chu Linlang’s abacus and talk of trade.