After the Beginning of Spring, the river thaws, and the willows in the corner sprout tender buds, their slender branches becoming soft and graceful.
Orange lay on the woodpile in the corner, basking in the sun with her eyes half-closed. Sniffing the air, she could already smell the breath of life reviving in all things.
Orange’s still-fluffy kitten fur was ruffled by the spring breeze, also absorbing the warmth of the sun. She tucked her paws in contentment, yet felt a slight pang of regret.
The weather was lovely, but there were hardly any dried fish.
Orange missed the modern canned food and freeze-dried quail, products that incorporated advanced technology and rudimentary processing techniques.
Under the woodpile, the big cat scratched an itch with her hind leg. A tuft of fur, used throughout the winter, drifted away in the wind, only to be snatched away by a passing swallow to build its new nest.
Orange squinted, a poetic inspiration surfacing—cat fur isn’t heartless; it transforms into a new nest to protect the birds!
The swallow returned the next day, taking two more tufts of cat fur.
The third day, it wasn’t just one swallow; it brought several more.
Watching the swallows circling and waiting on the wall, and then looking at the mother cat whose fur had almost completely fallen out, Orange felt her mother was under a lot of pressure. So, the mother could only pretend to groom herself, acting busy.
Fortunately, the swallows knew that cats were skilled bird hunters, so they didn’t dare get too close; otherwise, they might have become cat fur robbers.
All things are like this, mutually restraining yet interdependent.
For example, Orange didn’t like children, yet she was always drawn to their cries.
One afternoon, Zhenyi was crying again.
While the mother cat was out foraging, Orange secretly went to see Zhenyi.
Orange was already two months old, and Zhenyi was a month old, but her mother, Yang Jinniang, rarely got out of bed.
Yang Jinniang’s health wasn’t good; the birth had taken a toll on her, and she had spent the entire month recuperating.
The doctor had also privately mentioned that, besides her physical ailments, she had some emotional issues.
Orange didn’t know much; she just felt that humans were too fragile, only having one kitten per litter, and that kitten grew very slowly.
She often came to see Zhenyi, always feeling that the little kitten hadn’t grown much. Orange had even sneaked into the room at night, lying on her back on Zhenyi’s crib, stretching out her paws to see who was longer.
Zhenyi’s growth seemed negligible, while Orange was growing rapidly, now able to run and jump.
Orange, stepping onto a stool, climbed onto the small window and stood on the windowsill, peering inside.
Little Zhenyi was still crying. She had just finished nursing, and an old woman was holding her upright in her arms, patting and soothing her, afraid she would spit up. A young maid, about ten years old, stood nearby, holding a rattle-drum and mimicking the soothing words: “Don’t cry, Miss, don’t cry!”
By the old woman’s arms, Zhenyi, in her sobs, seemed to see the orange cat on the windowsill.
Their eyes met; this was the first time the child and the cat had looked at each other.
Orange stared at little Zhenyi. The baby had big eyes, now brimming with tears, her pupils shining even brighter.
After a moment, Orange raised its two front paws, straightened its upper body, and struck a cat-like pose.
Little Zhenyi stopped crying, her mouth rounded, making “ooh, ooh” sounds.
The little maid holding the rattle-drum looked over and pointed at Orange: “Madam, Mother, look! There’s a little orange tabby!”
Orange quickly lowered its paws, jumped out, and ran off in a flash.
Afterwards, Orange came three or five more times. Whenever Zhenyi cried, it would come to see her.
And whenever Zhenyi saw it, she would always stop crying.
Seeing that it was quite intelligent, Yang Jinniang gradually invited it into the house. The little maid Chun’er would occasionally give it a piece of dried meat or bring it a bowl of well-cooked small fish to its cat bed in the corner.
Whenever the mother cat went out, she would tell the other cats that of all her kittens, the eldest was the most successful, winning the master’s favor. One cat’s success brought honor to all the other cats, bringing glory to the family.
Two Oranges and Three Oranges also found homes, each was offered a carp by a neighbor to be their adopted pet.
Little Plate was sickly and didn’t survive long; it died just after February.
Orange felt its name wasn’t good enough—a plate carrying three oranges—how heavy!
Orange was a bit down lately. It was punished by being forbidden from entering Zhenyi’s room for five days, but it hadn’t done anything wrong. It had only jumped onto the bed and licked little Zhenyi’s hair while Chun’er was napping.
When Chun’er chased Orange back, it complained to its mother, Meow Meow, with gestures: “You didn’t see it! Her fur is so messy!”
Orange wanted to be more attentive and meticulous in caring for its kittens, but humans didn’t understand its good intentions.
When Zhenyi was a little over two months old, Yang Jinniang had recovered enough to walk around the courtyard.
One day, Yang Jinniang and her husband, Wang Xichen, took Zhenyi to the old lady’s house.
On the way, Yang Jinniang looked anxious, and Wang Xichen kept his head down and remained silent. Ju Zi, observing this, felt a strong sense of unease, as if their child had been conceived through improper means and was something to be ashamed of.
The Wang family was a well-known family in Jinling. The patriarch, Wang Zhefu, was a scholar who had served in the government for decades and was currently an official in Guangdong, serving as the prefect of Jiaying Prefecture, a fourth-rank official.
Wang Zhefu’s ancestral home was Tianchang County, Anhui Province. More than ten years ago, his family moved to Jinling. He had three sons: Wang Xichen was the second, born to the first wife, Old Madam Dong, along with the eldest son. The youngest son’s mother was a concubine in the Wang family, who had died of illness years earlier.
The distinction between legitimate and illegitimate children in the Wang family wasn’t strictly enforced, and no one would bring up the issue of birth order. However, since they weren’t born of the same mother, there was still a certain distance between them.
Old Madam Dong was strong-willed, and of her three sons, the youngest, Wang Xipu, was the most promising.
Third Master Wang Xipu was the only one of the three brothers to pursue an official career. He was currently a county magistrate in another region, leaving his wife in Jinling to serve his stepmother. Their two children also lived with their grandmother. His daughter, Wang Shuyi, was seven years old and already showed considerable intelligence and manners. His son, Wang Jie, was only four, but as the saying goes, “a child’s character is formed by age three,” and Wang Jie seemed to be a promising student.
Besides this branch of the family, Old Madam Dong’s two biological sons had very few heirs.
Wang Xirui, the eldest son of the Wang family, had only one son, Wang Yuan, the eldest grandson of the Wang family. Now ten years old, he was lively and active, but when he saw writing materials, he would become as still as a quail, completely frozen in place.
His most noteworthy achievement was last year’s fight with the youngest son of the prefect of Jinling, which he lost.
Thankfully, he lost.
Mentioning this incident gave Wang Xirui a heart attack.
However, having been childless for many years, he had found it difficult to have an heir, so he shifted the responsibility of continuing the family line to his second brother and his wife.
Wang Xichen inevitably felt the pressure.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t managed to have any children of his own, only a daughter.
Now, as he and his wife took their child to see their mother, he felt truly uneasy.
Ju Zi, squatting outside the hall, also saw the old lady Dong.
The old lady’s hair was neatly styled in a bun; she was not tall, somewhat plump, with a long face and droopy eyes, and seemed not to smile often, giving her an air of authority.
After Mr. and Mrs. Wang Xichen finished their greetings, an old woman stepped forward, took the child from Yang Jinniang’s arms, and presented it to Old Madam Dong: “Old Madam, look at the second young lady…”
Mr. and Mrs. Wang Xichen silently bowed their heads, like prisoners in court awaiting judgment.
A moment later, the old lady’s laughter rang out from the head of the table.
The couple looked up and saw the old lady holding her granddaughter in her arms, her brows relaxed with loving smiles: “Her eyebrows are perfectly formed, she’s a blessed child; her eyes are bright, she’s a clever one…”
“Oh, by the way, your father wrote back from Guangdong,” the old lady said to her son and daughter-in-law, “He gave this child a courtesy name…”
Wang Xichen looked up in surprise. Had his father even given his little girl a courtesy name?
The old lady reached out and touched the little girl’s cheek, smiling as she called, “Deqing… little Deqing.”
Wang Xichen breathed a sigh of relief, a smile returning to his eyes.
Yang Jinniang’s eyes reddened slightly; the gloom in her heart had finally dissipated considerably.
The following year, on the day of Lichun (the beginning of spring), Yang Jinniang, a new mother, was overjoyed to discover that little Zhenyi could already take a few unsteady steps.
As the weather warmed up, the heavy cotton-padded coats were removed, and the little girl with her two little pigtails walked even faster.
Children of this age grab everything new and interesting they see, then naturally put it in their mouths. This worried Orange a lot. Whenever Zhenyi reached out haphazardly, Orange, acting as her personal guard, would always use her cat-like fists to slap her hand back.
But this didn’t stop Orange from taking the opportunity to quickly scratch Zhenyi’s two little pigtails whenever she fell. It just looked too much like a cat toy.
Another year passed, and spring arrived. Zhenyi turned three (by the traditional Chinese age reckoning).
On the eve of Zhenyi’s birthday, Orange carefully prepared a heartfelt birthday gift and secretly placed it beside little Zhenyi’s pillow that night.
The next morning, Chun’er’s scream pierced the entire Wang family’s home.
Chun’er, carrying the enormous dead rat, squeaked and threw it out, issuing the harshest punishment: Orange wouldn’t be allowed to set foot in the house for half a month.
Orange sullenly carried the rat back to its den.
The mother cat told it that it was in the wrong this time, confidently pointing out its mistake: “People should eat cooked food.”
So, for Zhenyi’s fourth birthday, Orange prepared a half-cooked roasted rat for her.
Orange had caught the rat two days in advance and secretly stuffed it under the stove.
Orange’s two snow-white paws were blackened from digging in the stove, its nose filthy, but its steps remained elegant as it carried the roasted rat to see Zhenyi.
The fourteen-year-old Chun’er shrieked again.
This time, Orange couldn’t enter the house for a month.
After Orange’s confinement was lifted, the apricot blossoms in Jinling City were in full bloom.
When the osmanthus blossoms in autumn, Orange began to worry again about Zhenyi’s fifth birthday gift.
On this day, Wang Xichen returned home, his shoulders slumped, saying nothing.
Ju Zi saw this and quietly followed him.