Chapter 21: Two Poems, A Night of Fright

Shen Residence, Brook Garden.

When Shen Yanxi returned to Brook Garden with a few attendants, she saw Caiyun waiting under the pavilion of her own quarters, holding something in her hands. Shen Yanxi found it rather odd; she had just parted ways with Lu Jin—what could Caiyun possibly want?

“My lady…” Caiyun hurried to meet her mistress as soon as she saw her approach.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Shen Yanxi was all the more puzzled by Caiyun’s awkward expression. Surely Lu Jin hadn’t done anything inappropriate, had he? Was he not as honest as he seemed?

Caiyun hesitated, glancing at the other maids by Shen Yanxi’s side.

“Come upstairs with me.”

Shen Yanxi led the maids into her chambers, where attendants were already bustling about, attending to her needs. Following her usual habit, Shen Yanxi removed her shoes, letting her delicate, fair feet sink into the soft carpet, her long legs stretching out beneath the flowing skirt. She took a brocade handkerchief from a maid and wiped her hands before settling onto the divan.

“Well, out with it. What’s happened?” She spoke with gentle concern, not minding the presence of the other maids, who had always served closely by her side.

“My lady, I’m worried about the young master…” Caiyun’s expression was full of unease.

“What about him?” Shen Yanxi thought to herself, I just saw him—he was lively enough, even played a beautiful tune that moved everyone to tears.

“My lady, the young master seemed troubled all afternoon. He locked himself in the study, pricked his finger, and let his blood drip onto the jade pendant he wears…” Caiyun recounted anxiously.

Shen Yanxi’s pretty brows drew together in confusion. What was this about? Why drip blood onto a jade pendant?

She hadn’t noticed whether his finger was injured earlier; if he’d just played the zither, it couldn’t have been too serious. Her thoughts were a jumbled mess.

Caiyun went on, “Then the young master said he wanted to write and sent me away. When Master called him out later, I went to tidy the study and found that he’d written several sheets. But… but…”

“But what?” Shen Yanxi was growing impatient.

“My lady, you should see for yourself. What the young master wrote is frightening. Is he planning revenge? Is he going to kill someone?” Caiyun’s voice trembled with fear as she handed the papers she’d been carrying to Shen Yanxi.

A maid quickly cleared the teacups from the table, and only then did Shen Yanxi lay the sheets upon it.

Unrolling the pages, her eyes fell upon the calligraphy, and she was instantly stunned. This husband she’d essentially forced upon herself had surprised her enough today, what with his poetry and music earlier, but now the writing before her was bold and unrestrained, the strokes alive with energy—almost as if they leapt off the page. Most striking of all was the spirit of freedom and audacity that infused every line, which Shen Yanxi could not help but admire. So this was the character of a true scholar.

Then Shen Yanxi began to read the two poems. The more she read, the more unsettled she became.

The poetry was brilliant, but the fierce resentment it contained was alarming. Shen Yanxi couldn’t help but feel anxious herself.

The first poem began: Since childhood, versed in classics and history; grown, skilled in strategy and power. Like a tiger lying low upon a barren hill, hiding its claws, enduring in silence.

Those lines were straightforward enough—he had studied diligently since he was young, was well-versed in stratagems, and now felt like a talented man forced into obscurity. But hadn’t he already achieved top marks in the provincial exams? Did he see marrying into the Shen family as the end of his prospects?

The next lines were more puzzling: Alas, my cheeks bear the marks of disgrace—how could I be exiled to Jiangzhou? But his face was unmarked, a scholar without branded cheeks. What did it mean to be exiled to Jiangzhou? Did he mean something else—was he referring to the Shen household itself, feeling lost and degraded here?

Her heart thumped wildly as she read on: Should I one day avenge my wrongs, blood will stain the mouth of Xunyang River!

These final lines drained the strength from her; her hands trembled. The meaning was clear, even if she didn’t know where Xunyang River was—perhaps it didn’t matter, for Shen Yanxi, as a learned woman, understood that in poetry, such places were often metaphors. Was he saying that one day, in seeking vengeance, he would fill the river with blood? Given the context, Shen Yanxi could think of nothing else.

Her hands fell weakly to her sides, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

Did he resent the Shen family so deeply that only rivers of blood could sate his wrath?

Shen Yanxi was filled with regret—not just the regret of her earlier impulsiveness that had brought them both unhappiness, but now the deeper regret that she had caused him such bitterness and anger.

The Shen family did not fear a violent man; she could easily have Lu Jin dealt with by the family, no matter how fierce his temper. But he was the husband she herself had brought home—how could she bear to take such action? How could she not be heartsick? Though they were married in name only, the bond was real and undeniable.

Calm down, she told herself. Don’t be rash—read everything before drawing conclusions. Maybe she was misinterpreting him.

After some time, when enough strength had returned to her, Shen Yanxi looked at the second sheet.

My heart is in Shandong, though I dwell in Wu; adrift upon rivers and seas, sighing in vain.

Did this mean his heart lay in Shandong, while he was trapped here in the land of Wu? He lamented his wandering life, rootless as a tumbleweed. Wu was an ancient name for a region east of the Yangtze, far from Jiangzhou. And where was Shandong? Shen Yanxi puzzled over it but couldn’t understand, so she read on.

When at last my lofty ambitions are fulfilled, I’ll laugh at Huang Chao for being less a man than I!

She wasn’t sure who Huang Chao was—perhaps a hero of old, perhaps just a symbol. But the lines were filled with grand ambition. If ever he achieved his dreams, what would a mere Huang Chao matter?

After finishing the second poem, Shen Yanxi was less shaken than by the first. The meaning was much the same, though the first poem was more bloody and direct.

Sitting there in deep thought, Shen Yanxi did not move. The maids around her dared not stir.

She closed her eyes, her face cold as frost, though her unsteady breathing betrayed her inner turmoil.

She felt her suspicions were likely correct—Lu Jin would not have written these poems without reason. She could never truly understand the depth of his resentment, but she knew it was enough to reach the heavens.

What now? Should she, ignoring the marital bond, report this to the family for fair judgment? Or, disregarding the family’s safety, let Lu Jin go as he pleased?

For a long moment, Shen Yanxi’s thoughts churned, leaving her caught between impossible choices.

“Leave me. Let me think alone. And do not gossip about this,” she said weakly, waving her hand.

The maids quietly withdrew. Caiyun, seeing her mistress so unsettled, cast her a worried look before slipping out as well.

Outside, dusk had fallen; inside, the lamps were already burning bright. In the glow of their light, Shen Yanxi sat, shrouded in pain and sorrow.