The Recognition Banquet

The recognition banquet was held with great ostentation.

Shen Boyong stood in the center of the main hall, dressed in a dark brocade robe with a white jade pendant at his waist, his three long beard strands neatly trimmed. He raised his cup to toast the guests, every word perfectly measured—neither too eager nor lacking in propriety. A Ying sat in the corner at the musicians' seat, holding a pipa, her eyes downcast, watching people from under her lashes.

This was Shen Boyong. The husband of the "deceased mother Lady Liu" in the portrait, the man who had erased the daughter entry from the family tree.

"My daughter has been frail since childhood and rarely goes out. It is a great honor to meet you all today," Shen Boyong said in a calm, unhurried tone, quoting the classics. "As the ancients said, 'Is it not a joy to have friends come from afar?' Today, with your esteemed presence, my humble home is honored."

The hall echoed with agreement. A Ying lightly plucked a pipa string, tuning it. She noticed that when Shen Boyong spoke, his left hand was behind his back—the hand missing half of its ring finger—nervously rubbing the edge of his sleeve. It was a subtle sign of tension that others might miss, but she saw it. Tonight, the master of the Shen family was not as composed as he appeared.

Madam Wang bustled beside Shen Boyong, dressed in a deep purple brocade gown and gold head ornaments, smiling eagerly. Every time she spoke, she would glance at Jingru, as if confirming something. A Ying followed her gaze—

On the eastern side of the hall sat the protagonist of the night.

Shen Jingru sat upright in ceremonial posture, wearing a light yellow blouse and a moon-white shawl, with only a white jade hairpin in her hair and no other ornaments. She sat so straight, her back ramrod straight, her hands folded on her knees, like a porcelain figurine enshrined in a niche. A Ying watched her for a while—this posture was too perfect. Not like that of an eighteen-year-old girl, but like a puppet pulled by strings, always afraid the strings might break.

"Your pipa skills are quite good."

A Ying looked up and met a pair of eyes.

At some point, Jingru's gaze had turned to her, landing on her. That gaze was very faint, like a pool of spring water, seemingly bottomless. But somehow, A Ying felt there were needles beneath the water.

A Ying set down her pipa, stood up, and bowed as a musician: "You flatter me, miss. I am but a rustic person, not worth mentioning."

"A rustic person?" Jingru smiled, a very gentle smile. "Your fingering technique is of the Jiangnan school. Jiangnan produces fine musicians and also fine stories. Who was your teacher?"

A Ying's heart skipped a beat. She was indeed using Jiangnan fingering, a cover identity carefully arranged by the Listening Wind Tower. But this legitimate daughter of the Shen family could identify the school from a pipa melody and pinpoint it so accurately—this was not the skill of an ordinary lady.

"My teacher was an obscure old man who has passed away. It is inappropriate to mention his name," A Ying said, lowering her head, her tone humble. "If you like, miss, I can play another piece."

Jingru didn't respond. She just looked at her. After a moment, she suddenly turned to Madam Wang beside her and said, "Mother, this musician plays well. Let her stay in the manor for a few more days, shall we? I want to learn this piece."

Madam Wang was busy chatting with a lady and replied casually, "Fine, fine, keep her if you like. Have the steward arrange it later."

Jingru acknowledged and swept her gaze back to A Ying, pausing for a moment before looking away.

A Ying sat down again and picked up the pipa. She kept her eyes down, her fingers plucking an interlude on the strings. But her mind was racing—this legitimate daughter of the Shen family was no simpleton. That question earlier was not idle chatter; it was a test. She was testing her background.

And she herself had tested something else—Jingru's glance at her, besides testing, held a hint of something else. It was faint, deeply hidden, but A Ying had been in the dark undercover for eighteen years; she recognized that look.

It was a look of recognition.

Halfway through the banquet, A Ying excused herself to freshen up and left for the back garden.

The back garden was empty. The clamor of the banquet, filtered through layers of courtyard walls, sounded distant. A Ying walked behind a clump of plantain trees, about to relieve herself, when she heard footsteps. She dodged behind a rockery and peered out through the crevice.

It was Jingru.

Jingru held a handkerchief, walked slowly to the plantain bushes, and stopped. She stood with her back to A Ying, looked up at the sky for a moment, then said softly, "Come out."

A Ying didn't move.

"I saw you," Jingru's voice remained gentle. "You're hiding behind that rockery; the tip of your shoe is showing."

A Ying looked down—indeed, the tip of her shoe was exposed. She cursed herself for carelessness, stepped out from behind the rockery, and stood with her hands at her sides: "Miss."

Jingru turned to face her. Under the moonlight, both their faces were clearly visible. Jingru looked at A Ying's features and suddenly froze—very slightly, imperceptibly, but A Ying caught it.

"What is your name?" Jingru asked.

"A Ying."

"A Ying." Jingru repeated the two words in her mouth, as if tasting something. "Which 'Ying'?"

"The character for 'shadow.'"

Jingru smiled: "A good name. A shadow cannot leave the light."

A Ying said nothing. She didn't know what this Shen family daughter was up to. She hadn't called her here just to discuss names.

Jingru didn't rush to speak either. She walked to the plantain bushes, reached out to break off a plantain leaf, and twirled it in her hand. Suddenly, she exclaimed, "Ah!" The sharp edge of the leaf cut her fingertip, leaving a thin gash. She hissed and put her finger in her mouth.

A Ying unconsciously stepped forward: "Miss, you're hurt?"

"It's nothing." Jingru took her finger out of her mouth and held it up to the moonlight. The cut on her fingertip was shallow and had stopped bleeding. She suddenly extended her hand to A Ying: "Take a look for me—is there any plantain leaf fragment inside?"

A Ying hesitated. She couldn't refuse—a musician, with the mistress asking to see a wound, refusing would be rude. But as soon as she reached out, her left sleeve would slide up.

She hesitated for half a moment.

In that half moment, Jingru's eyes lit up.

"What is it?" Jingru asked softly. "Are you unwilling?"

A Ying gritted her teeth, reached out, and cupped Jingru's fingertip. She deliberately kept her left wrist low, but her sleeve still slid up a bit—just enough that under the moonlight, the crescent-shaped old scar on the inside of her left wrist was exposed.

Jingru's gaze fell on that scar.

Her pupils contracted to pinpricks.

A Ying immediately pulled her sleeve down, pretending not to notice. She looked down at the injured finger: "Rest assured, miss. There's no fragment. Just wrap it with your handkerchief."

Jingru said nothing.

She stood there, looking at A Ying's left wrist—the scar was now covered by the sleeve, but the shape still lingered in her mind. Crescent-shaped. Inside of the left wrist.

She had had a dream. From the age of eight, this dream had recurred. In the dream, a woman was holding a baby. The woman had a crescent-shaped mark on the inside of her left wrist—not a scar, but a birthmark, pale red, like a new moon. In the dream, the woman handed the baby to her and said, "This is your sister."

She had never seen that woman. But at eight, she had eavesdropped on a conversation between her mother and a confidant. After learning the truth of her own birth, the dream began. The woman in the dream, she had always thought was Lady Liu—the legitimate wife she had "replaced." But she had seen Lady Liu's portrait; the birthmark in the painting was on the right shoulder, not the left wrist.

Then who was that woman in the dream with the crescent moon birthmark on her left wrist?

Why did this musician before her have a crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, in exactly the same place as the birthmark in the dream?

Jingru's nails unconsciously dug into her palms. She had to dig hard to keep the smile on her face from crumbling. For eighteen years, she had cultivated a flawless facade; no matter how great the matter, her face showed nothing. But this time, she almost lost control.

She replayed the dream in her mind. She could never remember the woman's face—every time she woke, the face blurred, leaving only a vague outline and that crescent-shaped birthmark. But that birthmark, she remembered clearly. Crescent-shaped, inside of the left wrist, pale red, like a new moon.

The scar before her was not a birthmark. It was a scar. A scar left after someone had destroyed the birthmark.

Destroyed the birthmark.

As those four words surfaced, Jingru's back went cold.

Who would destroy a baby's birthmark? Unless that baby's birthmark was irrefutable proof of kinship. Unless someone didn't want that baby to be recognized.

Unless—that baby was the true master of the Shen family's legitimate daughter position.

"Miss?" A Ying's voice pulled her back.

Jingru snapped to. The gentle smile returned to her face. She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and slowly wrapped her fingertip, her movements as elegant as embroidery. But the string in her heart was taut to the breaking point. She had to steady herself; she could not let this musician notice anything. Eighteen years of composure—she couldn't lose it tonight.

"Thank you, miss," she said. "I'm a bit drunk. I'll return to the banquet first. You should go back soon too; the banquet needs the musicians."

She turned and walked back. After a few steps, she stopped without turning around.

"Miss A Ying."

"Yes?"

"That scar of yours," Jingru's voice remained gentle, so gentle it didn't sound like she was asking about a musician's personal matter. "How did it happen?"

A Ying's back tensed instantly. She kept her eyes down, her tone flat: "I fell when I was little. I don't remember."

"Is that so?" Jingru said softly. "What a pity."

She said nothing more, lifted her skirt, and walked away. Her footsteps faded, finally disappearing behind the flower gate.

A Ying stood still for a long time.

Suddenly, she realized something—when Jingru had asked about the scar, her tone had been even gentler than when she asked about the pipa skills.

A Ying had learned at the Listening Wind Tower that when people lie, they get nervous and their voice rises; but when people hide something, they become even gentler and calmer, like a pool of water suppressing all the needles beneath.

Jingru's tone just now was that of someone hiding something.

What was she hiding?

A Ying raised her left hand and lifted her sleeve a little. Under the moonlight, the crescent-shaped old scar lay quietly on her wrist, gleaming white.

She thought of the portrait in the ancestral hall. Of the line "deceased mother Lady Liu." Of the character "Liu" on the back of the jade plaque.

Then, she recalled something earlier.

On her deathbed, her foster mother had held her hand and said, "Child, you are not unwanted. The scar on your left wrist... was put there by someone..." Before she could finish, she passed away.

At that time, A Ying thought her foster mother was delirious. Now, she didn't think so.

She pulled her sleeve down to cover the scar. She looked up and glanced in the direction Jingru had left. Beyond the flower gate, the banquet lamps blazed, laughter and chatter drifting through the night wind, sounding like a world apart.

This legitimate daughter of the Shen family had recognized something.

And she, A Ying, had also recognized something tonight—that the secrets hidden within these vermilion gates ran far deeper than corruption.

A Ying turned and headed back to the musicians' seat. She walked very slowly, thinking with every step. She had originally come only to investigate corruption, but now she had other things she wanted to uncover.

That something lay hidden in a crescent-shaped old scar.

Hidden in the portrait in the ancestral hall.

Hidden in some corner of this deep, vermilion-gated manor, waiting for her to find it.

The banquet continued. A Ying picked up her pipa again and lowered her eyes. Her fingers plucked a series of notes on the strings that sounded festive, but only she knew that beneath those notes lay a needle.

The needle's tip pointed straight at the middle-aged man seated at the head table, raising his cup with a smile.

Shen Boyong.

She didn't know what had happened between him and the woman in the portrait. But she knew that from tonight on, she would no longer investigate only corruption.

Her master had said, "Mind nothing else."

But some things, even if she wanted to ignore them, she could not.