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Ningxin is the cause of an embroidery maid being renamed. Inadvertently so, but it's mandatory for the poor girl all the same.
When that bit of hearsay inevitably reaches Ningxin's palace, she can’t help but laugh about this. It would seem that one syllable in the unfortunate girl’s name echoed that of Ningxin’s own personal name. For that, this ‘Ah Man’ would have to take on a different name the way the emperor could take on other women. It’s the first real spark of amusement she’s felt in weeks; a lingering cold has laid her low for some time, and Ningxin feels stiff and wretched in her own body. Any other emotions are more than welcome.
Survival, here, meant sometimes ruthlessly chasing anything that allows you to feel anything but boredom. Ningxin puts in a request for this maid to join her household as an attendant.
Ningxin knows that all but the most ambitious or foolhardy maids would prefer to avoid her palace. Sometimes this reaches her in the form of gossip but, more often than not, it reaches her in the looks of pity her own maids receive.
(Really, why was that the case? Palace maids often became collateral to the ambitions of their ladies, but Ningxin hasn’t lost one to violence or poisoning, yet. She certainly has no intention to start now.)
When Ah Man arrives, she kneels before Ningxin. It reminds her so much of the consort selection ceremony. Never mind that this girl appears to be in her early twenties, which would render her too old to old for consideration. Ningxin can elevate or dismiss Ah Man in a similar way, all the same. The thought makes Ningxin’s stomach churn, in equal parts pride and loathing.
“So, little maid Ah Man ... are you aware that I’m the one that stole your name?”
The girl looks up briefly. She hadn’t been expecting that. Her eyes immediately resume their staring match with the floor. No surprises there. Ah Man would have been so thoroughly trained in etiquette that she could probably go through these motions in her sleep.
They all could, really.
“Respectfully, yes. I try to know the names and personal histories of all my betters here, noble consort.”
Was that supposed to be impressive? Ningxin is genuinely curious about this. Then she grows annoyed she can't come to a conclusion. Typically, she has a well-calibrated sense of whether a maid or consort is attempting flattery or veiled disdain. Sometimes people were merely counting down the seconds until they could escape her presence. Ah Man is harder to read than most. Her response could be one of those things. It could also be none of them.
“Ah, yes, my title. You do realize you will only hear my title and family name? Your name has been written out for a name that I, myself, rarely get to hear.”
Sweat has begun beading on Ah Man’s forehead. Ningxin wonders if it is from fear or merely the summer heat. Ningxin considers calling for someone to fan them both down but then rejects the idea. Maybe discomfort could tease direct answers out of this girl. Also, since they are both alone, she might feel more comfortable with honesty.
“One gains and loses names throughout life,” Ah Man says, after a brief hesitation. “If I become a mother, then my children will call me by that title rather than by my personal name. If my father predeceases me, then there will be no one left to call me daughter.”
This response makes Ningxin glad she never called for a fan bearer. All at once she feels as cold as she did in the earliest days of her recent illness. Without conscious permission, Ningxin’s mind dredges up memories of her mother’s fate. Not her mother herself. Ningxin has no tangible memories of her. Instead, Ningxin’s earliest memories center on that sudden loss. In her soul, her mother is defined by absence, just like how music can only exist due to the silence between notes. Sometimes people shared that her mother had also liked music but, mostly, people kept quiet about her. As though the horrific nature of her mother’s dead death erased anything that mattered about her life.
“Ah, so you have no mother. That is why no one advised you to avoid service here. Now you are quite stuck, I’m afraid. These jobs are too lucrative for most attendants to want to give up. You may be known as Ah Man forever. Can you bear it?”
Ah Man’s shoulder tenses as though she has had to suppress a shrug.
“I will always know my true name. That’s enough for me. Those closest to me will know it as well.”
Ah, an opening. “And who might that be? Other than your father, of course. I do not doubt that you are a filial daughter.”
“My younger sister.” Ah Man doesn’t say the name of said sister, and this doesn’t escape Ningxin’s notice.
“Strange. Imagine liking their own younger sister that much.”
Ningxin tries to picture the second wife’s girls. Her half-sisters. Somehow their faces do not come to mind. They were children when she left, and they would be adults now.
Inexplicably, Ningxin's thoughts drift to Rongyin instead. Specifically, Rongyin’s expression the moment she said she would no longer dance. Not for their husband, not for Ningxin. Not for anyone, not even in private, shielded from the covetous eyes of people that weren't their husband. Ningxin can’t recall the demure words the future empress had used, but she does remember how satisfying it had been to throw a teacup at the wall. It had shattered, of course, just as inevitably as any hope of their continued camraderie.
Maybe that’s why Ningxin’s next question even surprises her. She rarely lets any sentence go by spontaneously.
“Well, if you are going to hold part of my name in your heart, let’s see how much you share with me. How do you feel about opera?”
“I appreciate it.”
Ningxin clicks her tongue. “No, you can do better than that. Give me specifics. What do you enjoy about it so much?”
“Respectfully, I said I appreciate it. I did not say I liked it.”
If Ah Man had paid any attention at all in the palace, then she would have been apprised of Ningxin’s idiosyncrasies. It was a bold response.
“Then what do you dislike about it?”
“I don’t dislike it, either.”
“I did not bring you here to play word games, Ah Man. Look at me, and let’s try this again.”
And so, the maid finally lifts her gaze. Her eyes are thoughtful. She’d be a fool to not be a little afraid in this moment, and so far she has not come across as a fool. Still, her demeanor is so calm that it reminds her of Rongyin in happier (better) moments.
“When performed properly, opera often leaves me crying. When I see it, I know I will be left feeling hollowed out by catharsis. It’s good, but it’s also exhausting.”
She hangs her head again, but it still doesn’t appear to be due to nerves. If anything, she appears rather sheepish.
“Which one made you cry the most?”
“The Hegemon-King Bids His Lady Farewell.”
It’s a lie. Something about the way Ah Man’s eyes were darting about points to that. Ningxin understands, though. Revealing your favorite works of art could leave you vulnerable.
Ah Man must be regretting her earlier moment of candor then. Well, never mind that. This is the most stimulating conversation Ningxin had had in a while.
“If you become that sad over concubines then, I’m afraid, this is not the vocation for you. Tell me, would you sob over my opera costumes if I required you to work on them?"
The maid actually smiles a little, and somehow it feels like a victory hard won. She shakes her head.
“The honor of that will be enough to overcome all possible melancholy.”
And Ningxin believes her, somehow.
She leans forward, ever so slightly. “And will you flinch from fear if I flout the rules and call you Yingning in private?”
“That would be an honor, too.”
*
Hiring Yingning proves to be one of Ningxin’s better decisions.
It’s not that the girl is merely a diligent worker. She is, of course. All palace maids are, even if circumstances sometimes force them to rend their clothes and beg mercy for their alleged incompetence. It’s not even that she’s a gifted seamstress, though Yingning is that, too.
The creativity is what draws Ningxin’s attention. Her stitching is slow, yet steady, and always inspired. Over the course of weeks Ningxin watches as her opera costumes go from bolts of fabric to celestial pieces of art.
She has the sense that Yingning likes to be watched at her work, too. Some maids tremble while being observed, but not so with this girl. If anything, her hands are ever more graceful as they move. Before this, Ningxin has rarely taken the time to watch this process from start to finish. Maybe it is this way with all seamstresses, but with Yingning it’s arresting to watch the way her embroidery slowly blooms over fabric like a field of wildflowers awakening to the spring.
“Do you show off like this for everyone?” Ningxin asks one afternoon.
She, herself, could possibly be accused of the same thing. It had felt foolish to simply sit by Yingning like an arts-besotted fool. Therefore, she’s taken to rehearsing some of the dance and gestures for her performance in Yingning’s presence.
“What do you mean, noble consort?”
What did Ningxin mean? She’s not sure, so she ignores the question.
Although Yingning said that opera made her cry, her eyes are perfectly dry whenever she looks up at Ningxin. All the same, they are blatantly rapt with appreciation. It feels like an achievement indeed, to draw the attention of someone so calm and focused.
Yingning even smiles brightly when Ningxin arches her back in the course of her performance. Really, she’s being far too dramatic with it. She knows from painful experience that the wine cup (if she had it between her teeth) would clatter to the floor if she indulged in such acrobatics. Her hair would also be tied up, rather than cascading down onto the floor the way it is now.
“No, I do not take that particular posture in bed, if you were wondering.”
“You know I am not permitted to think about the emperor in such a fashion, noble consort.” Yingning’s looking down at her work again, and she’s blushing ever so slightly. Ningxin counts that as another feat.
“Careful, one might interpret that as you scolding me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Oh? I’m sure most do wish they could scold me. Just as most of your fellow maids do dream of catching the emperor’s eye.”
Really, Ningxin knows she’s being unfair. The weather is beautiful, her dancing feels particularly right today, and Yingning’s golden threads are catching the light in a most pleasing way. There’s no reason to be such a nuisance.
“Respectfully, that is not an ambition of mine.”
‘That’s funny,’ Ningxin wants to say. ‘It wasn’t mine, either.’
The problem isn’t her husband. It’s not even the multitude of consorts. It’s the way the days seem to loop around and around in the same patterns, like the endless cycle of a prayer wheel. It’s how sometimes she feels like she’s been sealed into a box with no room for air. It’s how they are always surrounded in beauty and comfort. Rather than comfort, that simply means that even the most beautiful of gardens and tapestries can appear mundane and ordinary. One could easily lose their capacity for awe. Most of the women kept here did.
The way Ningxin’s muscles sting right now - the way her throat can be sore after singing - well… that’s the only thing she’s allowed to strive against. The only thing she’s allowed to strive for.
“What is your ambition, then? What ranks higher than our emperor?”
Another mean question, but Yingning takes it in stride. “Creating your costumes, noble consort.”
“Don’t take refuge in flattery now, Yingning. We were doing so well.”
“It’s not.” Yingning puts such a stern emphasis on her denial, that for a second Ningxin can easily imagine her acting as a mother to her younger sister. (She still doesn’t know that girl’s name, but she knows enough to discern that Yingning has taken on that role.)
“Making costumes that few will ever see? Really?”
“This occupation pays quite well, not to be crass. But there’s more than pay involved. You see them. And you appreciate them.” Yingning pauses, clearly aware she’s said too much.
“No, no. Go on.” Ningxin has even stopped dancing, so that they can face one another. “You think I appreciate them?”
“I hope and believe so. I know you appreciate art itself. You have a great eye for it. When you tell me I am on the wrong track it… it makes me want to do better. I can tell my ability to create has improved from your scrutiny, noble consort.”
Ningxin is rarely at a loss for words, but she is now. She resumes her dance then, because sometimes movement can help stalled ideas take flight again. (And people wondered why she generally thinks two steps ahead of most of her fellow consorts.)
When she’s ready to speak again, Yingning has clearly been waiting for it.
“That’s the kind of pretty speech that might get one elevated to being a consort rather than a mere noble lady. I cannot reward you in such a fashion, though, Yingning.”
It was meant to be a rebuke, but somehow she almost sounds regretful.
“That’s alright. Again, it is not my dream.”
“Maybe we can work something out if you ever tell me the opera that made you cry the most.”
“I told you.”
“You gave me the name of an opera, but you lied.”
A very slight pause, and then a slightly appreciative sigh. “It was Fairy Maiden Scattering Flowers.”
“Really? That one?” It was beautiful and dramatic, but its griefs were more esoteric than anything else. It's surprising that a young girl might weep at it.
“It was one of the first I ever saw. The performance was so beautiful and I wanted to be able to create such beauty. I was old enough to know that most start training for those skills at an even younger age than myself. That seemed like such a loss to me.”
“Do you still feel the loss?”
Yingning was clearly preparing to lie again. This time, though, she changes her mind.
“Yes, but life can sometimes have a way of giving you other opportunities. Other opportunities to create and inspire admiration, I mean.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do here,” Ningxin says, and it’s her turn to be taken aback by her own forthrightness.
“I can see that. That’s I’m glad to work here.”
“Even if my chosen artform makes you cry?”
“Even then.”
For now, though, there are no tears. Just Yingning’s ringing laughter.
*
A long, long time later (but not long enough), Yingning will just be another painful memory dwelling in the silence spaces between music.
Once she learns that Rongyin’s pet maid is Yingning’s younger sister, it's the kind of thing that only makes sense in works of fiction. Their differences would render them foils to one another in an opera. Two foils working to the same end. You see, Yingluo is a flinty, unstoppable force. With all her momentum, she’ll probably shatter to pieces against the cage-like walls of this place. Sooner, rather than later, probably. In comparison, Yingning had been subtle, and easy for most to underestimate. Despite her alleged contentment, she had been destroyed, too.
The connection between the two should make Ningxin feel tenderly towards Yingluo. She knows this. Instead, sometimes she sees the girl flitting about with Rongyin and Ningxin wants to destroy everything in the palace, save for her own costumes.
Ningxin makes one concession; she’ll tell Yingluo the truth Ningxin has managed to piece together about what happened to Yingning. This, of course, makes Yingluo also look equally keen to smash mirrors and ceramics and windows. It’s the only time Ningxin has managed to like her, but it’s not enough to hold on to.
“One last thing, noble consort” Yingluo asks, at the end, as though she were in the position to make demands.
“Oh?”
“My sister must have worked for you. That’s the only way you could have known so much of this.”
Ningxin taps her fingers against the nearby table. Her jewelry clatters against the wood.
“Yes, she did.”
“Is there anything at all that you can tell me about her life here?”
And Ningxin understands that to mean ‘was my beloved older sister ever happy in this hell? ’
It would be easy enough to answer, to impart a bit of consolation. Ningxin’s memories of Yingning are probably Yingluo’s birthright. So much has been taken from Ningxin, though, and opening her heart has never served her well. Not even with Yingning, in the end.
“I knew nothing about her. She was just a maid in my palace.”