FYM - 69

By the time March arrived, Jiangnan was already deep in the tender twilight of spring.

“The orioles sing until they are silent; by the spring pond, I listen alone to the frogs.” The great river divided the world into two realms. To the north, tensions were mounting, and soon there would be mountains of corpses and rivers of blood. To the south, however, life continued with its gentle bridges over streams and the faint sound of flutes carried by the breeze. Song Shuyan, now in Qiantang, felt as though she had fallen into a land of soft enchantment. Every step revealed a scene imbued with longing, as if every corner bore the shadow of him.

He had left cleanly, leaving her trapped in a web of yearning. Beyond the lingering romantic thoughts, her mind was filled mostly with concern for him. He must have already returned to the capital, but when would the army set out? When would they engage the enemy after heading west? He was born into a military family, skilled beyond measure, but on the battlefield, weapons were merciless, and situations changed in an instant—anything could happen. Would he be injured? Would it be serious? When would he recover?

These thoughts swirled endlessly in her mind, threatening to drive her mad. Fortunately, he had left someone behind for her—a private retainer of the Fang family named Ding Yue, who could relay messages between her and the north. This lifeline gave her hope, and she wrote tirelessly, pouring her heart onto the page. Her letters were long and flowing at first, but before sending them, she always edited and rewrote them, reducing them to a single page. Perhaps it was her way of maintaining the decorum expected of a noblewoman, unwilling to appear too forward or frivolous.

Ding Yue treated her with utmost respect, sometimes even excessively so. During their first meeting, he remained bowed and deferential in her presence, making her feel uneasy. However, when it came to delivering messages, he expressed some difficulty, explaining apologetically, “The master’s whereabouts during the campaign are unpredictable, and communication amidst the chaos of war is increasingly difficult. You may have to wait quite some time for a reply.”

She understood the situation well. Even traveling nonstop from Qiantang to Chang’an took over a month, and Longyou was even farther away. Once the fighting began, everything would become more complicated. She assured him it was fine and sent her letters, then waited silently. Though outwardly calm, those who truly cared about her knew her heart was in turmoil.

“You…”

Song Mingzhen, her beloved older brother, felt utterly helpless seeing her like this.

“Third Brother will be gone for at least a year or two. If you keep tormenting yourself like this every day, how will you endure it? Try to think of happy things—he will surely overcome all dangers and return safely.”

These words of comfort made sense, but they offered little solace. Seeing that his sister remained distracted and melancholy, Song Mingzhen sighed deeply and asked, “Have you read the letter from Jinling? Father has been urging you to return. It seems he has also received news from the Fang family…”

Indeed, she had received it.

Before Fang Xianting left, he had promised to write personally to the Song family about their relationship. Now, her father’s urgent summons likely meant he wanted to question her directly. Deep down, she didn’t want to return, but with her cousin’s wedding concluded, she could no longer find excuses to delay. After stalling for a few days, she finally set off with her second brother on the journey home. Within two days, she was back in Jinling.

By then, news of her engagement to Marquis Fang had spread throughout the household.

The servants, who had always treated her indifferently, suddenly transformed. From the moment she stepped out of the carriage at the front gate, they showered her with flattery and kindness. When she entered the house to see her father, his expression was unusually warm and affectionate. Reflecting on it, she realized he had never smiled at her like this since her birth—as if she had finally become the child who brought him satisfaction, worthy of his doting love.

“Though it is improper to privately decide your marriage, since Lord Fang has spoken of it, you can rest assured and prepare for your wedding,” he arranged everything meticulously. Even amid his joy, he didn’t forget to gently admonish her: “Remember not to spread word of this engagement until the marriage is finalized, to avoid tarnishing the reputations of our family and the Fangs.”

She understood and, as always, followed her father’s words without question. Yet, her heart felt no joy in sharing this news with her family. In truth, she had never truly considered him her closest kin. Once she married, even these superficial gestures would no longer be necessary.

Madam Wan and Miss Song San had also learned of Marquis Fang’s proposal.

No words could describe the heartbreak and anguish they felt. Not only did Song Shuqian throw tantrums, smashing things in fury, but even her worldly mother couldn’t contain her rage, her face flushed and veins bulging in frustration.

—What made that little wretch born of Mrs. Qiao so special?

Raised in a declining merchant household in Qiantang, she was nothing but common and insincere! Her meek and hypocritical demeanor made one want to tear her face off! Was it just her cunning ways and ability to seduce men? How despicable that even the Jiang family had been deceived into allowing such a lowly and deceitful woman into the Fang family of Yingchuan!

“Mother, Mother—”

Her once obedient daughter had collapsed into sobs, clinging to her waist like a fragile doll ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

“What did I do wrong? How am I inferior to that wretch? Why would Brother Yi choose her over me?”

“Mother—why is this happening?”

How could Madam Wan understand? In her eyes, her daughter was peerless in beauty and grace, a hundred times better than that orphaned wretch. But alas, fate had favored the other girl, leaving no room for her or her precious daughter to complain.

“Shallow, my dear Shallow…”

She herself wanted to cry, but at the moment, she had to force herself to appear strong and composed, even boldly declaring, “That Fang family of Yingchuan is blind! They reject a fine pearl and choose a dirty stone! They don’t deserve you!”

“Rest assured, their days will be miserable! That little wretch will suffer greatly in the future! I will find you a better husband, one who will make you happier than her by a thousandfold!”

Her words were fierce and resolute, but utterly unconvincing. Where in this world could there be a better husband than Brother Yi? In terms of family background, appearance, and talent, he excelled in every way—he was undoubtedly the finest match in the world!

Miss Song San cried even harder, unwilling to hear her mother’s empty consolations. All she wished for was for her mother to kill Song Shuyan outright. But Madam Wan knew she couldn’t harm that “little wretch” anymore—she was to become the future Lady of Yingchuan, and once she received her official title, she would be untouchable. If anything happened to her, the Fang family would never let it go unpunished!

She was utterly frustrated, but Miss Song San, blinded by anger, failed to understand her mother’s careful planning. Instead, she raged, “Fine, fine—Mother is weak and afraid of that upstart wretch, but I’m not! I’ll make sure she knows exactly what she is! Think she can marry into the Fang family peacefully? Never!”

Song Shuyan was well aware of her stepmother and third sister’s resentment toward her engagement, but such baseless animosity had dogged her since birth, and she had long since grown indifferent to it.

Though Jinling had its flaws, it had one advantage: the renowned tutor Zhang Jian, whom Fang Xianting had arranged for her. True to his word, Master Zhang Jian arrived at the Song residence. Around sixty years old, with white hair and a long beard, he exuded an air of both a recluse and a Taoist sage. In his left hand, he always carried a large gourd filled with seemingly endless fine wine.

“So, you’re the young lady who wants to study painting under me?”

He asked somewhat dismissively, shaking his head and sighing repeatedly as he reviewed her previous attempts at copying paintings. Song Shuyan knew her skills were rudimentary, having never received guidance from a master. Feeling embarrassed, she tried to explain, “My skills are crude, and I’ve never had the fortune of learning from a true artist. I fear I’ve amused you, Master…”

Zhang Jian chuckled, swaying slightly as he sipped his wine. Casually, he replied, “In painting, the heart matters more than technique. You, young lady, are overly fixated on appearances—it will be difficult for you to grasp the essence.”

His words were cryptic, incomprehensible to sixteen-year-old Song Shuyan. He didn’t seem to expect her to understand, asking instead, “What do you wish to learn from me?”

What did she want to learn?

Blinking, she hesitated. Unaccustomed to dealing with such free-spirited individuals, she answered with greater formality, saying respectfully, “If you wouldn’t mind… might you teach me the art of capturing likeness and spirit?”

Capturing likeness and spirit meant portrait painting—a discipline and a personal desire. She wanted to paint his likeness, send it to her grandmother in Qiantang, and secretly keep one under her pillow… to soothe her longing.

Hearing this, Zhang Jian laughed again, sighing, “Portraits of Daoist immortals, maidens, kings, generals… throughout history, portraiture has always been thus. It is the epitome of fixation on appearances.”

Pausing, as if finding her utterly foolish, he tipped his head back to drink, then added, “Jinling is full of painters. If this is all you seek to learn, you can find others to teach you.”

With that, he seemed about to leave, leaving Song Shuyan flustered and at a loss. She truly loved painting. As a child, lonely and often alone, paper and brush had been her only companions. The “spring mountains” she longed for existed only in her drawings. Now, having stepped out of her paintings, she wished to preserve everything within them more vividly.

Seeing her earnest plea, Zhang Jian sighed again. “I once owed the Fang family a favor. I never expected this young marquis to dig up old debts—he thinks deeply, much like you. You two are well-matched.”

He sounded dissatisfied, giving a soft snort before shaking his head. “Very well—I don’t care for portraiture, but I can teach you to paint objects. If you wish to learn, do so; if not, that’s fine too.”

She naturally wanted to learn, but his earlier words lingered in her mind—”thinks deeply”? Did he mean Fang Xianting… was even more fixated than she was?

“Then, please teach me to paint horses, Master.”

She spoke softly, but in her mind’s eye appeared Zhuoying, the spirited steed that neighed proudly, its four hooves flying like startled swallows. The man seated atop the horse became clearer too. She realized that when she gazed at the river, it wasn’t water she saw but the moon’s reflection; when she painted flowers, it wasn’t the blooms but the butterflies upon them. Hidden within her work were countless subtle thoughts, all winding back to her longing. She doubted the master could uncover them all.

“This is somewhat more interesting…”

Sure enough, Zhang Jian nodded, showing no suspicion. Lazily stroking his beard, he picked up his brush and dipped it in ink.

“To paint a horse is not just about capturing its form but also its spirit—its boundless stride, its trustworthiness in life and death. Each step reveals its character; chasing the sun and moon highlights its vitality. This is not a skill mastered in a day…”

As he spoke, a few swift strokes brought a magnificent horse to life on the paper—its mane and tail flowing, its eyes bright, its strength and agility palpable. She marveled at it, thinking that if it were his horse, it would possess a unique brilliance—an aura of arrogance and disdain, yet capable of enduring through night and day, embodying resilience.

I will pour my heart into painting it beautifully.

Once I’ve mastered it, I’ll choose the best piece to send along with a letter… Will it earn me your belated reply?