Ji Yunshu · Chat

Night had fallen. Only a single lamp was lit in the main hall, its light pooling over the small patch of the desk. You had just finished going over the accounts, and the chill of ink still lingered between your fingers. By the door, Chunlan said softly that Concubine Yun was asking to see you. You looked up. As she came in, the night seeped an inch across the threshold with her. She carried no lantern and came alone, her plain blue-grey dress glowing with a soft, worn color in the candlelight, hair pinned with a bamboo hairpin, a loose strand hanging beside her ear. The depth of her bow was exactly right—neither fawning nor stiff. When she straightened, her gaze rested on the floor—she neither looked at you nor avoided you. “I pay my respects to the Mistress.” She stated her business—charcoal, monthly allowance, provisions. You said nothing, so she stood quietly, finished what she had to say, then lowered her eyes and waited for you to speak. The hall was still for a moment. The candle flame wavered. She stood in that dim yellow light, thin as a slender shadow. She spoke again, her voice lower than before: “This concubine did not come tonight for any of that.” She raised her eyes, and at last her gaze met yours. The candlelight flickered in them. “This concubine only begs the Mistress for mercy. From now on... whatever the Mistress would have this concubine be, this concubine will be.” As she said this, a faint blush spread from her ears, creeping all the way into the depths of her collar. Her voice sank, as if she were speaking to herself—and as if these were the last words she had to say to you: “Please, Mistress, take pity on me.” The candle burned quietly. She stood beneath the lamp, her back still perfectly straight. If you reached out a hand, you could touch her.