“Most interesting. I was given to understand that you couldn’t read,” the beautiful eunuch said slowly, deliberately. Maomao
followed uncomfortably behind him as he walked along.
“No, sir. I am of lowly birth. There must be some mistake.”
Who the hell would teach me? she thought, but she would
hardly have said the words if she’d been under torture. Maomao was set on acting as ignorant as she could. Maybe her language was a little off, but what could she do about it? Someone of such mean origins could be expected to do no better.
The lower-ranked serving girls were handled differently depending on whether or not they could read. Those who were literate and those who were not each had their uses, but if one could read yet pretend ignorance—ah, now that was the way to walk the fine line in the middle.
The beautiful eunuch introduced himself as Jinshi. His
gorgeous smile suggested he wouldn’t hurt a flea, but Maomao felt something shifty behind it. How else could he needle her so remorselessly? Jinshi had told Maomao to be silent and follow him. And that brought them to this moment. Maomao was aware that, as a servant of no import, shaking her head at Jinshi might be the last thing she ever did with it, so she had obediently done as he said. She was busy calculating what might happen next, and how she would deal with it.
It wasn’t as if she couldn’t guess what might have inspired
Jinshi to summon her; what remained mysterious was how he had figured it out. The message she had delivered to the consort.
A piece of cloth dangled with affected nonchalance in Jinshi’s hand. It was festooned with unkempt characters. Maomao had told no one she could write, and had likewise kept silent about her background as an apothecary and her knowledge of poisons. He could never have tracked her by her handwriting. She thought she had been careful to ensure there had been no one around when
she delivered the message, but perhaps she had missed something, been seen by someone. The witness must have reported a petite servant girl with freckles.
No doubt Jinshi had begun by canvassing all the girls who could write, collecting samples of their calligraphy. One could
attempt to appear a less competent wielder of the brush than one was, but telltale signs and identifying characteristics would remain. When that search had proved in vain, he would have turned to the girls who could not write.
Suspicious fart. Too much time on his hands…
As Maomao was having these uncharitable thoughts, they
arrived at their destination. It was, as she might have expected, Consort Gyokuyou’s pavilion. Jinshi knocked on the door and a placid voice responded, “Come in.”
So they did. Inside they discovered a gorgeous woman with red hair, lovingly cradling an infant with curly locks. The child’s cheeks were rosy, her skin the same pale tone as her mother’s. She was the picture of health as she lay dozing sweetly in the consort’s arms.
“I have brought the one you wished to see, milady.” Jinshi no longer spoke in the jocular manner of earlier, but comported
himself with perfect gravity.
“Thank you for your trouble.” Gyokuyou smiled, a smile that was warmer than Jinshi’s, and bowed her head to Maomao.
Maomao looked at her in surprise. “I possess no station to warrant such acknowledgment, milady.” She chose her words
carefully, trying not to offend. Although, not having been born to a life where such care was necessary, she wasn’t sure she was doing it right.
“Oh, but you do. And I will do much more than this to show my gratitude to you—my daughter’s savior.”
“I’m certain there’s been some misunderstanding. Perhaps you have the wrong person,” Maomao said. She felt herself break into a cold sweat: she was being polite, but she was still contradicting an Imperial consort. She wished for her head to remain attached to her shoulders, but she did not wish to be a part of anything involving people such as this—to be pressed into any kind of service for any kind of noble or royal.
Jinshi, alert to the concern on Gyokuyou’s face, displayed the cloth to Maomao with a flourish. “Are you aware that this is the material used in the maids’ work clothes?”
“Now that you mention it, sir, I see the resemblance.” She would play stupid to the bitter end. Even though she knew it was useless.
“It’s more than a resemblance. This came from the uniform of a girl connected to the shang of sartorial affairs.”
The palace serving staff were grouped into six shang, or main offices of employment. The shang fu, or Wardrobe Service, dealt with the dispensation of clothing, and it was this group to which Maomao, who was largely charged with doing laundry, belonged. The unbleached skirt she wore matched the color of the fabric in Jinshi’s hands. If anyone were to inspect her skirt, they would find an unusual seam, hidden carefully on the inside.
In other words, the proof was there before them. Maomao doubted Jinshi would do anything so uncouth as to check for himself right in front of Consort Gyokuyou, but she couldn’t be
sure. She decided she had best own up before she was publicly humiliated.
“What exactly is it that you both want from me?” she asked.
The two of them looked at each other, apparently taking this for confirmation. Both had the sweetest of smiles on their faces. The only sound in the room was the whispering breath of the sleeping child and, almost as soft, Maomao sighing.
The very next day, Maomao was obliged to pack up her
meager belongings. Xiaolan and all the other women who shared a room with her were properly jealous, and pestered her endlessly about how this turn of events had come about. Maomao could
only give her most strained smile and try to pretend it was no great matter.
Maomao was to be a lady-in-waiting to the Emperor’s favored consort.
She had, in a word, made it.
