Back in Tianmendong, Bai Lan’s heart still pounded, his flushed face lingering with heat. He exhaled and sat cross-legged at the desk, rubbing his face with both elbows.
“Master, there are some fresh dishes from the kitchen today.”
Sanleng brought in the food, seeing Bai Lan grumbling in the room, and cautiously set down the tray.
Seeing him like this, she felt sympathetic. The young master was strict and demanding, Bai Lan was not raised in the estate, and as a physician, unfamiliar with the rules. Being summoned to serve in the study immediately was bound to overwhelm him.
When Bai Lan first came to serve in the estate, he had been clumsy and slow, but his foster father had been a servant in the household for decades. With his father’s guidance, Bai Lan fared far better than other servants bought from outside, even those seemingly cleverer than him.
Sanleng set down the meal, about to offer some comfort, but seeing Bai Lan’s flushed face, she asked anxiously, “Young Master, what’s wrong with your face?”
Bai Lan cleared his throat. “Nothing… it’s hot, stifling.”
“It’s only just summer, but the sun is strong—already the scent of midsummer fills the air,” Sanleng said. “I heard from the gatehouse that the shops and food stalls in the streets are offering cold drinks—refreshing waters and cool juices in abundance. The streets are lively and bustling.”
“Really?”
Sanleng nodded. “Yes, every year at this time on Zhuque Street, the food is dazzling. Many people go out; though crowded, it’s full of life.”
Bai Lan listened, captivated. Having grown up in the countryside, then entering the Ning estate, he rarely had the chance to go out. Though he knew the city was bustling, he had seldom experienced it firsthand. Hearing about the lively streets, he longed to see them.
He sighed faintly. “I wonder when I’ll have the chance to go out.”
Although Ning Muyan had promised that if there was an important matter, Bai Lan could request to go out, idle strolls and leisure trips were unlikely to gain approval from such a strict master.
Sanleng reassured him, “All the household staff have days off—at least two days each month without duty, for visiting family or running errands. Higher-ranking servants even have more days off. You’ll have the chance to go out too, Young Master.”
“I will?”
“Of course. I checked the duty roster for the estate recently—you have four days of rest.”
Bai Lan’s eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful! When can I go?”
“The first and fifteenth day of the month, and the twenty-sixth and twenty-eighth,” Sanleng counted on her fingers. “These are the preliminary dates; if there’s a change, Brother Qingmo can coordinate.”
Bai Lan quickly calculated: “Today is the fifth… only ten days until my first day off!”
At the thought, the previously listless expression on his face brightened. He stood from the mat by the desk. “You’ll go with me when I get out, right?”
“Of course!”
Bai Lan settled into a steady routine: mornings studying and practicing writing in Ning Muyan’s study, completing tasks on time; noon, lunch and a walk in the garden before a short nap; afternoons spent experimenting with medicinal formulas. Life was structured and fulfilling.
Day after day, Bai Lan begrudgingly completed Ning Muyan’s writing lessons, repeating the same few characters. After seven or eight days of stubborn resistance, he finally surrendered, practicing the three characters carefully. Ning Muyan’s evaluations progressed from “like a chick scratching the ground,” to “as if a ghost crawled,” then “chaos of demons”—and finally, “acceptable.”
“Can I start learning other characters now?”
Ning Muyan set down his brush, glancing at the young boy. “Why do you want to learn others?”
“I’m tired of repeating the same few characters daily. They’re starting to look warped. If I could learn new ones, I’d not only recognize them, but also learn to write them—wouldn’t that be better?”
Ning Muyan’s eyes flickered at the word “tired.” “To write well, you must practice one character diligently. Once mastered, you’ll be able to write others even without practice.”
“But I want to learn new ones. Besides, I won’t be taking the imperial exams, so why bother writing perfectly? Knowing how to write is what matters.”
Ning Muyan regarded him. “You’re fickle and fond of novelty. Clever words.”
Bai Lan pouted.
“Very well. From today, you will start with the Thousand Character Classic.”
“All right!”
Bai Lan ran back to his desk cheerfully, grinding ink to practice the characters. Ning Muyan watched him from the main seat, shaking his head lightly at the earnestness.
Outside the study, Qingmo stood guard. The sun had risen higher; even standing in the shade under the eaves, his back was sweating.
Just as he was about to summon a young maid to bring Ning Muyan a cup of tea—and perhaps ask if ice water was needed—Shourou, the senior maid, appeared with a tray of tea, followed by two servants carrying a copper basin filled with ice.
“Why bring ice?”
Qingmo went forward to look. Shourou smiled gently. “Madam said the heat is intense, and knowing how hard the Young Master studies, she sent me to fetch some ice from the ice cellar early to bring to his study.”
“I was just about to ask if we should fetch ice for cooling, but you’ve already done it—saved me the trouble,” Qingmo said politely, reaching for the tea.
Shourou stepped slightly aside, her smile soft. “It’s hot and you’ve been standing here for a long while. I’ll take the tea in. Don’t trouble yourself.”
She started to call the servants forward, but Qingmo frowned. Not only did the Young Master dislike interruptions while in the study, but now the junior physician was already attending him; an extra person might be unwelcome.
“Serving the Young Master is my duty, Shourou. No question of fatigue.”
Shourou chuckled. “Qingmo, why are you deliberately blocking me from serving today?”
“The Young Master prefers quiet while in the study—you know that.”
“I may not have served him as long as you, but I’ve been attending him in the estate for quite some time. Surely I know my place?”
The exchange between the two of them grew increasingly sharp in tone. Taking advantage of having her entourage, Shourou ignored Qingmo and headed straight for the study. Just as she reached the door and was about to knock, she heard voices from inside.
“You come watch. I’ll write it twice, then you write it.”
The study was large; from outside, she couldn’t make out the exact words, but she could tell there were two people speaking. Seeing this, Shourou dared not approach.
Qingmo stepped forward. “Give me the tea.”
Shourou, feeling a touch of reluctance, kept a composed expression and asked, “Who is attending Master?”
Normally, Ning Muyan didn’t allow even Qingmo to serve him closely in the study. Why would there now be someone inside?
Qingmo answered, “It’s Junior Physician Xiao Jiang.”
He knocked on the door; Ning Muyan’s voice came from inside. Qingmo then carried the tea in and had the servants bring the ice basin along.
Shourou stayed outside, peeking through the partially open door, and immediately frowned.
The young master, with delicate features, was standing at the desk, grinding ink and tilting his head attentively to watch Ning Muyan write. The two were very close, as if they had known each other for years.
Shourou, familiar with life in the estate, knew the young master had brought along a physician to stay in Tianmendong, attended by Sanleng—an unusual favor. She had heard that when the young master had been at the manor, he had required treatment from the physician due to poor health, and thus the doctor had been retained.
Given Ning Muyan’s upright and self-disciplined nature, she hadn’t thought much of it. After all, the estate employed many attractive maids, yet the young master had never favored them in the same way—not even once. Seeing him so indulgent toward this seemingly ordinary countryside doctor made her suspicious.
“Shourou, you’re still here?”
Qingmo, bringing the tea out, noticed she hadn’t left and asked. “Just in time. It’s almost noon. Go check if the kitchen has the meal ready and urge them along. The Young Master plans to go out this afternoon. He also requested a bowl of chilled summer melon juice. I’ll go fetch it.”
“Master usually doesn’t like summer melon juice—why today?”
Qingmo said, “If the Young Master requests it, we prepare it. I dare not ask more. Come, let’s go together.”
Shourou braced herself, said nothing, glanced once at the closed study door, and then hurried toward the kitchen.
“The ice in here makes it so much cooler.”
Bai Lan moved around the desk to the copper basin of ice, feeling the refreshing chill seep closer. Wealthy households not only could afford ice for summer relief but did so with elegance: the basin contained jasmine, its fragrance subtly filling the air. Cooling and calming at once.
“If you feel hot, I can have Qingmo bring a basin to your room too,” Ning Muyan offered.
Bai Lan immediately declined. When bathing at night, he used cooling oil in the water, which was sufficient. In his small former courtyard, where he had served as a concubine, ice was a luxury even then; no need to break custom now.
“I can handle the heat. If I had ice in my room, I might catch a chill.”
Ning Muyan glanced at him. “So you refuse it, yet sneak closer out of curiosity—are you trying to slack off and write fewer characters?”
Bai Lan pouted; even his inner thoughts could not escape Ning Muyan’s perception.
“I’ll be on my day off the day after tomorrow, no need to cheat now.”
“Then hurry up and write,” Ning Muyan said.
Taking his master’s words as tacit approval of his upcoming leave, Bai Lan’s spirits soared. He returned to his writing desk, ice-cold summer melon juice at hand, and resumed practice.
Author’s note:
Here, “tongfang” refers to a servant qualified to accompany the master overnight, not someone who has already done so.