Chapter 17: Painting the Heart

News of Sanlang Su’s recovery quickly spread throughout the Su family’s rear residence, yet it brought little joy. Instead, it cast a shadow over the entire household.

Sanlang had become a mediocre talent, unwanted by both his father and mother.

“I heard that Uncle, desperate and unable to find an imperial physician, dragged that wild countryside girl back to treat Third Brother. It would have been better if she hadn’t treated him at all—now Third Brother’s gone daft!”

“Exactly! He was barely clinging to life, and now look, he’s become a fool!”

“Hey, how did she treat him? Could it be some kind of sorcery? Did she suck the brains right out of him?”

“No wonder Third Brother woke up babbling about a beautiful young lady—he must have seen a ghost!”

A few ignorant young ladies whispered by the embroidered silk pond, their sharp ears catching every word. Ashu’s anger swelled within her, ready to confront them, but Murong Huan pulled her back. Quietly, the two retreated to their wisteria-covered courtyard.

“Ah Huan, your temper is far too gentle. Why should they speak so ill of you? You cured Sanlang, yet instead of gratitude, they accuse you of witchcraft!”

“Call it witchcraft if you must. Their words are beyond our control, but we can control our thoughts. As Zhuangzi said: ‘Great sound is seldom heard; great form is without shape.’ It teaches us that a truly wise person need not argue with gossip. The more you argue, the more you give them ammunition. It neither changes their narrow minds nor brings you peace.”

“Summer insects cannot be reasoned with about ice—it's the same principle.”

Ashu nodded, then looked at Murong Huan with growing admiration. “You’re beginning to sound like that master from Taoyuan Village!”

The master who taught Huan there often spoke grand truths that, while difficult to grasp, brought comfort to the heart.

Murong Huan then asked Ashu to fetch ink, brush, paper, and inkstone, preparing to write. Life in Zhuangzi was simple and dull: writing, painting, playing the flute, and watching puppet shows became her only pleasures.

But soon, Ashu noticed Murong Huan was no longer painting pastoral scenes or flowers and birds. Instead, she sketched a terrifying skull, and gradually, beside it, several ethereal beauties in flowing white robes appeared—though their eyes remained unpainted.

“Ah Huan, why paint this? It’s so frightening.”

Murong Huan pondered before softly replying, “They’re not frightening. They’re all pitiable souls. My skill isn’t yet enough to fully capture their true appearance in life.”

“Them?”

“Yes. They...” Murong Huan closed her eyes, reflecting deeply. “My master once said: ‘It is easy to paint skin and bone, but difficult to paint the heart.’ I must strive to capture their hearts.”

She rolled up the unfinished scroll and spread a fresh sheet, quickly beginning a new painting.

When she finished, Ashu exclaimed with delight, “This is Sanlang! But why does your Sanlang look like this?”

Murong Huan did not answer but murmured gravely, “Because this is the Su family as it is now.”

Just as she was about to put down her brush, she looked up to see Su Qing standing silently at the door.

“Ah! Lord, when did you arrive? Why didn’t you call us?”

Ashu hurried to bring a small stool for Su Qing.

“No need,” he said, stepping before Murong Huan and gazing long at the painting of Sanlang on the screen.

He looked so intently that Ashu thought he might fall into the scene itself. Finally, he sighed, “I never expected your painting skills to be so good. Uncle apologizes on behalf of the Su family. In these eight years, we have shown you no kindness, yet you bear no grudge and even cured Sanlang’s illness.”

Murong Huan remained silent. Su Qing smiled and asked, “By the way, who taught you to paint this well?”

Ashu was about to answer when Murong Huan interrupted, “An elderly man in Taoyuan Village, a fallen artist skilled in brush and ink, taught me a bit.”

“Oh? What’s his name?”

Su Qing asked again, but Murong Huan replied simply, “Unknown.”

Su Qing suppressed his curiosity and returned to the main topic, expressing gratitude: “Ah Huan, if you ever need anything within my power, just ask.”

“Even admission to the National Academy?” Murong Huan turned to ask.

Su Qing hesitated, then advised, “If you want to study, the girls’ academy will suffice—you don’t have to attend the National Academy. Or I can find a tutor to come to the house. How does that sound?”

Murong Huan was silent for a moment, her clear eyes locking onto Su Qing in a way that unsettled him.

After some time, she spoke: “My father didn’t die of illness, nor did he commit suicide for love. Uncle, you should know—when I was very young, I traveled constantly with my parents, never staying in one place. I remember many assassination attempts... many times. My mother was gravely wounded protecting me and my father; even after multiple stab wounds, she held on long enough to bring us back to the Su family.”

“She acted as if nothing was wrong until she finally passed away.”

Murong Huan paused, lowering her brush and fixing Su Qing with a steady gaze.

“After Mother died, Father was heartbroken, but I remember clearly that he promised to teach me to read and write, to raise me up. He would never have died for love’s sake.”

“Unfortunately, I was too young then to recall many things.”

Su Qing grew somber and after a long pause said, “Ah Huan, I know you feel wronged, but this matter is too complicated. The Su family is now weak. If you pursue your father’s case, we cannot bear the consequences.”

Seeing she was not willing to relent, he sighed again. “If you want to know about your father, Uncle can tell you.”

After some reflection, he began:

“Your father was a talented and charming man in his youth, acquainted with celebrated scholars like Wang Bo, Lu Zhaolin, and Luo Binwang. He was a guest of Prince Pei, Li Xian, often invited to poetry and wine gatherings with other literati. Together, they even contributed to annotating the ‘Book of Later Han.’ His reputation was renowned throughout the capital.”

“After Crown Prince Li Hong passed away, Prince Pei Li Xian became the new crown prince. He was known for respecting scholars and his refined literary taste—a worthy and just prince, beloved by the late emperor. However, his relationship with the Empress Dowager, the present saint, grew increasingly hostile. Eventually, he was implicated in a rebellion related to the sorcerer Ming Chongyan’s murder, stripped of his title, and imprisoned in Chang’an.”

“Wang Bo, once hailed as a prodigy, was exiled from Prince Pei’s mansion for writing the ‘Fighting Cock Edict,’ and his career faltered afterward. Your father, as a close guest of Prince Pei’s household, inevitably aroused the Empress Dowager’s suspicion. With officials like Suo Yuanli and Qiu Shenji skilled at fabricating charges, the Su family faced the threat of annihilation unless it severed ties with the prince’s faction.”

At this, Murong Huan finally understood and mocked, “So the Su family abandoned my father, sending him away to roam the world?”

Su Qing lowered his head, sighing, “We had hoped for an alliance with the Qiu family through marriage, but your father brought your mother back. Had he married into the Qiu family earlier, perhaps things would have been different...”

He stopped as he noticed Murong Huan’s displeased expression.

Murong Huan then said, “The Crown Prince’s rebellion came later, and the Qiu family married into the Su family earlier. So the Qiu marriage isn’t necessarily linked to Li Xian’s treason, right?”

Su Qing looked shocked. “How do you know the rebellion came after, and the Qiu marriage before? Do you know the year the Crown Prince rebelled?”

Murong Huan gave no answer. Even she could not explain how she knew these things—perhaps influenced by the other spirit within her.

Unable to clarify, she changed the subject: “Uncle, do you know who was truly responsible for my father’s death?”

Su Qing shook his head, silent again.

Seeing her stare, he tried to ease the awkwardness by looking back at the painting on the screen. The Sanlang depicted was small, frightened, helpless, shrouded in shadows so his face was indistinct.

Curious, he asked, “Ah Huan, why paint Sanlang like this? And why say the Su family is the same?”

Murong Huan smiled wryly. “Timid, weak, fearful, and powerless—that’s exactly the Su family today.”

After her sarcasm, she continued, “When I treated Sanlang, I glimpsed his dreams. He witnessed Zhou Jiulang brutally killing several young maidens. Zhou Jiulang is dead now, but the Dali Court investigators might come questioning him, given their past grievances, right, Uncle?”

Before she finished, Su Qing’s face changed dramatically.

“Glimpse his dreams?”

“You have that ability?”

Su Qing was nearly shaken to his core, disbelief filling his eyes, yet he had to admit the facts of Sanlang’s close ties and quarrels with Zhou Jiulang.

“How do you know so much?”

“I told you—I used a soporific technique to peer into his dreams. Besides, he often talks in his sleep. If you watch over his bed for a night, you’d hear it too.”

“I see.”

Su Qing was calming his nerves when Murong Huan said, “If the Dali Court does send investigators, Uncle, please introduce me to them. Let me assist with the case.”