Chapter 77: Kindred Spirits—The Harmony of Zither and Flute

The harmonious convergence of the zither and flute was so seamless that it seemed as if the two musicians had played together a thousand times before. At first, all of Chuxiu’s attention was absorbed by the music; the world beyond the instrument faded from her eyes and ears, and she remained unaware that someone was responding to her melody.

But when she began to repeat the tune, the flute suddenly rose, its sound growing clearer and higher, like a faint, mournful cry. Not only did it pierce the walls, making itself impossible to ignore, but the very intent woven into the melody seemed to draw her zither along in its wake.

With a sudden clang, Chuxiu’s hands stilled, and the music ended abruptly. Zhuying, who had been immersed in the sorrowful duet, looked up in alarm at the abrupt silence, the flute still lingering in the air. Turning, she saw Chuxiu’s right hand trembling in the pale moonlight. Only then did she notice that Chuxiu’s index fingernail had broken; a crescent of translucent nail was wedged between two strings, like a bridge spanning two rivers that could never meet.

“Madam…” Zhuying’s voice was tinged with concern.

Chuxiu slowly withdrew her hand, gazing at the broken nail with a bitter smile. “It’s nothing. My heart was overwhelmed, and I lost myself for a moment.”

As her words faded, the flute outside the wall slowly died away, its lingering lament drifting to Chuxiu and Zhuying’s ears as if expressing the loneliness of playing without response, or the regret of a song cut short. There was a faint note of inquiry within it.

Chuxiu looked toward the source of the music and asked Zhuying, “Who do you think is playing the flute in harmony with me?”

Zhuying pondered. “Could it be the young Marquis Shen?”

“Him? He’s not skilled in music,” Chuxiu replied, shaking her head.

“Then…” Zhuying suddenly recalled tonight’s two distinguished guests; one of them was renowned for his mastery of the flute, his very name a homonym for ‘companion of the flute’. But could it really be him? He had clearly left in his carriage after the banquet—why would he linger outside the Yun residence’s wall, responding with his flute?

Could it be… the Ninth Prince had learned Chuxiu’s true identity and come to express his feelings?

Yet, the tone of the flute just now seemed more spontaneous, only meant to set the mood for her music.

Zhuying decided to keep her suspicions to herself, and replied casually, “Perhaps it’s some sleepless young lord or lady nearby, moved by your beautiful melody, who joined in with their flute out of empathy.”

“Is that so?” Chuxiu’s gaze shimmered as she looked at the distant wall, her face radiant yet tinged with sorrow in the moonlight. “I think,” she murmured, “that the flutist is someone with a story, a person with sorrow hidden in their heart. Or perhaps… simply emptiness?”

Her words trailed off into a whispered self-reflection, so soft that Zhuying missed the last few syllables. She responded, “I am not versed in music, so I cannot guess at the flute player’s feelings.”

“If you are not versed in music, why then does sorrow show on your face, your heart moved to grief?” Chuxiu turned to look at her, puzzled.

Zhuying hesitated, then spoke honestly, “That night in Zhuihong Court, when you played this piece, I was accompanying the Master and happened to pass by your door.”

At this, a shadow of pain crossed Chuxiu’s face; she closed her eyes, holding back tears.

Affection, like drifting clouds, is ever-changing, returning only in dreams. From now on, she could only meet Yun Ci in her dreams. Each time she thought of this, the pain threatened to tear her apart.

Her heart convulsed with pain once more. Pressing a hand to her chest, Chuxiu composed herself before sighing, “Let’s go back.”

She rose, lifting the broken nail from the strings as she reached for her zither. Just then, the flute sounded again outside the wall.

The flutist had not yet left. Chuxiu listened intently—this time, it was a different ancient tune, but halfway through, the melody stopped abruptly. The pause fell precisely on a lyric: “A thousand miles apart, I ask of your peace. Unspoken longing—are you well?”

Chuxiu’s hand faltered as she packed away her zither; she seemed to sense a question in the flutist’s music. Perhaps the player had heard her abruptly cease, and, hearing no further notes, had grown concerned and asked after her through the music.

Such subtlety—surely a woman’s touch, Chuxiu thought. For the sake of this unspoken understanding, she felt she ought to reply. Moreover, the flutist had waited outside the wall and now expressed concern.

So Chuxiu reseated herself before the stone table, composed her thoughts, and replied with a gentle melody. She played a brief, understated tune, “A Lifetime of Peace”—not cheerful, but calm and steady, just as she wished to convey: she was, for now, well enough.

Her right hand weakened by the broken nail, Chuxiu played with some difficulty, but the piece was short and she managed to finish. At the end, she purposefully slid her hand over the final note, adding a flourish as a gesture of thanks to the flutist.

The playful ending lent some liveliness to the otherwise serene piece, hinting at the zither player’s unknowing courage for the road ahead. Chuxiu felt certain the flutist would understand her response.

Indeed, as soon as her music faded, the flute answered with three or five light notes—like an oriole’s call, like a spring breeze—offering encouragement. Hearing this, Chuxiu truly smiled for the first time that night. She put her zither away and said to Zhuying, “Let’s go back.”

Zhuying said nothing, following behind. Before leaving, she glanced one last time at the high wall from which the flute had sounded, then hurried after her mistress.

*****

Because of this unknown flutist, and the empathy, concern, and encouragement conveyed in the music, Chuxiu, for the first time since Yun Ci’s death, slept soundly through the night, without waking or tossing in grief.

But the one outside the wall was not so fortunate. Nie Peixiao had drunk some wine at the Yun residence that evening. Remembering Yun Ci’s untimely death, he was overcome with melancholy. After leaving, he sent his seventh brother ahead and wandered the empty streets with his personal guards.

Nie Peixiao was not close to Yun Ci, but was well acquainted with Shen Yu, a companion in the capital’s pleasures—and Shen Yu was the emperor’s sworn son, almost a brother. He had heard Shen Yu mention how Yun Ci’s leg injury came about, and, learning the heir of the Marquis of Lixin had become disabled saving someone, had been deeply moved and admiring.

At Yun Ci’s wedding, Nie Peixiao attended on imperial orders and visited his brother. It was then he first saw Yun Ci: clad in dark red wedding robes, walking steadily—clearly having taken medicine to host the guests. To think a noble marquis would suffer so, even harming his health for appearances’ sake, made Nie Peixiao pity him.

Though Yun Ci smiled all through the banquet, Nie Peixiao sensed the joy was not heartfelt—no doubt this wedding was a political alliance. At the time, he thought it a glimpse of his own future, trapped in the same web of power and marriage.

Nie Peixiao loathed hypocrisy and flattery, yet could not escape it. The more he thought of it, the more conflicted he felt, and he slipped out of the banquet to drink alone in a quiet spot—only to be interrupted by a woman.

Returning to the Yun residence tonight to pay his respects, Nie Peixiao had wanted to visit that garden again, but the atmosphere at the table gave him no chance to slip away. So, after leaving, he found his way to the garden wall. He wasn’t sure why—perhaps only to revisit that frame of mind.

Yun Ci’s death had left him with endless reflection. In just seven months, he had first seen a bridegroom, now a spirit.

He did not expect to hear zither music inside the wall—a sorrowful, yearning melody, so clearly played by a woman.

Was she mourning Yun Ci? Nie Peixiao could not guess, but was moved to join in with his flute. Yet the duet was cut short by the abrupt end of the zither, leaving a sense of loss.

Though he knew the Marquis of Lixin’s residence was well-guarded, he still worried that something might have happened to the player. So he played a tune to inquire, only half expecting a response—yet the musician within replied almost at once!

A well-known tune, “A Lifetime of Peace,” floated out, ending with a deft flourish as if in thanks—an act of true understanding! Nie Peixiao was secretly delighted. That final flourish convinced him the player was a young woman.

Only young women liked to add such flourishes at the end of a piece.

It was a long-lost sense of kinship. The music he usually heard was either obsequious, pretentious, skillful but soulless, or barely tolerable—lacking the sincerity and feeling that moved him.

Once, a courtesan’s playing had touched him, but, being an honorable man, he would not compete for another’s affection. Besides, he admired only her music, not her person or love, and feared his social standing would one day cause her pain, so he let that bond of understanding go.

He laughed quietly at himself. Since Han Chu’s death, how long had it been since he had heard such moving music? To think a musician of this caliber remained hidden in the Yun family—no wonder their house was renowned.

For a brief moment, he almost wanted to leap the high wall to see the maiden, but recalled his true purpose in coming to the capital: his brother’s struggle for succession. With the future uncertain, how could he risk such a bond?

Especially since this was no ordinary family, but the Yuns. For the sake of that sensitive surname, he could not risk scandal and harm his brother’s reputation.

So Nie Peixiao could only smile ruefully and say to his guard, “Let’s return to Prince Mu’s manor.”

The guard acknowledged in silence, following a few steps before noticing his master had paused.

“Those who play the zither at midnight cannot be mere servants,” Nie Peixiao mused. He asked, “How many young ladies are there in the Yun family?”

The guard thought a moment. “There are two, both born to concubines: Yun Xiangrong and Yun Muge.”

“Yun Xiangrong and Yun Muge?” Nie Peixiao murmured, then asked, “How old are they?”

“Yun Xiangrong is sixteen, Yun Muge… about eleven or twelve.”

Given the music, it did not seem likely that an eleven- or twelve-year-old played so. Glancing once more at the high walls, Nie Peixiao, half-sure, half-doubtful, whispered, “Could it be Yun Xiangrong?”

With that, his figure in dark purple robes receded into the lonely moonlight, eventually vanishing from sight.