Chapter 4 — The General's Wild Daughter

Why was being held by my father always feel more like returning to my true lair? Eager to guide me back to a gentle, delicate path, mother began to let me listen to the zither. The musician sat by the window, fingertips plucking the strings, producing notes so soft they seemed to dissolve the very ripples of spring water. I listened for a moment before closing my eyes. Mother beamed with delight.

Look at him, she said, the child loves it.

Immediately afterward, I yawned and fell fast asleep. The more soothingly the musician played, the sounder I slumbered. Mother then instructed someone to coax me with a tiny bell. Its chime was crisp and clear, but I refused to deign it with a single glance. Not until father returned from the outer courtyard, holding a roll of military dispatches in his hand. The paper unfurled with a rustling sound. I instantly lifted my head. Mother’s smile stiffened once more. Father hurriedly rolled up the dispatches and shoved them into his sleeve.

It is just the wind, he murmured.

Mother stared fixedly at his sleeve.

Does the wind know how to write characters now?

Father dared not answer. By the time I was nearly a year old, I could finally pull myself up by the edge of the table and stand. That day, mother specially dressed me in a little pink skirt. The hem was embroidered with butterflies, making it seem as though I might flutter away with every step. She crouched two paces away from me and opened her arms.

A Ning, come to mother.

I stood unsteadily. Everyone in the room held their breath. Father stood behind mother, his eyes brimming with tension. I looked at mother. Then I looked at father. After that, I took the very first step of my life. Tears instantly welled in mother’s eyes. I took the second step. The corners of her mouth curved upward. But upon the third step, I abruptly changed direction. I bypassed mother and lunged straight for the weapon chest behind father’s back. The chest had been locked, but the steward had just been taking inventory of old items and had forgotten to secure the latch. I gave it a tap with my hand. The lid flew open. Inside lay a section of a dark, heavy scabbard. The tears in mother’s eyes vanished at once. Father’s expression shifted, and he hurried forward, but I had already grasped the red tassel hanging from the scabbard. I bared my teeth in a smile. The smile was as sweet as mother’s, yet my grip was as steadfast as father’s.

Following that day, everyone throughout the general’s manor knew the young miss had learned to walk. They also knew that her very first journey had been to touch a blade. Mother locked herself away in her room for half a day. Father held me while standing outside the door for the same duration. I lay upon his shoulder, playing with his hair. Father did not dare to utter a whimper of pain. The wet nurse came and coaxed for a long while, and when she emerged, her eyes were red-rimmed. She said the lady was merely sorrowful, not blaming the young miss. Father nodded.

I know, he said.

The wet nurse added that the lady blamed the general even less. Father fell silent for a moment.

Then the fault still lies mostly with me.

The wet nurse did not dare to reply. A short while later, mother’s melancholic voice drifted from within the room.

Bring A Ning inside.

Father instantly lowered his gaze to look at me.

Your mother is calling for you.

I patted his face. Father carried me inside and placed me beside mother. She sat on the edge of the bed, the corners of her eyes still tinged with red. Catching sight of me, she could not help reaching out to stroke my cheek.

Why must you always refuse to listen to me?

I did not understand her words; I only felt that her voice was deeply pleasant, so I threw myself into her arms. As she embraced me, her heart inevitably softened. Father stood by the doorway and spoke with cautious care:

She is still so young.

Mother lifted her gaze.

Precisely because she is young, she must be taught from the start.

Father immediately agreed, Very well. Thus, mother established strict rules for me. Each morning, I was to admire flowers for half an hour. Each afternoon, I was to listen to the zither for half an hour. At dusk, I was to learn to identify colors. Red was vermilion. Pink was peach blossom pink. White was pear blossom white. Black was the black of weapons, which I was forbidden to touch. Mother taught with infinite patience, and I studied with utmost earnestness. She picked up a box of rouge and asked me:

What is this?

I mumbled vaguely:

Red.

Mother smiled. She picked up a silk flower instead.

And what about this?

Flower, I replied.

Mother was even more pleased. Finally, she had a maidservant bring over a small wooden horse—a toy gifted by my maternal grandparents. Its back was rounded, and all four corners were wrapped in soft fabric. Mother wanted me to learn to sit atop it and rock gently, just like any ordinary little girl. My eyes lit up when I saw the wooden horse. Mother assumed I liked it and rejoiced inwardly. To her astonishment, I scrambled up, threw my arms around the horse's neck, and kicked hard with my tiny legs, nearly overturning the entire structure. The maidservant cried out in alarm. Hearing the commotion outside, father lifted the curtain and stepped inside. Mother held onto the wooden horse, trembling with anger from head to toe.

Was the child riding a horse just now, or was she charging into battle?

Father looked at me. I was still perched upon the wooden horse, clutching its ears while indistinctly shouting cries of battle. Father fought repeatedly to suppress the corners of his mouth. Mother noticed.

Do you wish to laugh? she demanded.

Father shook his head at once.

Not at all.

Mother offered a cold laugh.

The corners of your mouth are nearly stretching to your ears.

Father hastily pressed a hand to his mouth. Mother grew even angrier. Determined to keep me as far away from anything resembling a military camp as possible, she had the wooden horse hidden away. Deprived of my mount, I moped in displeasure. For several days, I would only deign to play with a small jade pendant. Seeing me quiet, mother finally heaved a sigh of relief, believing the storm had passed. Until the day I could walk steadily. The weather that day was magnificent. Mother sat before her dressing table, trying out a new shade of rouge. The rouge was a bestowal from the imperial palace, its hue extraordinarily brilliant, making her lips look like newly bloomed pomegranate flowers. I sat upon a soft cushion, watching her gently apply a layer. She smiled in the mirror, looking so breathtakingly lovely that even the crabapple blossoms outside the window were eclipsed. I clapped my hands. Mother was immensely delighted.

Does A Ning think it is pretty too?

I nodded. She scooped up a tiny dab and smeared it across the back of my hand.

When you grow up, mother will buy you some as well.

I lowered my head to look at that smear of red. It was a dazzling, radiant red—the very same red as the ancient battle flags upon father’s armor. A maidservant arrived to invite mother to inspect a newly delivered batch of silk. Before leaving, she sternly instructed me not to make mischief. I obediently sat still. The moment she departed, father returned. Having come back from an audience at the palace, he was dressed in the dark iron armor that had been stored away in the armory for many days. Because the emperor had summoned the generals of the northern frontier, he was obliged to wear formal, imposing attire. Upon entering and finding me sitting alone, he squatted down to tease me.

A Ning.

I raised my head. His dark armor cast cold, silent glints of light. I looked at the red smear on the back of my hand, then at the broad expanse of his chest. Father remained blissfully unaware of the impending danger. He even reached out his hands, intending to pick me up. Clutching the box of rouge, I walked with steady steps toward him. Father froze in astonishment.

For me? he asked.

I nodded. Overjoyed and pleasantly surprised, he bent down so I could draw closer. I reached out, scooped up a generous dollop of rouge, and proceeded to apply it with absolute seriousness onto his armor. One stroke. Two strokes. Three strokes. I carried out the task with utmost dedication. Lowering his head to gaze at the bright pomegranate-red patches splashed across his chest, father stiffened completely. The steward happened to enter at that moment with official dispatches. Catching sight of the Prince of Zhenbei’s chest covered in vivid red, the old man was so terrified he nearly dropped to his knees.

Has the General been wounded? he gasped.

Father’s lips parted, but before he could offer an explanation, mother returned. A single glance revealed that the box of rouge was half-empty. Another glance showed my hands stained an aggressive crimson. Finally, she beheld father standing rigidly in his armored glory, paralyzed with fear. A dead silence filled the room. I raised my hand and proudly pronounced my very first clear, complete sentence:

Father, pretty.

Father’s adam’s apple bobbed.

Pretty, he echoed.

Mother clutched the doorframe.

Xia Zhaoyuan.

I did not teach her, father blurted out instantly.

Mother walked toward him step by step. She looked at the red splotches across his chest, then down at my bright, sparkling eyes. The rims of her eyes slowly turned red.

That was my rouge from the palace.

I will compensate you for it, father hastily promised.

I do not care about the rouge, her voice trembled. My heart aches for my daughter.

I tilted my head to look at her. Mother’s eyes were red, as though she were on the verge of weeping. Pondering this for a moment, I toddled over on my short legs and raised my hand, wishing to bestow a smear upon her as well. Terrified, mother retreated three paces in a row. Father swiftly scooped me up in his arms. I wriggled about against his chest, my rouge-covered hands patting both sides of his jaw. The general’s stern, cold face instantly acquired two vivid red little handprints. Mother stared for a moment, torn between tears and laughter. Yet before she could even regain her composure, a voice rang out from beyond the door, announcing an arrival.

The wife of the Duke of Anguo has brought the two young misses.

Mother’s complexion turned deathly pale. Father held me tight, bearing red handprints upon his face and blossoming red flowers upon his breastplate, while I stretched out my crimson palms and cheerfully cried out toward the door:

Come in!