Chapter 5 — The General's Wild Daughter

When the noble lady of the Duke of An Quoc crossed the threshold, the first person her eyes fell upon was my father. The formidable General of the Suppressing North stood right at the entrance of the floral hall, his dark armor smeared with bright cosmetic rouge, a vivid red handprint stamped across his cheek while he securely cradled the primary culprit in his arms. Her footsteps faltered instantly. The two young maidens trailing behind her froze in place as well. Mother closed her eyes. Her original intention had been to instruct the servant girls to keep father and me hidden away. Yet upon hearing company arriving, I had eagerly hoisted myself up from my father’s embrace.

Auntie.

My greeting rang out sweet and crystal clear. The noble lady of the Duke of An Quoc broke into a radiant smile immediately.

Oh my goodness, little An Ninh has learned how to address people.

She took two brisk steps forward, eager to scoop me into her arms. Mother hastily interceded.

The child's hands are soiled.

Yet it was already too late. I had already launched myself into the embrace of the Duke's wife, my two crimson-stained palms pressing firmly against her newly crafted, cloud-patterned ceremonial shawl. Silence descended upon the floral hall once more. The noble lady looked down at her shawl. The ivory-white fabric, pure as newly fallen snow, now bore two distinct red handprints resembling blossoming pomegranate flowers. Mother’s complexion turned as pale as parchment. Just as she opened her mouth to offer an apology, the noble lady burst into hearty laughter.

Such auspicious fortune, truly wonderful fortune.

Mother was left utterly stunned. The noble lady gently bounced me in her arms.

This little one possesses formidable strength and a robust constitution, far superior to those fragile infants who fall ill at the slightest breath of wind.

Mother managed a strained, reluctant smile.

She is merely mischievous.

The two young maidens flanking the noble lady crowded around us. One produced a handkerchief to cleanse my hands, while the other offered a sweet pastry to coax me. I glanced at the handkerchief, then at the pastry. Finally, I shoved the pastry straight into my mouth, snatched the handkerchief away, and expertly tied it around my father’s wrist-guard. The young maiden asked in utter bewilderment.

What is little An Ninh doing?

With my mouth stuffed full of pastry, I mumbled indistinctly.

A banner.

Father instantly averted his gaze. Mother shot him a piercing look.

What are you smiling at?

Father’s voice remained entirely level.

I am not smiling.

The noble lady’s laughter grew even louder.

The young miss of the general’s household is certainly distinctive.

Within Mother’s breast, frustration churned relentlessly. She harbored no desire for me to be distinctive. She yearned for a gentle, decorous daughter—a kindred spirit who would sit beside her to select delicate embroidery patterns. Not a tiny ancestral spirit who treated rouge like military merit badges and handkerchiefs like command banners. That very evening, after bidding their guests farewell, Mother carried me over to her dressing table. With utmost solemnity, she instructed me.

An Ninh, a young lady must cherish cleanliness.

I nodded vigorously.

You must not smear rouge about haphazardly.

I continued to nod.

And above all, you are forbidden from tying handkerchiefs onto your father’s person to serve as battle flags.

I pondered this for a moment before nodding once more. Perceiving my apparent docility, a flicker of hope reawakened within Mother’s heart. She produced a miniature embroidery frame. Soft fabric was stretched tightly across it, and the embroidery needle had been swapped for a blunt-headed silver one.

Shall mother teach you how to embroider flowers?

My eyes lit up at the sight of the tiny silver needle. Mother was utterly delighted. Taking my hand in hers, she guided my fingers as I executed the very first stitch.

Gently now, take it slow.

I faithfully imitated her movements. The first stitch proved reasonably steady. The second proved equally correct. Yet by the third stitch, the repetitive motion of passing the needle back and forth suddenly struck me as far too sluggish. Consequently, I caught the trailing thread, looped it securely around the embroidery frame, threaded it down to the table leg, and finally snared the hem of the attending maidservant's skirt. The maidservant, who had been bowing her head to praise my exceptional patience, attempted to take a step forward and promptly tripped over herself. A chamberlain rushed over in a panic to steady her. Mother gazed down at the embroidery thread twisted into an absolute disaster of a knot, then shifted her gaze to my triumphant expression.

Are you embroidering flowers?

I patted the miniature embroidery frame cheerfully.

Tying them up.

Mother’s vision darkened. At that precise moment, father happened to stride in from the outdoors. He surveyed the threads scattered all across the floor, observed the table legs bound tightly by silk, and finally looked upon me sitting squarely in the middle of it all, clapping my hands in glee. He remained silent. Mother asked with an aggrieved tone.

Are you about to laugh again?

This time, father had learned discretion. He simply turned on his heel to depart. Mother’s voice dropped to a frosty chill.

Halt.

Father froze.

Turn around.

Father turned back around.

Tell me, who does this child take after?

Father cast a glance in my direction. I raised my head and called out a cheerful father. In a muted tone, he replied.

Her intelligence resembles her ladyship's.

Mother nearly choked on her own breath. For the ensuing half-year, Mother redoubled her efforts with a relentless refusal to admit defeat. She attempted to instruct me in floral arrangement. I stubbornly lined the floral branches up in two rigid rows according to height, deliberately placing the shorter stems in the foreground. She sought to teach me the appreciation of fine incense. I sniffed the ornate burner and declared that the aroma bore an uncanny resemblance to the scent of father’s boots upon his return to the manor on a rain-soaked afternoon. She endeavored to teach me how to identify fine jewelry. Yet my absolute favorite remained a heavy, ponderous solid gold necklace. Because lifting it provided an excellent tool for cracking walnuts. Finally, Mother reached the end of her tether and marched off to interrogate the imperial physician.

Tell me, could it be that during my pregnancy I was subjected to the sound of bowstrings too frequently, thus producing a child of this peculiar disposition?

Cold sweat beaded across the physician’s brow.

The young miss possesses a robust physique and exceptional intelligence, so your ladyship need not harbor any anxiety.

Mother offered a bitter, wretched smile.

You all merely observe her robust physique. Not a single soul witnessed how yesterday she arranged my rouge boxes into a complex military formation.

Father sat quietly beside her, not daring to utter a single syllable. Once the imperial physician had departed, Mother leveled a finger straight at him.

Commencing today, you are strictly forbidden from practicing martial arts within An Ninh’s line of sight.

Father nodded submissively.

I shall not practice.

You must ensure the child never lays eyes upon a wrist-guard.

Understood.

She must not hear any military reports.

Understood.

She is forbidden from approaching the armory.

Understood.

I poked my head out from behind the doorway. Catching sight of me, father’s gaze shifted subtly. I offered him a cheerful wave. Father instantly averted his eyes. When Mother swung her head around, I had already ducked back out of sight. That night, true to his word, father refrained from practicing martial arts. The outer courtyard remained deathly still. I sat upright on the bed, clutching my cloth tiger, stubbornly refusing to succumb to sleep. Mother hummed lullabies; my eyes remained wide open. The wet nurse patted my back; my eyes remained wide open. Until the third watch of the night, when the faint, distinct snap of a tree branch drifted in from the courtyard outside. I bolted upright instantly. Mother snapped awake right alongside me. A dark shadow flickered past the lattice window. An instant later, a guard’s deep voice bellowed out.

Who goes there?

Mother’s expression underwent a drastic transformation. Father surged forth from the inner chamber, dispensing with any blade and arming himself solely with a brass candleholder. He positioned himself squarely in front of Mother to shield her. Meanwhile, I scrambled out from beneath the covers and grabbed the heavy solid gold necklace resting by the bedside. Mother’s voice cracked in stark terror.

An Ninh, what are you doing?

I hoisted the heavy gold ring high above my head, declaring in my childish treble.

To strike.

07

Mother watched as I brandished the heavy golden ring, her face draining of all color. That very necklace had been a gift from my maternal grandmother, weighing a solid half-catty. Wearing it around my neck on ordinary days made me look remarkably like a miniature tortoise. Yet I had consistently regarded it as an exceptionally fine object. Not because of its aesthetic beauty, but because its weight provided a remarkably balanced grip. Father scooped me up into his arms without hesitation, gently prying the golden ring from my grasp.

An Ninh, do not move.

Refusing to yield, I kicked my little legs, demanding to be set down.

To strike the wicked person.

Mother clutched the bedding tightly to her chest, her voice trembling audibly.

You are merely this small, what wicked person could you possibly strike?

I deliberated for a moment before stating with profound solemnity.

This thing is heavy.

The corners of father’s mouth twitched once more. Mother immediately glared daggers at him. He hastily forced his lips downward. Outside the window, chaos had already erupted. Guards dashed back and forth carrying lanterns, the sharp clatter of scabbards clashing against armor piercing clearly through the rainy night. Hearing the commotion made my eyes gleam with excitement. Mother reached out to cover my ears.

Do not listen.

I pried her hand away.

There are sounds.

The rims of Mother’s eyes flushed red instantly.

Xia Zheyuan, just look at this child of yours.

Father lowered his voice to soothe her.

Do not fret, I shall step outside to investigate.

Mother instantly lunged forward to seize his sleeve.

You are forbidden from going.

Father froze. Her voice softened to such a degree that it seemed on the verge of dissolving into the nocturnal wind.

If any harm befalls you, what are An Ninh and I to do?

Father’s eyelashes softened instantly.

Nothing shall befall me.

Yet Mother refused to relax her grip. With a resigned sigh, father deposited me directly into her arms, spun around, and grabbed only a long wooden pole from beside the doorway. The pole was originally intended for adjusting the window drapes, yet gripped in father’s hands, it somehow projected the terrifying momentum of sweeping across a thousand hostile troops. Mother called out to him in sheer panic.

You are not even taking your saber.

Father glanced back over his shoulder at her.

Her ladyship explicitly forbade me from letting An Ninh lay eyes upon a blade.

Mother was left utterly speechless, choking on her own words. Cradled securely within her embrace, I enthusiastically clapped my hands together.

Father, strike them.

Mother cast her gaze down upon me, tears threatening to spill over.

Quiet your tongue.

I obediently clamped my mouth shut, though my eyes remained riveted upon the scene beyond the door. The moment father crossed the threshold, a muffled thud echoed across the courtyard. A figure clad entirely in black plunged headlong from the eaves, landing squarely beside the crabapple tree. The guards swarmed forward instantly to pin the intruder down. Yet simultaneously, another figure erupted from behind the pillared veranda, charging straight toward Mother’s window. Paralyzed by terror, Mother gathered me close and stumbled backward. The wet nurse shrieked aloud. In that fraction of a second, I caught the glint of cold steel flashing in the intruder’s grip. Though entirely ignorant of its precise nature, I instinctively recognized it as akin to the deadly weapons housed within father’s armory. Reaching out, my fingers closed around the porcelain teacup resting on the dressing table. Before Mother could intercept me, I hoisted the cup—brimming with tea—and hurled it directly through the open window.

With a resounding crash.

The teacup struck the assailant squarely between the eyes. He staggered backward in a daze.