Just before dawn, when the sky was neither dark nor light, frost still clung to the plants in the courtyard. In the vast residence of the Duke of Xu, only a few scattered courtyards had their lamps lit. Those who had grown older would naturally wake at this hour.

The spring chill was still sharp—if one breathed too quickly, it stung the lungs. The servant in charge of the bell stared blankly at the water clock. When the water level reached a quarter into the Hour of Mao, he lifted a small copper hammer and struck the fish-shaped bell hanging under the eaves.

Twenty-four crisp chimes echoed throughout the residence. The once-silent courtyards instantly came alive.

Lights flared on. Maids and servants bustled about carrying water and assisting with dressing. After another four chimes, the masters had finished washing. The household followed strict rules—after eight chimes, the men and women entered the hall in order to pay their morning respects to the Old Madam seated at the head.

They stood in rows, silent and attentive, listening to the Seventh Young Master—still not yet twenty—recite the moral teachings.

Tan Linjin, only fifteen yet already composed beyond his years, spoke clearly:

“From the Son of Heaven to the common people, all must uphold filial piety, brotherhood, loyalty, and trust. Frugality is a shared virtue; extravagance is the greatest vice. Men must establish themselves, admire the virtuous, and practice goodness. Women govern the household, remaining filial, chaste, and diligent. When the inner household is at peace, the outer affairs will prosper.”

The assembled bowed in unison.
“We respectfully follow your teachings.”

This was the daily morning routine.

Afterward, the men went to Cangshan Hall, the women to Mingzhu Hall, where they took breakfast together. Unlike the earlier solemnity, the atmosphere relaxed—people chatted casually about trivial matters.

The Tan family of the Duke of Xu’s residence was large and prestigious. Though the old duke had passed away, the family had not yet split, as the Old Madam still lived. The three branches remained under one roof, known throughout the capital for their upright family conduct.

Of course, people differed in temperament. Minor conflicts were inevitable, but the Old Madam was lenient as long as nothing serious occurred.

There were seven young ladies in the household, seated according to rank. One seat remained, occupied by Yan, a concubine of the eldest son of the second branch. Since she had grown up with the young ladies, she considered herself different from other concubines, and the Old Madam tolerated it.

“Spring, summer, autumn, winter—the days grow longer and shorter. I wonder when the Old Madam will change this old rule—even delaying it by a quarter hour would help,” Yan complained.

No one responded.

“Ah, today we have plum blossom noodles,” said the Sixth Young Lady, placing several dumplings into Fifth Sister’s bowl. “You like these—have more.”

The Fifth Young Lady smiled and whispered back, “I just got a jar of candied gardenia from Banlou. I’ll let you try it later.”

…

After breakfast, a servant conveyed a message:

“Fifth Young Lady, please remain. The Marchioness will soon come to take her leave. The Old Madam asks you to accompany her.”

The Fifth Young Lady was the Old Madam’s favorite. Frail as a child, she had been raised personally by her grandmother and grew refined in tea and floral arts.

The Seventh Young Lady sneered, “Grandmother really favors Fifth Sister. No one else ever gets a chance in such occasions.”

The Fifth Young Lady calmly replied,
“Seventh Sister, you should stop smiling like that—the right corner of your mouth droops. It makes you look like you’re about to cry.”

Laughter erupted.

…

Later, in the grandmother’s courtyard, sunlight filtered through bamboo curtains. The Old Madam examined her face with affection.

Soon, the Marchioness arrived, joking warmly. She admired the Fifth Young Lady’s beauty:

“Not like a little monkey at all—more like a magnolia about to bloom.”

The girl smiled, radiant and striking in a way rare for someone so young.

She had been named Ziran (“Natural”), in the hope that she would grow healthily according to nature—and she did.

The Marchioness sighed,
“If only I had a grandson of the right age—I would certainly bring her into my family.”

She even suggested a match with a prince, but the Old Madam firmly refused. She had long feared imperial marriages after losing her own daughter to the palace.

“I only wish for my granddaughter to marry into an ordinary family—so we may see her whenever we wish.”

…

The Marchioness then presented fine tea bowls. Ziran examined them expertly, discussing their craftsmanship with insight and elegance.

Delighted, the Marchioness praised her repeatedly.

…

Before leaving, the Marchioness warned of a girl in the capital who resembled the Second Young Lady and was attending noble gatherings under that resemblance.

Though the Old Madam seemed unconcerned, she later sighed:

“Being associated with our name brings risk. If she behaves improperly, it could damage your sister’s reputation.”

Ziran grew thoughtful.

…

As she left, a maid hurried over with another letter.

“Miss, another one.”

Ziran recognized the familiar handwriting.

Since the start of the year, she had been receiving such unsigned letters—small, trivial notes that gradually felt like warmth from a distant friend.

She unfolded it. Under the gentle spring sunlight, neat characters appeared on fine paper:

This morning I passed the market and saw fresh bamboo shoots. I bought some and had them simmered with matsutake. I also heard the peach blossoms in the western suburbs have begun to bloom. If you are free tomorrow, we could take last year’s celadon tea set and taste this year’s newly roasted Longjing beneath the flowers.

The mornings and evenings are still cold—dress warmly. Take care.

With best wishes for spring.