The heat of the sixth month descended on Cangqian like a heavy, wet wool blanket. It was a suffocating warmth that bred mold in the corners of the rooms and made the air in the western wing taste of stagnant water and old wood.
For Little Cabbage, the atmosphere was poisonous. Since the night of the discovery—the night Ge Pinlian had found the silk handkerchief in their bed—the dynamic of the house had shifted from neglect to active siege.
Pinlian did not beat her. He did not scream. He did something far more terrifying: he watched. He slept at home every night, lying on the edge of the bed like a stone sentinel, his breathing shallow and alert. He was guarding his property.
But it was the silence from the main house that flayed her.
She waited for a signal from Yang Naiwu—a note, a glance, a servant sent with a basket of rice. There was nothing. When she saw him in the courtyard, he looked through her, his face composed into the mask of the distant, benevolent landlord. He had retreated behind the high walls of his class, pulling the ladder up after him.
He thinks he can discard me, she thought, staring at the soot stains on the ceiling beams. He thinks I am a toy to be put back in the box when the game becomes dangerous.
Despair turned to a feverish, reckless energy. She realized that she was trapped between a husband who viewed her as a possession and a lover who viewed her as a liability. If she did not act, she would be suffocated.
That night, while Pinlian snored the jagged sleep of the exhausted laborer and Third Girl drooled on her pillow, Little Cabbage lit a smoky oil lamp.
She was illiterate, yes. But she was not ignorant. During their stolen afternoons, amidst the caresses and the wine, Yang had taught her the shape of certain words. Heart. Pain. Save. She had practiced them in the dust of the floor, tracing the strokes until they burned into her memory.
She found a sheet of paper meant for an embroidery pattern. She ground the ink, her hand trembling. She could not write a poem. She could not quote the classics. But she could bleed onto the page.
She drew as much as she wrote—a willow bending to the point of breaking, a pair of mandarin ducks separated by a river of black ink. And she scrawled the characters she knew, clumsy and raw, looking more like scars than writing.
Heart breaks.Wolf in the house.Save me.
It was a love letter, a suicide note, and a threat, folded into a small, sharp square and hidden in her sleeve. It was the only weapon she had left.
The next day, the gods of chance rolled the dice.
Pinlian had gone to the tofu shop, though he left with a backward glance of suspicion. Third Girl was asleep in a patch of sun in the courtyard, buzzing with flies.
Little Cabbage dressed with frantic care, oiling her hair until it shone like a crow's wing. She walked to the main house, her heart hammering a rhythm against her ribs.
She found the women—Lady Zhan and the formidable Lady Ye—in the central hall. They were preparing to leave for a temple fair, their servants fluttering around them like moths. They greeted Little Cabbage with a kindness that felt like ice. She sensed the invisible wall they had erected; she was no longer the favored tenant, but a problem to be managed.
"Is the Master in?" she asked, her voice brittle.
"He is in his study," Lady Ye said, adjusting a jade hairpin. "He is drafting a petition for the Governor. He must not be disturbed."
"I understand," Little Cabbage said. She bowed low.
But she did not leave.
She crept around the perimeter of the house, to the side garden where the bamboo grew thick and wild. The windows of the study were open to catch the breeze.
She saw him. Yang Naiwu sat at his desk, his back straight, his brush moving rhythmically over a scroll. He looked serene, untouchable—a man safe in his fortress of intellect and privilege.
A surge of reckless fury seized her. She slipped through the side door.
"My Lord," she whispered.
Yang Naiwu jumped. The brush skidded across the paper, ruining the calligraphy. He spun around, his face draining of color.
"Xiugu?" he hissed. "Are you mad? If my wife returns..."
"Let her come!" Little Cabbage cried, stepping into the room. The scent of him—ink and sandalwood—hit her, making her dizzy with longing. "You ignore me. You treat me like a dog you kicked into the street. Why? Have you forgotten?"
"I have forgotten nothing," Yang said, his voice low and urgent, his eyes darting to the door. "But it must end. It is too dangerous. Pinlian knows. My wife knows. We are standing on a trapdoor."
"Then let us fall!" she pleaded. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out the folded paper. "Read this. It tells you everything. It tells you I am ready. I will leave him. I will be your concubine. I will be your slave. Just don't leave me in the dark."
She thrust the letter at him.
Yang Naiwu looked at the paper. He saw the clumsy characters, the desperate, childish drawings. He felt a pang of pity, but it was instantly drowned by the cold waters of self-preservation. This paper was not a love letter; it was evidence.
"I cannot take this," he said, backing away.
"Take it!" she insisted, her voice rising.
At that moment, a voice rang out from the courtyard—harsh, loud, and getting closer.
"Little Cabbage! Little Cabbage! Where are you?"
It was Third Girl.
Terror seized them both. If the idiot girl found her here, locked in a room with the Master, the pretense would be over. The "Green Hat" would be public knowledge.
Panic overtook reason. Little Cabbage threw the letter onto Yang Naiwu's desk.
"Read it," she hissed, tears spilling over. "And answer me."
She turned and fled, slipping out the side door and vanishing into the bamboo just as Third Girl lumbered into the garden, clapping her hands at a butterfly.
Yang Naiwu stood alone in the center of his study, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He picked up the letter. He unfolded the damp paper. Heart breaks. Wolf in the house.
He sat down heavily. The rawness of her grief cut through his defenses. He remembered the softness of her skin, the taste of the Rose Dew wine on her lips. He felt a profound, aching sadness. He was not a monster; he was simply a weak man who had reached for something beautiful and found it too heavy to hold.
He knew he could not accept her offer. To take her as a concubine would be social suicide. It would confirm every rumor, destroy his sister's standing, and shame his ancestors.
But he could not leave her unanswered. That would be cruelty beyond measure.
He dipped his brush in fresh ink. He would write to her. Not as a lover, but as a mentor. He would try to guide her back to safety, to extinguish the fire he had lit before it burned them both alive.
He wrote:
"Little Sister,Your words are the cry of the cuckoo in the night—they pierce the heart. But we must look at the world with clear eyes. You are a pearl, yes, but a pearl must have a setting. Pinlian is your husband by law and fate. To break that bond is to invite chaos.Do not look at his face; look at his duty. If you serve him well, you will find peace. Our connection was a mistake of the moon, a shadow that must pass with the dawn. I have sinned against you by leading you astray. Let me make amends by guiding you back to the shore. Virtue is the only true shelter. Turn back before the sea swallows you."
It was a masterpiece of Confucian hypocrisy. He framed his rejection as moral guidance, his cowardice as wisdom. He sealed it in an envelope, writing To Sister Ge on the front.
He felt a wash of relief. He had done the "right" thing. He had closed the book.
The next afternoon, the opportunity arose. Little Cabbage came to the main house, ostensibly to return a basket.
She found Yang Naiwu in the central hall. The women were in the back room.
He walked past her, his face composed. With a sleight of hand practiced in a thousand secret meetings, he slipped the letter into her palm.
"Read it," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It contains the truth."
Little Cabbage hid the letter in her sleeve. Her heart soared. He had written back. He had a plan.
She hurried back to the western wing, waiting until Third Girl was distracted by a bowl of dates. She tore open the seal.
She scanned the characters. She did not know them all, but she knew enough.
Virtue. Husband. Mistake. Turn back.
The hope drained out of her, leaving a cold, hollow space in her chest.
He was not saving her. He was preaching to her. He was telling her to be a good wife to the Dwarf. He was telling her that their love was a "mistake" to be corrected.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the paper crumbling in her fist. The betrayal was total. He had taken her body, consumed her adoration, and now he was handing her a sermon and sending her back to the sty.
She realized then that there were no gods in the Yang estate. Only men. And men protected themselves.
Events moved quickly after that. The machinery of separation was put into motion.
Pinlian returned that evening with news. "We are moving," he announced, his voice tight with satisfaction. "Mother and I have found a house on Peace Street. We leave on the eleventh."
The eleventh. Seven days before the wedding.
Little Cabbage nodded. She did not argue. She moved through the packing like a sleepwalker. She folded the quilts, boxed the cups, and stripped the western wing of the few touches of warmth she had added.
She felt a strange detachment. The weeping girl was gone. In her place was something harder, calcified by rejection.
On the morning of the move, chaos reigned. Madam Yu was shouting instructions; Third Girl was wailing because she couldn't find her shoes.
Little Cabbage was in the kitchen, packing the last of the jars. She reached for the tea canister. Behind it, hidden in the shadows, was the small paper packet Yang Naiwu had given her weeks ago.
The sedative. To help him sleep, he had said. To give you peace.
She reached for it.
It was gone.
She froze. She searched the shelf. She swept her hand across the dusty wood. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, pierced her detachment. Had Pinlian found it? Did he know she had harbored thoughts of drugging him?
"Are you ready?" Pinlian's voice boomed from the doorway.
She spun around. He was holding a crate, his face flushed with exertion. He looked normal. He didn't look like a man who had found a weapon.
"Yes," she stammered. "Almost."
"Hurry up," he said. "The cart is waiting."
He left.
Little Cabbage stood there, her mind racing. Where was it?
Then she saw Third Girl in the courtyard. The idiot girl was sitting on a pile of bedding, chewing on something. A piece of oil paper lay at her feet.
Little Cabbage rushed out. "What are you eating?"
Third Girl giggled, a white powder dusting her chin. "Sweet dirt! Found it in the jar!"
Little Cabbage snatched the paper. It was the wrapping of the sedative. It was empty.
Third Girl had eaten it.
Horror washed over Little Cabbage. Was it poison? Would the girl die right here, foaming at the mouth, exposing everything?
"Is it good?" Third Girl asked, burping loudly. "Tastes like medicine."
Little Cabbage watched her, terrified. But Third Girl just yawned. Her eyes drooped. She leaned back against the bedding and, within seconds, was snoring loudly, a deep, chemically induced slumber.
It was just a sedative. Strong, but not fatal.
Little Cabbage let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. But then the realization hit her.
She had lost her weapon. She had lost the one thing that gave her power over Pinlian.
Now, she was truly unarmed. She was moving to a strange house, with a husband who claimed her, a mother-in-law who watched her, and no way out.
VI. The New Cage
The cart rumbled down the cobblestones, carrying the Ge family away from the Yang estate.
Little Cabbage sat on the back of the cart, watching the whitewashed walls of the manor recede. She saw the window of Yang Naiwu's study. It was closed.
She touched her sleeve, where his rejection letter still lay. Turn back to the shore, he had written.
There is no shore, she thought. Only the deep water.
They arrived at the new house on Peace Street. It was a two-story building, cramped and dark, wedged between a noisy tavern and a coffin shop. The air smelled of sawdust and stale wine.
"It is perfect," Madam Yu declared, her eyes shining. "Here, you will be safe. Here, you will be a real family."
Pinlian carried the crates inside. He looked at Little Cabbage, his eyes possessive, stripped of the fear he had felt in the Yang estate. He was the master here.
"Tonight," he whispered to her, "we celebrate in our new home."
Little Cabbage looked at the dark stairs leading up to the bedroom. It looked like the throat of a beast.
She went to the kitchen to boil water. Her eyes fell on the chopping block. Resting there was a heavy iron knife, used for cutting vegetables.
She picked it up. It was cold and heavy in her hand. The metal was pitted, but the edge was bright.
If I cannot make him sleep, she thought, staring at the blade, perhaps I can make him bleed.
The thought terrified her. But it also thrilled her. It was the first spark of power she had felt in weeks.
She put the knife down. Not yet.
But the seed was planted. And in the dark, fertile soil of her despair, it would grow fast.
To see how the nightmare begins in the new house, read the next chapter.