Lunch — or Something Like It
At midday, Su Yan found Wan Li returning slowly to the courtyard.
"Miss," Su Yan said softly, handing her a small bowl of porridge, "eat while you can."
Wan Li held the bowl with both hands, though it was barely warm.
"Did they treat you badly?" Su Yan asked quietly.
Wan Li stared into the porridge. "I… don't know."
She didn't understand cruelty.
She only understood right and wrong.
And she feared she was doing everything wrong.
Su Yan noticed the tiny scratches on Wan Li's fingers and pressed her lips together.
"Miss… your hands…"
Wan Li pulled them back quickly. "I'm fine."
She wasn't.
"But I will try harder tomorrow."
Su Yan's eyes softened painfully.
--
Afternoon Lessons in Silence
After lunch, Wan Li attempted to practice reading from one of the books left discreetly on her table — "Essential Virtues for Women."
She had already memorized some lines from her palace lessons:
A woman must be gentle in appearance, soft in voice, cautious in manner.
Wan Li tried repeating the lines quietly.
Her voice was too soft.
Her posture too tense.
Her thoughts too loud.
After a few pages, she set the book down and wrapped her arms around her knees.
"Su Yan… do you think… people here will ever… like me?" she asked timidly.
Su Yan hesitated. "Miss… perhaps not soon."
Wan Li bit her lip.
"But if I learn fast… and if I obey everything… and if I do what Mother taught me… maybe they won't hate me?"
Su Yan's chest tightened.
Wan Li wasn't asking for affection.
She wasn't asking for kindness.
She was asking not to be hated.
"Miss," Su Yan whispered, kneeling beside her, "liking or disliking is not what matters now. Surviving matters. Keeping hope matters."
Wan Li lowered her head.
Hope.
Her fingers brushed the fabric near her sleeve, where one of the small gold pieces her mother hid for her was wrapped and tied securely.
Mother's last gift.
Her last promise.
"You are promised to the Yuan family's youngest son… he will be your future."
Wan Li's voice trembled. "When he comes home… do you think… he will be kind?"
Su Yan hesitated, but Wan Li didn't notice.
She had already looked down, cheeks flushed with fragile hope.
"If Mother said… he will be my future husband… then he must be good," Wan Li whispered. "I… I must become good, too."
The innocence of it made Su Yan look away.
Wan Li didn't know the world.
She didn't know men.
She didn't know ambition.
She didn't know danger.
But she knew obedience.
She knew duty.
She knew promises.
And she clung to that promise now like a child gripping the last warm candle in a dark room.
--
Evening Shadows
As dusk painted the courtyard in faint lavender, Wan Li helped Su Yan sweep the small veranda. She held the broom carefully, using both hands — she was afraid if she held it with one, she might drop it and create trouble.
"Lower your hands a little, Miss," Su Yan said gently. "Yes, like that."
Wan Li tried again.
Her sweep was weak, barely moving dust.
She didn't notice a young maid watching from behind a pillar, smirking.
"She sweeps like she's afraid of the floor," the girl whispered to another.
Wan Li's ears burned.
She kept sweeping.
Sweeping.
Sweeping.
Until the porch was clean, even if her arms ached.
"Miss, that's enough," Su Yan said.
Wan Li nodded and leaned the broom against the wall.
She opened her mouth to say something—but froze when two older maids passed by, speaking in lowered voices that still carried across the quiet courtyard.
"The Madam is already dealing with enough," one murmured. "Adding some useless girl from a fallen dynasty…"
"She's lucky the Madam is merciful," the other said. "If she had gone to the wrong house, she'd be dead."
Wan Li's heart stopped.
Dead.
She stood perfectly still until their footsteps faded.
Then she turned to Su Yan, whispering:
"Su Yan… am I… trouble?"
Su Yan took her hands gently.
"No, Miss. You are a child who lost everything. That is not trouble."
Wan Li's lips trembled.
"I… I want to be useful. So… so Madam Li won't regret taking me in."
"She won't," Su Yan said firmly.
But Wan Li didn't look convinced.
She bowed her head, whispering so quietly Su Yan barely heard:
"I will learn. I will obey. I will not bring shame… so that when he comes home… I can be the kind of person Mother wanted."
She didn't say his name.
She didn't have to.
Su Yan's eyes softened with painful tenderness.
The youngest son.
The boy she had never met.
The future she clung to.
A dream she held like a fragile secret.
Nightfall
They returned to their room when the sky darkened.
Wan Li sat on the edge of her narrow bed, hands folded in her lap, head bowed.
"Miss… are you tired?" Su Yan asked.
Wan Li nodded faintly.
But when Su Yan dimmed the lantern and lay down, Wan Li remained awake.
She pressed a hand against her chest.
It hurt — not physically, but something inside her hurt in a small, tight way she didn't understand.
She curled beneath the blanket, eyes wide in the darkness.
Her thoughts whispered:
I must endure.
I must obey.
Mother said he will be my future.
If I am good… maybe the house will accept me.
Maybe he will accept me.
Maybe… I won't be alone.
Her tears came silently.
No sobbing.
No sound.
Just trembling breaths and a wet pillow.
Su Yan turned toward her in the dark but didn't speak. She knew Wan Li was trying her best to cry quietly — the way she had been taught.
Wan Li whispered into the blanket:
"…I will do better tomorrow."
It was not a hope.
It was a promise.
To her mother.
To herself.
To the boy she believed she would marry someday.
To the house that did not want her.
In her small heart, one fragile thought flickered:
If I become good enough… maybe someone will stay.
--
TBC