Chapter 15: The Unseen Thread

Yin Zhi had truly been preparing for this day for a long time.

A wealthy family could easily afford a doctor’s visit; they didn’t have to tough it out like the poor. The sick in noble households never left home—they summoned physicians to come and take their pulses.

Yin Zhi used money to grease the wheels, telling the senior doctor that she suffered from a cold constitution and hoped for a warming remedy to make her body heat up. Although her pulse indicated excellent health, the doctor knew that the daughters and wives of affluent families were often pampered—and it was common for them to take mild tonics “just in case.” Such nourishing, warming prescriptions did no harm, so he accepted her reward and gave her two formulas.

Through long practice, Yin Zhi had worked out how to roast one of those prescriptions before steeping it like tea. Since the matchmaker’s visit, she’d had her maids prepare a large pot of the roasted mixture, set aside for just such an occasion.

That day, after she was presented with the hairpin, she returned home and brewed a strong pot of the tonic—using several times the usual dosage. As expected, the moment she drank it, her body grew hot.

The maid who checked her simply assumed she had a fever.

That night, Yin Zhi pretended to moan and mutter, drawing Yunjian to her bedside. She staged a bit of mystique, just as she had in the past, leaving Yunjian trembling all night. Early the next morning, Yunjian hurried straight to the Third Madam to report.

“Pah!” Third Madam snarled at such superstitious talk. “Nonsense.”

Yunjian dropped to her knees. “Madam, forgive me. I dare not invent such things—but last night, Miss was exactly as she was when—when Aunt Yan used to haunt her…”

“Hold on,” Third Madam said sharply. “Aunt Yan haunts her? Explain yourself clearly!”

Yunjian hesitated. “I’m not entirely certain. It was Elder Sister Qiaoque—she’s married now—who told me.”

She repeated what Qiaoque had shared years ago: that the concubine mother Yan had never left the room and hovered around Yin Zhi, and that the girl would often speak to empty air.

“At the time, only Qiaoque and Qingyan knew about it,” Yunjian continued. “Do you remember Sister Qingyan? She later married into the First Branch…”

Third Madam’s face darkened. “If such things happened back then, why wasn’t I told?”

Yunjian stammered an excuse. “Back then… Fourth Mistress Yan was on her home visit, and you were so busy you could scarcely stand. Qiaoque said Qingyan was too afraid to disturb you…”

Those events had occurred many years earlier, but Third Madam remembered them well—her sister-in-law’s homecoming had been a triumph, and everything Third Madam did reflected on her own honor. In her pride, she’d indeed neglected the newly motherless Fourth Daughter.

Third Madam paused, then dropped the question of blame. “But how is Fourth Daughter now?”

Yunjian said, “I swear I heard her speaking from beneath the mosquito net, as if in conversation. I caught a few fragments. She said…”

“Mother asked me to marry…”
“I’ve come of age—Aunt, do not worry…”
“Aunt, quickly go and be reborn…”

Women were prone to believe in such things. Although Third Madam felt fear upon hearing it, she also thought:

“We did hold proper rites for Aunt Yan back then—no skimping on her funeral, and she rests in our ancestral tombs. We wronged her in no way. How could her spirit still linger after all these years?”

Just then, Master Yin emerged from the purification room, dressing behind the screen. He’d overheard most of the conversation. “Nonsense,” he said. “These servants are too fanciful. Go see for yourself.”

With no other choice, Third Madam prepared to inspect the matter personally.

As soon as Yunjian left, Yin Zhi stealthily downed another pot of the tonic. It took time for Third Madam’s household to mobilize—Yunjian had to wait to speak to her lady, Third Madam had to finish dressing, grab a hasty breakfast, and adopt the proper posture of a gracious wife and mother before venturing out. All the while, Yin Zhi’s brew was taking effect, and soon her fever reached a second peak.

When Third Madam finally entered Yin Zhi’s courtyard, she was struck by the riot of flowers and plants arranged at different heights—a sight she’d never paused to appreciate before. The rumors of Fourth Daughter’s gardening skill proved true, though as the principal wife, she rarely set foot in her concubine-born daughter’s domain.

Inside the inner chamber, Kui’er hurried forward. “Miss is still burning up.”

Third Madam paused at the threshold, then bade her attendants approach. Nanny Sun examined Yin Zhi’s forehead. “She really is burning up.”

Though fully conscious—courtesy of the tonic—Yin Zhi feigned sleep, her eyes shut as she mumbled.

“What is she saying?” Third Madam asked.

Nanny Sun leaned in. Her expression paled.

Yin Zhi, as if worried Third Madam might not hear, raised her voice: “Aunt—Aunt, let go of me… I’m to be married…”

Third Madam recoiled a step, her face ashen. Nanny Sun, ever faithful, jostled Yin Zhi. “Miss? Miss, wake up!”

Pretending to sleep, Yin Zhi gave no sign of waking. Yet the heat in her body was so real that no one suspected a trick.

Sun Mama called for cold water and a soaked towel. When the damp cloth, chilled by well water, was pressed to her face and neck—scrubbing her skin until it stung—Yin Zhi finally sighed awake, blinking in confusion. “Mama?”

Nanny Sun rejoiced: “She’s awake! Madam, look!”

Only then did Third Madam approach and question her gently.

Yin Zhi rubbed her eyes and murmured: “I felt someone pulling me, trying to drag me away. I fought back, and then I woke.”

Then she slid back down and closed her eyes, soon murmuring again: “Aunt, let go of me…”

Both women felt a chill run down their spines. Although Third Madam always believed she had treated her concubine-born daughters kindly, she had indeed once meddled in Aunt Yan’s fortunes: when Yan gave birth to Yin Zhi, Third Madam had secretly tampered with her medicine—just enough to leave Aunt Yan with a lifelong ailment, never enough to kill her.

That ailment had slowly worsened over the years, and Aunt Yan’s eventual death had seemed natural. Third Madam was certain it had nothing to do with her past mischief—yet now she wondered.

She exchanged a look with Nanny Sun, who silently led her outside and called Yunjian back for further testimony.

Yunjian said, “When we first arrived at the monastery, Qiaoque handled Miss’s personal care. I shouldn’t have been there, but Qiaoque was afraid, so she let me in to help. I saw Miss speaking to empty air, and half the nights, she’d suddenly sit up and call for Aunt Yan. I told Qiaoque I was scared, and only then did Qiaoque explain: from the moment Aunt Yan died until Miss left the mountain, it was always like that.”

Nanny Sun asked, “And then what happened?”

Yunjian replied, “Master came with scriptures and chanting, and over time it stopped. Madam, I wouldn’t have dared keep this secret if Miss hadn’t already been well by the time she descended from the temple—there was nothing to report.”

Once Yunjian was dismissed, Nanny Sun and Third Madam conferred. In such cases, one must drive away evil. Ordinary families might hire a local shaman, but Fourth Daughter had a revered monk as her teacher—it would be beneath them.

“Shall we send for the abbot?” Nanny Sun suggested.

“No!” Third Madam’s face drained of color. “We’ll send Fourth Daughter to him. The monastery is a pure place—better than our home.”

She dreaded the abbot’s arrival. What if he actually caught a ghost? Worse, what if Aunt Yan’s spirit appeared and denounced Third Madam’s past misdeeds in front of everyone?

Determined, she instructed: “Send someone to inform the abbot. If his disciple is unwell, he must attend. Arrange for Fourth Daughter to depart before noon.”

Nanny Sun hesitated. “But Fourth Miss still has a fever. I fear Master Yin…”

“Leave him to me,” Third Madam snapped.

That morning, Third Madam dragged Master Yin into her inner chamber. He was halfway through breakfast.

“It’s really a haunting! Aunt Yan’s spirit!” she declared.

After hearing the details, Master Yin scoffed. “Nonsense. We never mistreated her—why would her spirit linger?”

Third Madam fixed him with a stare. “How much did you dote on her before? And how many times did you visit her after she fell ill?”

Master Yin fell silent, uncomfortable. It was natural for a concubine’s favor to wane as her health did—yet scrutinizing the truth stung.

He defended himself: “We provided the best medical care.”

Third Madam seized on it: “I’m sending Fourth Daughter to her master at Donglin Temple. Under the Buddha’s light, Aunt Yan won’t dare cause mischief.”

She added thoughtfully, “And it won’t disturb the Old Madam.”

Invoking the senior matriarch eased Master Yin’s mind, and he agreed: “You’re right. Handle it—and with you in charge, I’m at ease.”

Yin Zhi had scarcely dared hope the plan would unfold so smoothly.

Originally, she’d intended to keep the fever going a day or two, then slip in a few ramblings to terrify them, and finally, in a moment of “clarity,” call for her master, reminding them she had a high monk to vouch for her.

She could never know the full depth of love and resentment between Master Yin, Third Madam, and the late Aunt Yan—but fortuitously, their own fears and guilt propelled her scheme forward.

The abbot had received Yin Zhi’s letter the previous month. She’d warned him that her time of need was approaching. That very noon, envoys from the Yin manor rode hard to announce that his disciple was unwell.

That afternoon, the nominal disciple departed in a carriage for the monastery.

In the meditation hall, the abbot gazed at the kneeling young woman and sighed. “Rise.”

Yin Zhi remained kneeling. “Master, I shall rise only when you permit.”

She bent low in a kowtow. “I do not wish to marry now.”

The abbot sighed deeply. “Eighteen is far too late…”

By ritual law, a girl who came of age at fifteen could marry. In practice, many wed at thirteen or fourteen, and becoming a mother so young was not uncommon. At seventeen, one was already considered late. Eighteen… even a monk balked at such a notion.

“Have you made some… special vow with someone?” the abbot asked gently, choosing his words carefully.

Yin Zhi held up three fingers. “Buddha is witness: if I have sinned in love, may I descend into the eighteen levels of Avīci Hell, never to be reborn.”

“Āmítuó Fó…” the abbot murmured.

“Master,” she pleaded, bowing again, “I truly have my reasons. I know what I do and the consequences it brings. Please—grant me this.”

Having lived through two lifetimes, she understood that, in this era, she would inevitably marry. But she refused to die young.

Here, childbirth was perilous—especially because girls married and bore children before their bodies were ready. A teenager’s body simply wasn’t developed enough; early childbirth was a gift to King Yama.

Transmigrated though she was—and lacking the heroic destiny of a great novel’s heroine—she knew she must conform and marry. Yet she had to delay. Life was hers to live. Even if her marriage ended up less than ideal, she could find her way forward. Only childbirth could not be avoided—and she would live to bear children safely.

At eighteen, her body would be fully mature—both she and her children would be safer.

“Master, you agreed to this vow long ago,” she said, head bowed. “Please fulfill it.”

For years, she had been no ordinary child. Had she been, the abbot would never have singled her out, nor taken her as his disciple.

A long moment of silence passed. Then the abbot sighed again.

“Āmítuó Fó…”