Chapter 7: A Mourning of Convenience
The hardest days were those spent overseeing the memorial rites. Determined to cement her reputation as the dutiful daughter, Yin Zhi attended every ceremony in full. By day’s end, her legs would go numb from kneeling, and each night Qiaoque and Yunjuan had to massage them back to feeling.
In those moments, she silently thanked the deities of reincarnation that she had not been born to suffer beneath someone else’s hands.
Fortunately, the rites lasted only a few days. When the final ceremony concluded, Yin Zhi exhaled deeply. Pressing her palms together, she prayed in a low voice: ‘Having claimed this daughter’s body and name, may you and her be reborn into my other world—one without concubines or illegitimate children, a thousand times better than here.’
After the rites, she asked Gao Madame, “What should I do now?”
Gao Madame replied, “What did you do at home?”
Yin Zhi realized that, despite Gao Madame’s outward confidence, she too was unsure of what lay ahead. “I mean here in the temple—are there special rules? Please ask Brother Chunyuan to come and guide me.”
Moments later, the guest monk Chunyuan arrived. He said, “Amitābha. Nothing in particular. We have morning and evening services. As a young patroness, you may attend if you wish, but there is no obligation. Our abbot delivers sutra lectures that you are welcome to hear.”
Yin Zhi nodded. Chunyuan, having graciously accepted her gift, added kindly, “Also—vegetarian fare can be hard for a child. Your filial devotion moves the Buddha, so we have a separate kitchen here for lay guests. If you wish to cook for yourself, you may. Nearby villagers, who farm temple lands, can supply meat and eggs.”
Her eyes lit up at the thought of real food. She turned to Gao Madame: “Is it proper to eat meat during mourning?”
Gao Madame’s eyes brightened in turn. “Here in Huaixi, few even manage proper mourning for a concubine. For a daughter to observe a year’s filial rites—as you have—is truly extraordinary. If you wish meat, by all means.”
Yin Zhi pressed her sleeve to her eyes in mock sorrow. “My mother always urged me to eat meat to grow strong… Thank you for the reminder, Master.”
She now had rooms to live in, maids to tend her, and—best of all—meat to eat. What more could she want?
Gao Madame clarified that meat would require extra payment. Yin Zhi said, “I will discuss it with you, Mother, then inform Brother Chunyuan.”
When Chunyuan departed, she asked Gao Madame, “Can you cook? If so, I’ll entrust you with the funds.”
Gao Madame, once a housewife, laughed and clasped her hands, “Of course I can. Back home, our family knows my cooking well. The main kitchen is run by the Third Madam’s staff—no room for me—so I’ve been idle until now.”
Yin Zhi added a bonus to Gao Madame’s monthly allowance: “Purchase what you need. Any surplus is yours, but I insist on meat at every meal. If you fail, we will eat the temple vegetarian fare instead.”
Money changed loyalties swiftly. Gao Madame, who had initially sought to manipulate Yin Zhi, now bowed gratefully—this assignment suddenly had appealing rewards.
And so Yin Zhi began her days of “sleeping until awakened.” Although she still rose with the dawn—there was no reason to stay up late—she found the nights peaceful, broken only by crickets or the wind in the pines. Her sleep was as restorative as the spring mountain air.
Eastern Forest Temple sat atop a gentle hill, surrounded by rolling farmland and scattered villages. On clear days she could see plowed fields and farmers at work. All those fields belonged to the temple, untaxed, making it wealthier than many local gentry.
The temple offered two routes: a winding carriage road and a stairway for the devout. Dozens of small footpaths branched off for pilgrims seeking quiet.
Yin Zhi admired the temple’s practical hospitality. She left Aunt Li watching the courtyard and set off down the mountain with Gao Madame, Qiaoque, and Yunjuan. Sunlight sparkled on dew-laden grass, and birds chattered overhead. Though the villages were not far, everything felt pristine to Yin Zhi—like a spring outing.
At the foot of the hill, they found villagers selling vegetables and eggs, and sure enough, live chickens and ducks. Gao Madame negotiated briskly while enjoying herself; Qiaoque tagged along behind, noses crinkled at the sight of cow manure, eager to return to the tidy guest quarters. Yunjuan trailed quietly, unbothered by rural sights.
Once Gao Madame’s basket was full—fresh greens, eggs, and awaiting-butchered poultry—Yin Zhi felt her mouth water at the thought of warm chicken soup. Pausing by a mossy stone, she smiled wryly at the air: “Mother always said meat would help me grow. I must write to her to say—this is for health, not indulgence.”
They returned up the mountain at a leisurely pace. Back in her room, Yunjuan attended at her side; Qiaoque remained outside. Yin Zhi surveyed her small retinue with satisfaction: in a strange new world, she had already found ways to turn custom to her advantage—and made her own springtime of it.