Chapter 8: The Monk’s Pupil

With only little Yunjuan by her side, Yin Zhi could finally relax. Under the guise of tutoring Yunjuan, she spent her days asking questions—really, she was quietly learning the temple staff’s routines and the household rules.

She even painted a rosy future for Yunjuan: “When Qingyan marries off, I’ll bring you into the main rooms. Your monthly allowance will double.” Every maid dreams of becoming the senior maid—and earning more. Yunjuan treasured her service to Yin Zhi, tending her with earnest care.

Gao Madame soon befriended the mountain villagers. No longer did she need to descend for provisions—they arranged for fresh vegetables to be delivered.

The spring water up here was sweet and pure—far better than the estate’s well water, for it was true mountain spring.

A short walk beyond the gate brought them to a pavilion halfway up the hill. There, a cool breeze and endless green vistas greeted them. After every breakfast, Yin Zhi led her maids on these morning walks to exercise.

Once she pushed past any guilt at “using child labor,” life here truly felt comfortable. But monotony crept in—there was so little entertainment. As a young girl in mourning, able to read only a few characters, no one thought to provide her with books.

Bored, she recalled the temple offered lectures. She decided to attend—and found them surprisingly engaging. These talks were tailored not for monks but for lay patrons like herself. Though intended to deepen devotees’ faith (and their donations), the lectures were delivered by learned monks, never dull. For someone who had “burned out” in her past life and fled the big city, these teachings offered fresh perspectives and small epiphanies.

She made it a habit to attend the morning lectures daily—unaware that her dedication was drawing attention.

The chief monk told the abbot, “That girl from the Yin household, here in mourning, shows remarkable insight.”

Indeed, though but a child, her soul was that of a mature listener. To the monks, she was plainly “gifted.”

Meanwhile, among the women attending the services, there was quiet curiosity: “Whose daughter is that? So young, yet she sits so still—truly admirable.” Upon learning she was here in filial mourning, they sighed, “What a dutiful child.”

Gifts of fruit and cakes soon arrived, purely in acknowledgment of her as a child. Yin Zhi had not expected social obligations even in a monastery—and that failure to return gifts would be improper anywhere.

She scratched her head and told Gao Madame, “Those potted plants in the front courtyard are lovely. Ask Brother Chunyuan if any are for sale. I’ll transplant a mountain blossom into one as a thank-you gift.”

Gao Madame, unlettered and unworldly, scoffed, “Why give wild mountain flowers? People just dig them up at will.”

Yin Zhi replied, “You simply buy the pot.”

Beyond lectures, she borrowed Buddhist storybooks from the monks and wandered the mountain grounds. With a nod from Gao Madame, she allowed Qiaoque to slack off, kept Yunjuan close, and freely returned to her true self—digging up attractive blossoms to replant in her courtyard.

In her past life, she’d left the metropolis to run a small greenhouse—self-taught, stumbling through mistakes, but eventually turning a modest profit. Between the monk talks and gardening, Temple life suited her.

Gao Madame watched as she fussed over each transplant—trimming stems, adding pebbles from the stream to cover roots. “It does look quite refined,” she admitted.

When the pot was ready, Gao Madame carried it off as a gift. She took a full incense stick’s worth of time before returning. “They loved it,” she beamed. “One of the women even brought another noble lady to admire it—and asked me many questions about your flowers.”

Of course Gao Madame could only say, “My mistress enjoys tending them,” and keep the ladies’ generous tips to herself. “One was even an official’s wife,” she gossiped proudly.

In this world, a jinshi degree symbolized prestige—any official’s wife ranked high. Though Yin Zhi had never cared for such distinctions, she recognized now just how much ordinary people revered scholarly rank. The deep class divide—merchants at the bottom, scholar-officials at the top—pressed upon her, and she lay awake that night pondering a system she could neither escape nor easily change.

Realizing such anxieties were useless, she forced herself to sleep—and unsurprisingly rose late the next morning, missing early lecture.

Around noon, a young novice arrived: “Brother Chunyuan sent me to check on you, Miss.”

Smaller than Shen Ti, this bald-headed novice was adorable enough to hug—though Yin Zhi restrained herself. She had Yunjuan offer him a sugar candy and said, “I overslept playing yesterday. Tomorrow I’ll be on time. Please tell Master not to worry.”

The novice crunched happily and departed, reporting: “She awoke late.”

Only then did the senior monk relax. He had worried: a punctilious girl who never missed lectures suddenly broke her routine—and alone in the temple, with only servants for company, her discipline needed oversight.

“Amitābha,” he said. “All is well.”

His genuine concern moved Yin Zhi. For unlike the network she inherited as “Fourth Miss Yin”—to which he was oblivious—this concern was solely for her, born of her own devotion to the lectures and the bonds she had formed here.

She also recalled the noble lady who had sent consumables and the jinshi wife who admired her flowers. Wishing to reciprocate, she told Gao Madame, “At tomorrow’s lecture, I’ll greet her.”

But the next morning, she found neither lady present. Gao Madame answered their absence with news: “Both returned to the capital—one in the company of another official’s wife.”

“Well,” Yin Zhi shrugged. “I only meant to say hello.”

A few days later, new offerings arrived. It was now June, and Gao Madame and Qiaoque eagerly questioned the delivering maid. She said, “No news—though Madam Shen and Young Master have already departed for the capital, accompanied by another official’s wife.”

Gao Madame sighed, “Heard he’s stunning. Too bad I won’t see him.”

The maid, a rough-house servant, retorted proudly, “I saw him myself”—for she alone carried the ladies’ luggage.

She added: “Miss Qingyan bade me tell you not to be headstrong—that she means well.”

Yin Zhi groaned. Qingyan, fearing she might be forgotten after so long away, had instructed Yunjuan to press her to return home-made gifts for the Third Madam—embroidered handkerchiefs, shoes, purses.

In their world, such projects were expected. So Yin Zhi tried to stitch but found her hands betrayed her: though memories told her how, her fingers refused. Realizing the mismatch, she tore out her stitches and abandoned the task.

Then she thought of her handwriting—an even bolder giveaway. Testing quietly, she learned that Gao Madame, Qiaoque, Yunjuan, and Aunt Li were all illiterate—but Qingyan could read. Though the trunks contained ink, brushes, and model calligraphy sheets, there were no samples of the original Miss Yin’s writing.

When next the estate sent a courier, Yin Zhi had Qiaoque deliver a purse of coins with instructions: “Tell Qingyan I remain absorbed in scripture copying, too distraught to embroider. Please ask her to bring along my practice sheets next time, so I may see if my writing has improved.”

The maid, eager for her tip, hastened to comply.

By summer’s arrival, Yin Zhi felt secure. Pulling Qiaoque and Yunjuan aside, she enlisted Gao Madame’s help in brushing up her embroidery and calligraphy—in small sessions, one-on-one—thus eliminating another risk of exposure.

Yin Zhi sought no great wealth or rank—only the peace to live out her days here undetected, tending monks’ lectures and mountain blossoms in tranquillity.