14 Writing

On the other side, Zhao Baozhu followed Ye Jinghua into the study. Upon looking up, he saw a calligraphy scroll hanging in the doorway, bearing a poem.

Zhao Baozhu’s eyes lit up immediately, and he exclaimed, “What beautiful calligraphy!”

He examined the poem repeatedly. The brushstrokes were vigorous and powerful, the turns sharp and decisive, giving the piece an imposing grandeur—truly the finest kind of writing to safeguard a home.

He scrutinized the work twice from top to bottom, growing more fond of it with each glance. Unable to contain his curiosity, he looked toward Ye Jinghua, who sat behind the desk, and asked, “May I ask which master penned this? The handwriting is truly exquisite.”

Ye Jinghua, who had been retrieving a book from the shelf, looked up and gave him a glance. “You understand calligraphy?”

Zhao Baozhu was momentarily stunned, realizing that in their eyes, he probably appeared as an illiterate servant. He stammered, “I… I know a little.”

Ye Jinghua smiled at his expression, his lips curling slightly before he lowered his eyes. Zhao Baozhu sensed something in his demeanor, paused in surprise, and then asked, “Did you write this calligraphy, Young Master?”

Ye Jinghua lightly nodded, still holding the book. Zhao Baozhu’s mouth fell open as he gazed at the characters on the scroll. Here was Ye Jinghua—so refined, handsome, like an immortal from a painting—but his calligraphy was grand and majestic, without a trace of delicacy. As the saying goes, “seeing one’s writing is like seeing the person,” and this script seemed to reveal the depth of a man’s thoughts. Zhao Baozhu’s eyes flickered with admiration, convinced that Ye Jinghua must be a man of great breadth and depth, and his respect for him deepened.

Zhao Baozhu paced a few circles beneath the porch, having admired the calligraphy enough, before reading the poem carefully. It was a quatrain, at first glance about reclusion and shunning the world, but upon closer inspection, each line conveyed a single sentiment—“Stay away from me!”

He chuckled softly. How clever, how perfectly it suited his thoughts!

Ye Jinghua noticed him pacing like a loyal dog beneath the porch and looked up, saying, “If you like the calligraphy, I can have it taken down for you.”

Zhao Baozhu immediately waved his hand, refusing, “No, no, no. It’s better that the poem stays here.” Finding Ye Jinghua quite amusing now, his initial fear dissipated, he stepped closer and asked, “Young Master, who is it that bothers your peace so much that you had to write such a poem?”

Ye Jinghua paused his reading and glanced at Zhao Baozhu. He hadn’t expected him to understand the poem’s underlying meaning. Zhao Baozhu caught his gaze and was about to apologize if he’d misspoken when Ye Jinghua lowered his eyes and softly asked, “Have you read any books?”

Zhao Baozhu blinked, replying vaguely, “A little, yes.”

“Just a little, huh?” Ye Jinghua looked at him but didn’t press further. Instead, he quietly asked, “Can you write?”

Thinking Ye Jinghua wanted him to help write something, Zhao Baozhu said, “Yes, I can.”

Ye Jinghua turned and took a fine wolf-hair brush from the shelf, along with an inkstone, and laid out some rice paper on the desk. “Write a few characters so I can see.”

Zhao Baozhu nodded and took the brush. It felt exceptionally light in his hand. The brush glided smoothly over the paper. He had never used such fine materials before. Encouraged, he composed a poem silently.

Ye Jinghua looked down and asked, “Have you read the Book of Songs?”

Zhao Baozhu nodded. “Yes.”

Ye Jinghua smiled faintly. “Good.”

Pleased by the praise, Zhao Baozhu lowered his head and looked at the characters he had just written. His cheeks flushed, and he murmured, “My handwriting… pales in comparison to yours, Young Master.”

When he was a child just beginning to learn, he relied on a few books his father had scavenged from the county town. In the hardest times, they couldn’t even afford paper or brushes, so Zhao Baozhu had to sharpen sticks and scratch characters onto the sand. Thus, his brushwork today was square and proper but lacked spirit.

Seeing him hang his head, Ye Jinghua chuckled softly. “Your handwriting is very good as it is.”

Zhao Baozhu looked up, glanced at Ye Jinghua, and suddenly imagined that the young master must have been surrounded by treasures and never lacked pen, ink, and paper in childhood. A twinge of jealousy mixed with admiration made him pout softly. “Don’t flatter me, Young Master.”

Ye Jinghua’s eyes curved further, and he said gently, “If you want to learn, I will teach you.”

Zhao Baozhu’s eyes sparkled. “Really?”

If he could write like this, his exam papers during the spring imperial examination would surely attract more attention. Seeing his delight, Ye Jinghua smiled subtly and took down three or four volumes from the shelf. They were Ye Jinghua’s own transcriptions of the Four Books and Five Classics. Zhao Baozhu was even happier—it was perfect for him to study the texts as well.

He carried the books to a small table and began to practice copying. Having loved reading since childhood, he often forgot to eat when engrossed in study. Without such perseverance, he wouldn’t have passed the provincial examination despite his humble beginnings.

Ye Jinghua sat behind the desk, casually reading a book, occasionally glancing up to observe Zhao Baozhu standing straight and focused, eyes fixed on the paper without distraction. His satisfaction grew.

The study fell silent for a while. After nearly half an hour, Zhao Baozhu had copied two sheets and paused, breathing a sigh of relief as he rubbed the slight ache from his wrist and wiped sweat from his brow. At that moment, a cool breeze brushed past his ear, and a clear, chilly voice whispered, “Why write so densely?”

Startled, Zhao Baozhu trembled, loosening his grip so the brush slipped from his fingers. Just before it hit the desk, a hand caught it.

Turning around in surprise, he saw Ye Jinghua standing behind him. With eyes lowered, Ye Jinghua placed the brush back in Zhao Baozhu’s palm, set aside the two completed sheets, and gently said, “No need to save ink for me. Write with some spacing.”

Seeing Ye Jinghua’s ethereal, handsome face so near, Zhao Baozhu’s cheeks flushed scarlet. He murmured assent and turned back to spread out the characters more evenly.

Then he heard the young master laugh softly beside his ear. “Much better.”

Zhao Baozhu’s face burned crimson to the roots of his hair. His hand shook as he held the brush, and his head felt dizzy—like a scholar bewitched by a fairy’s breath in a storybook.

This young master’s voice was just too enchanting! Embarrassed, Zhao Baozhu dared not look aside, thinking to himself that he finally understood why Miss Yu Qi looked so heartbroken that day. Such a handsome, learned, and sweet-talking young master before her—any woman would surely be undone.

He barely remembered how he had stumbled back to his room in a daze. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his heart still pounding wildly, a breeze drifted in from the window. Startled, Zhao Baozhu slapped his burning cheeks with both hands.

What a hopeless fool! To be so utterly impressed by a talented young master—especially one who was a scholar himself!

He scolded himself silently, then went to the spring in the courtyard, cupped water in his hands, and splashed it on his face until the heat abated somewhat.

Just then, Fang Qin arrived and saw Zhao Baozhu crouching on the ground, shaking water from his face.

Frowning, he said quietly, “Baozhu, what are you doing?”

Zhao Baozhu froze, stood up, and turned to see Fang Qin at the yard’s gate. He hurried forward, “Brother Qin.”

Fang Qin saw the water dripping from Zhao Baozhu’s face and frowned further. How could this boy still be playing with water at his age? He scrutinized Zhao Baozhu and couldn’t help but help him by pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket. One hand pressed on Zhao Baozhu’s shoulder as he wiped his face clean.

“Brother Qin, I can wipe it myself,” Zhao Baozhu protested, grimacing at the not-so-gentle treatment.

“Quiet,” Fang Qin said sternly, wiping him down thoroughly before withdrawing his hand, scolding, “You’re always making a mess of yourself, wasting the fine clothes the Young Master gave you.”

Zhao Baozhu smoothed his tousled sideburns and chuckled. He actually preferred the blue hemp tunic he wore before. Though this new outfit was soft and light, he had to be careful not to snag it on anything sharp—not very convenient.

“Brother Qin, did you come looking for me on purpose?”

He lowered his hands and asked.

Fang Qin looked him over, then turned toward the side room. “Let’s talk inside.”

Zhao Baozhu followed, feeling that Fang Qin’s earlier gaze held a trace of grievance. Inside the room, Fang Qin surveyed the sparse furnishings. Zhao Baozhu had moved his few belongings from the backyard side room, which itself was meager: a thin mattress on the bed and a small bundle on the window-side table. This room in the Ruìlái compound was larger and connected to a small front hall, which was still empty.

Fang Qin frowned and said, “This place is still too empty.”

“No matter. As long as I have a bed, it’s fine,” Zhao Baozhu replied promptly.

Seeing his compliance, Fang Qin’s brow relaxed. Whether sincere or feigned, at least Zhao Baozhu didn’t put on airs or behave arrogantly. He nodded and thought to have a set of furniture and screens brought in.

Earlier, when Fang Qin had sent Zhao Baozhu to this desolate courtyard, he hadn’t expected Ye Jinghua to discover him. He kept quiet then, but the next day, Fang Qin learned his monthly allowance had been docked three months’ pay.

Having served by Ye Jinghua’s side since childhood and often favored over Deng Yun for his intelligence, Fang Qin had never been punished like this. The blow to his pride left him sulking all day without serving Ye Jinghua. Now that he was tasked with arranging Zhao Baozhu’s affairs, he felt uneasy. Yet, seeing Zhao Baozhu’s simple and guileless face, he suspected the boy had no ill intentions.

After a long moment of contemplation, Fang Qin sighed and took a small cloth pouch from his pocket, handing it to Zhao Baozhu.

“Take this. The Young Master had the accounts office give it to you in advance for your settling-in.”

Zhao Baozhu took the pouch and opened it to find several gleaming silver ingots inside.

His eyes widened, hands trembling as he asked in a shaky voice, “…What is this?”

Fang Qin, seeing his naive expression, patiently explained, “This is ten taels of silver. You just arrived in the capital, so if there’s anything you need or want, buy it yourself. Don’t get any foolish ideas.”

Ten taels!

Zhao Baozhu was stunned. He had never seen so much money. To send him to the capital for the exam, the entire village had pooled their savings for months to afford five taels. Yet here Ye Jinghua had suddenly given him ten!

Zhao Baozhu immediately tied the pouch back up and returned it to Fang Qin.

“I can’t take this. Brother Qin, you should return it to Young Master. I’m staying here for free—I can’t accept money.”