In the third month of the first year of Jinghe.
The Ming dynasty’s cabinet transformed. Bai Huan retired to recuperate, and his son Bai Yuyang was promoted to Chief Grand Secretary. Yang took charge of the Ministry of Revenue, naturally becoming the Deputy Grand Secretary. Meanwhile, the inner court reorganized the Ceremonial Office, with Deng Ying appointed as its Chief Eunuch while retaining his position as Superintendent of the Eastern Depot, thus overseeing both inner court offices.
Deng Ying became extremely busy, with his sleep gradually diminishing.
Yang Wan prepared medicinal foot baths for him, during which Deng Ying often fell asleep leaning against the bed frame.
He slept peacefully, maintaining proper posture. Even with just a wooden beam for support, he never slouched, though his brows would furrow slightly. Sometimes Yang Wan couldn’t resist reaching out to smooth the creases between his eyebrows, and he would smile at her upon waking.
By Yang Wan’s bedside, he was simply a man in plain clothes.
But at court, he wore official robes, caught in the vortex of politics.
As March drew to a close.
The city’s flowers bloomed and withered, but the Donglin School’s anti-eunuch voices grew increasingly loud, gradually aligning with the Imperial Censors of the Censorate. The Qingbo House was implicated as a result. The revised “Orthodox Understanding of Poetry Rules” that Zhou Muyi and others had compiled had barely been printed and distributed when angry Donglin scholars gathered the copies and burned them all at Qingbo House’s entrance.
When Yang Wan returned and stepped down from her carriage, she saw Song Yunqing alone sweeping paper ashes at the entrance.
The shopkeeper and clerks stood at the doorway, wanting to help but not daring to speak.
Yang Wan asked a clerk to take her things while she walked to Song Yunqing’s side, bending to pick up an unburnt page.
Song Yunqing straightened up, looking down at Yang Wan: “I feared it would sadden you, so I wanted to sweep it away before you returned, but you still saw it.”
Yang Wan put down the paper and stood, dusting off her hands.
“I bought some nuts on my way back, you and sister can help me shell them later.”
Seeing her change the subject, Song Yunqing couldn’t help saying: “You don’t mind?”
Yang Wan smiled slightly: “Actually, it pains me deeply.”
Song Yunqing said: “Indeed, what fault could there be in books under scholars’ hands?”
Yang Wan couldn’t help but laugh at this.
Song Yunqing turned her head: “What are you laughing at?”
Yang Wan repeated her words, “‘What fault could there be in books under scholars’ hands?’ This statement doesn’t bear close examination.”
Song Yunqing tilted her head back and sighed, “Only you could still laugh at a time like this.”
Yang Wan held back her smile, watching the clerks moving things while asking: “When did they come to burn the books?”
“Early this morning, right after you left, they arrived.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Better not ask what they said – what good words could they have for you and the Superintendent? Fortunately, the Imperial Guards came later and dispersed them.”
Yang Wan didn’t ask further, taking the broom from Song Yunqing’s hand, “Watch them move the things, I’ll sweep.”
Song Yunqing nodded and went inside with the clerks.
Only then did Yang Wan crouch down with the broom, quietly looking at the pile of ashes.
She couldn’t bring herself to use the broom, instead gathering the ashes with her hands.
The grit on the ground scraped her skin, causing some pain.
“Do you need me to send people to guard this place?”
A familiar cold voice came from behind.
Yang Wan’s hands froze, but she didn’t look up.
“No need, Lord Zhang.”
Zhang Luo crouched down, setting aside his sword: “What books were burned?”
“‘Orthodox Understanding of Poetry Rules,’ compiled by some students from Chushan Academy.”
Zhang Luo looked down at the paper ashes: “When did you learn to print books?”
Yang Wan looked up with a smile, “Publishing books was what I wanted to do most.”
When a woman said she wanted to work in book publishing, he instinctively wanted to criticize her presumption, but he held back, instead asking: “Why?”
Yang Wan smiled somewhat helplessly, “Because my writings were unorthodox and could never be published. Now I can make my judgments and publish books I think are good, but sadly they end up burned like this.”
Zhang Luo said: “You’re upset.”
Yang Wan nodded, lowering her eyelids, her voice somewhat tired, “Yes. Scholars burn books for partisan reasons, while those who treasure words don’t even have the right to author them. I won’t accept it. No matter how they treat me, I’ll keep Qingbo House running.”
These words exposed the raw skin of the capital’s literary world, but because the one exposing it was too weak, there was no bloody pain – observers instead felt disgust and pity for the one doing the exposing.
Zhang Luo fell silent, and Yang Wan didn’t speak either, lowering her head to continue gathering the book ashes, casually asking: “By the way, did you eat the tangerines my brother sent you?”
“No.”
Hearing this, Yang Wan couldn’t help but laugh, “Then let me treat you to tea later.”
“No need, I have matters to attend to.”
He stood to leave after speaking.
“Lord Zhang.”