Chapter 11: The weighing of Virtue

The second trial was announced without fanfare. A simple decree posted outside the main hall read:

"To govern a household is to first master one's own conduct. The next selection will test the core of a noble daughter's virtue: humility, obedience, and compassion."

It was less glamorous than the first. No silks or serenades, no tea ceremony traps. Just labor.

The test was called The Weighing of Virtue, but among the girls, it quickly earned another name:

"The Granny Gauntlet."

Each participant was assigned an elderly palace woman—some retired concubines, some widowed nobles, a few who were simply so old they had become decorative furniture.

These elder ladies were once sharp-tongued pillars of the imperial court.

Now? They had bones that creaked like haunted doors, voices sharper than paring knives, and an endless supply of grievances.

Some girls cried by nightfall.

---

Xue Lian was assigned the most infamous of them all: Madam Chu, former governess to a fallen prince and current reigning tyrant of the east garden. Her walking stick was rumored to have once whacked a General into submission.

"She made the last maid cry blood," whispered a daughter from House Peng.

"Lian'er," one of the attendants said with pity. "Perhaps feign illness?"

Xue Lian only tilted her head. "What, and miss the rare chance to serve royalty's most treasured fossil?"

The attendant choked. "You'll get struck."

"Not if I bow quickly enough."

---

Madam Chu did not disappoint.

"You," she barked as Xue Lian entered her courtyard, "you've got soft hands. That means you're useless."

Xue Lian bowed with her sweetest smile. "Then I shall work until they blister, esteemed elder."

"Your voice is too soft."

"I can shout if you prefer."

"Don't get smart."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

A long pause.

"Hmph," Madam Chu muttered. "At least you know how to talk like a servant."

And thus, the battle began.

---

By the second day, Madam Chu's endless list of impossible requests—"trim the lotus roots without slicing the virtue," "iron the curtains in the breeze," and "brew tea like the Queen Mother's first maid"—had driven two other girls into fevered headaches.

But Xue Lian kept pace.

She served porridge at precisely the right warmth, told ghost stories that made Madam Chu cackle like a crow, and strategically flattered her reputation without sounding false.

"You're clever," Madam Chu finally muttered one evening, reluctantly chewing her favorite ginger candies—coincidentally placed on her pillow.

"I'm obedient," Xue Lian said, smiling. "Cleverness would be disrespectful."

"Don't be smug."

"Never."

Pause.

"…Maybe a little."

---

Meanwhile, Xue Yan—who had drawn a quiet, near-deaf widow named Auntie Mei—was struggling in her own unique way.

She spent more time arranging her skirts than feeding her charge. Her idea of "compassion" involved setting out polished fruit she never peeled. Her voice, sugary sweet, often sounded like it was rehearsing for a stage play.

"Auntie Mei, does your delicate constitution require warm milk with rose honey or a decoction of ginseng for fortitude?"

Auntie Mei, bless her heart, just blinked. "What?"

Xue Yan repeated herself louder, waving a porcelain teacup.

The old woman flinched and dropped it.

Xue Yan scowled. Then she smiled again—sharp and shallow. "Don't worry, I'll have someone sweep that up."

---

By day four, the differences began to show.

The palace matrons began walking by Xue Lian's station more often, watching as she gently massaged Madam Chu's shoulders or helped her settle on the veranda.

"She speaks with her eyes," one whispered. "And listens with more than her ears."

"She speaks like she's trying to sell tea in a storm," Madam Chu retorted. "But at least she doesn't chatter nonsense like the rest of them."

"Tea, madam?" Xue Lian chimed sweetly.

"Only if you brought the one with peach blossoms. Not the tasteless swill from yesterday."

"…So no jasmine this time?"

"I said not swill, not perfume."

"Yes, yes. Tea with character—just like you."

Madam Chu tried not to laugh. She failed.

---

That evening, disaster struck for Xue Yan.

Auntie Mei had, as always, taken her quiet evening walk before sunset—a small routine the old woman had kept for decades.

But this time, when she tried to return, the doors were bolted.

She knocked once. Then again.

No one came.

By the time a passing servant found her, Auntie Mei was shivering and pale, standing barefoot by the east wing like a forgotten painting.

The household buzzed.

Rumors leapt like fleas on a dog.

"Who locked the gate?"

"I heard Xue Yan gave orders to keep her 'inside'!"

"No, she just… forgot. Right?"

---

The very next morning, Xue Yan arrived at the review hall with a full performance rehearsed.

Her cheeks were pale, her voice trembled.

"She must have wandered off… Her age, you see… she forgets things."

Auntie Mei sat nearby, blank-faced, sipping soup someone else had served.

Then a servant spoke.

"She didn't wander," the girl said, stepping forward nervously. "I was on night watch. Lady Xue Yan told us to lock all doors at dusk. She said—um—'The old ones are like cats, best kept indoors.'"

Xue Yan's smile froze.

"I never said that."

"She did," another servant confirmed. "I was there. She was laughing."

Heads turned. The matron frowned.

"Lady Xue Yan," she said slowly. "Compassion is not a stage performance."

Xue Yan's jaw clenched so tightly her temples twitched.

And then… Madam Chu cackled from her seat, smacking her cane.

"I told you that one was all silk and no thread!"

---

On the final day, the daughters were asked to present something reflective of their care—an item, a recipe, a scroll. Something symbolic.

Xue Yan offered a string of elegant poems about filial piety.

Elegant. Impressive.

Completely useless.

Xue Lian stepped forward with a humble scroll of notes—just clean handwriting, annotated herbs, and medicinal tips she used during the week. She'd even written each old woman's name, noting their ailments and favorite foods.

At the bottom was a single phrase:

"A flower admired is only as lovely as the hand that tends to it."

The Empress's niece, who had joined that day's review, read it twice. Then once more.

"Who taught you this care?" she asked.

"My late grandmother," Xue Lian answered softly. "She said even emperors were once fed by wrinkled hands."

A few matrons looked misty-eyed.

Even Madam Chu cleared her throat. "She nearly dropped me in the bath once. But she's got guts, I'll give her that."

---

That night, Xue Yan received a letter slipped under her door.

"Your sister is outpacing you. Do you wish for her to fall?"

The wax seal was shaped like a bird's claw.

Xue Yan stared at it until her hand shook.

She burned it quickly.

---

Outside, Xue Lian stood beneath a peach blossom tree in full bloom.

Madam Chu's voice rang faintly behind her, complaining to a maid. "She'll break hearts, that one. And probably kingdoms, if they're foolish enough to cross her."

Xue Lian didn't smile. She watched the petals fall, her hands calm.

But deep in her gaze—beneath the patience and sweetness—burned something colder than frost.

The game had begun in earnest.

Xue Lian closed her eyes, letting the wind stir her hair. She had not won everything yet—but she had survived the gauntlet. Again.

One step closer.

And this time, she'd done it not with beauty or words—

But with wit, work, and a teaspoon of sugar-coated rebellion.