Chapter 81: Do Not Covet a Robe of Golden Thread; The Miao Maiden Seeks Him to Stitch the Dead

A whole year trickles away like lotus-shaped water clocks, the wine in the well by the wall thickens with winter’s chill. Song Mo gently waved his paper fan, and the audience below chuckled, ready to listen on.

“Now, this Du Qiuniang was a cautious soul. Though still young, she was determined not to let her beauty fade with the passing days. At that time, the entertainers would perform the same old dances and songs for Li Qi, but Du Qiuniang had other ideas.”

“One day, at a banquet hosted by Li Qi, entertainers were called to perform. Du Qiuniang, after some secret thought, composed both lyrics and melody for a new song—‘The Golden Threaded Robe.’ At the feast, she danced like a willow bending under the moon, sang as if the peach blossoms fluttered beneath her fan. Her hair was coiffed high like a phoenix, her slender waist swayed with graceful softness. With every lotus step, she evoked the elegance of the Han palace’s flying swallow. The drums urged on the melody, pheasants seemed to flutter from her silken sleeves, and her hair ornaments shimmered, so that Liu Lang might well mistake her for a willow in the wind.”

“Du Qiuniang was already a rare beauty, and this song reached straight into Li Qi’s heart. But do you know the words she sang?”

Here, Song Mo paused and tapped the ebony table with his storyteller’s block.

This tap was no trivial matter. Among storytellers, it was known as ‘the cue for reward’—a gentle hint to the listeners that it was time to show their appreciation.

Song Mo spoke with great passion, and the new tale of ‘The Golden Threaded Robe’ was novel indeed. As soon as he paused, the audience showered the stage with copper coins and bits of silver.

Song Mo was sipping tea to moisten his throat when a silver ingot, worth a tael, landed at his feet. Looking up, he saw it was Tang Yi who had tossed it.

Song Mo’s heart skipped a beat. Had Tang Yi seen through his disguise?

But Tang Yi’s face betrayed nothing, and Song Mo couldn't be sure. In any case, Tang Yi was known for her generosity—such a reward was perfectly in character.

Seeing the generous tips, Song Mo cheerfully tapped his block again and continued.

“Du Shiniang was born clever; her ‘Golden Threaded Robe’ consists of only four lines.”

“‘I urge you not to value the golden robe,
But to cherish the days of youth.
When flowers are there to be picked, pick them at once,
Don’t wait until there are none, and break only bare branches.’”

Song Mo finished and glanced up, locking eyes with Tang Yi. She was looking at him as well; for a moment, their gazes met, and awkwardness hung between them.

Song Mo hastily fluttered his folding fan, attempting to cover his discomfort.

The audience, meanwhile, wore looks of astonishment. “Could such an extraordinary woman truly exist?” they exclaimed.

Song Mo chuckled. “Indeed! Li Qi was so moved, his heart leapt as if spring had come anew. Well into his fifties, how could he resist such allure? He decided on the spot to take Du Qiuniang as his concubine. Though years apart, they became husband and wife, spending countless blissful days together amidst spring flowers and autumn moons.”

“A happy ending for lovers—how beautiful!” the listeners said, laughing with delight.

But Song Mo pulled a sorrowful face. “Yet fate is heartless, destiny unkind. Their happiness lasted but a short while before the world plunged into chaos. Li Qi was killed in the turmoil, leaving poor Du Qiuniang behind, a fragile beauty left to grieve.”

The crowd, caught off guard by this twist, pressed him eagerly, “And then? What became of Du Qiuniang?”

Song Mo smiled slyly, tapped his storyteller’s block, and declared, “To hear what comes next, please return for the next installment.”

The audience sighed, but their interest was far from sated. Soon, they were debating among themselves: some argued that a marriage between an old man and a young wife defied propriety, while others insisted that such a match was the envy of mortals and gods alike...

Of course, Song Mo paid these discussions no mind. All he wanted was to leave as soon as possible.

He had barely left the Spring Wind and Delight Pavilion when a grinning attendant caught up to him, handing over some loose silver—no less than two taels.

“Sir, your payment.”

Song Mo took it without a word and continued toward the door.

Just then, he noticed another server by the threshold, searching frantically through his clothes with a face like impending doom, muttering, “How could it be gone? I put it here just fine...”

Song Mo squinted and couldn’t help but smile; it was the same server he had played a small trick on earlier.

He walked over, slipped the loose silver into the server’s pocket with a deft hand, and said in a low voice, “Never judge others through a crack in the door—do good deeds, and fortune will find you.”

“What fortune? I just lost five taels of silver—five whole taels!” the server moaned in despair.

At that moment, an old man with a limp appeared outside. Song Mo pointed to the old man and said, “If you trust me, help this gentleman inside—you’ll see something good come of it.”

The server, half convinced, helped the old man in. As he did, his hand brushed his pocket. Reaching in, he pulled out exactly two taels of loose silver.

Wasn’t this the money meant for Song Mo’s dish?

He turned around in astonishment, but the storyteller had already vanished.

...

The river glimmered in the autumn light, the day was fine, a breeze swept across the land.

Song Mo wandered out of the Spring Wind and Delight Pavilion, strolling aimlessly until he found himself in the territory of Dark Moon City.

The streets bustled with hurried passersby. Song Mo, munching on a hot cake he’d bought, looked around with unabashed curiosity.

Everything caught his interest: candied hawthorn skewers stuck in a haystack, grotesque festival masks displayed on tables, sachets scented with mint, girls with proud, graceful bearing...

Wait—girls with proud bearing?

Song Mo grinned, then looked up and froze.

It was none other than the Miao girl he had encountered under the Yunying Bridge.

“I didn’t expect a corpse-handler to have a kind heart,” the Miao girl said, her voice cold as she addressed Song Mo directly.

Song Mo tensed. He was still in his storyteller disguise.

“Miss, you must be mistaken,” he replied, feigning confusion.

“Spare me your act. Come with me,” the Miao girl said, her brows furrowing—though even frowning, she was strikingly beautiful.

“I’m telling you, you’re mistaken,” Song Mo insisted. No matter how lovely she was, he dared not follow her, not after witnessing her skills firsthand.

“You have no choice,” she replied, stepping closer. Her subtle fragrance unsettled him.

“Scoundrel!” she said, her tone tinged with annoyance.

Song Mo felt a sudden chill around his neck. Looking down, he nearly jumped out of his skin.

A thin, crimson cord was coiled around his throat—but on closer inspection, it was a small red snake!

It was flicking its tongue, as if deciding whether to give him a bite.

“All right, all right! I’ll go with you, is that enough?” Song Mo snapped.

The Miao girl whistled softly. The little snake slithered from Song Mo’s neck onto her arm, raising its head triumphantly. Song Mo was thoroughly unnerved.

She led Song Mo through alleys and courtyards, stopping at last at a nondescript, half-collapsed tile-roofed house.

“Go in,” she said curtly.

Song Mo dared not disobey, so he ducked through the door.

Crossing the dilapidated yard, he entered the side room. Inside, there was only a bed, a table, two wooden chairs, and on the table, a teapot with two cups.

A faint fragrance hung in the air, the same as the one on the Miao girl. Clearly, this was where she lived.

She followed him in, lifting the curtain. Song Mo forced a smile. “Since this is your private chamber, miss, it really isn’t proper for me to intrude. Perhaps I should come another day to pay my respects?”

“Ugh, you scoundrel—so you know shame?” she snapped, glaring at him. Remembering how he had ogled her under the bridge, she glared even harder.

Song Mo gave an awkward laugh, wiped his face, and instantly his own features reappeared.

“So, you do have some tricks,” she said.

“What is it you want from me?” Song Mo asked. Since the Miao girl seemed not to mean him harm, he began to speculate about her motives.

Robbery? A humble corpse-handler like him had little to steal.

Seduction? She called him a scoundrel at every turn—best not consider that.

That left only one possibility: his needlework.

Sure enough, after a moment’s hesitation, the Miao girl said, “Can you help me stitch up a corpse?”