Ever since my husband brought his mistress home as an honored concubine, I had been living like a goddess.
Getting up at the fourth watch every morning to prepare him for court?
The concubine’s job.
His clothes, his meals, his daily needs.
Taking care of him when he was drunk or ill.
The weighty business of attending to his parents—all hers.
So were the marital bed and bearing children.
When I asked her, yet again, to make shoes and socks and do the other needlework, I told her, “You’re an honored concubine, practically half a mistress of the house.
These are a mistress’s duties.
If you won’t do them, who will?”
She looked at me, dressed to the nines and ready to go out.
Seething with resentment.
Then her child was registered as mine.
And she became more respectful and obedient by the day.
I was perfectly happy with the arrangement.
My husband, however, began to grow restless.
