Chapter 2

The day before her wedding, my sister knelt and begged our father and her mother to remember that I was their own flesh and blood and not let me starve.

They promised.

That night, she secretly unlocked my door. Sitting beside me, she gently combed my tangled hair smooth.

Years earlier, when she first slipped into my room, I had not attacked her. From then on, she often came at midnight to wash me, comb my hair, and keep me company.

“Ah Qing, I am marrying tomorrow. I won’t be able to look after you anymore.”

Her tears spilled beyond her control.

I wiped them away but said nothing. I did not know how to comfort anyone. Yet somewhere inside me, it hurt.

She pressed my hand to her cheek and sobbed. She was afraid that I would not survive once she left. Everyone called her sister a monster and a lunatic; she only saw a pitiful girl who had been given neither love nor protection and had become what neglect made her.

“Elder Sister, don’t cry.”

My sudden words froze her in place. She stared at me, astonished that I could speak.

I had never said a word to anyone in all my life. They all believed I was mute.

“Q-Qing’er—you can talk?” she stammered.

I nodded. “Yes, Elder Sister.”

My voice was clear and steady, every word distinct. I was not mute. I had simply never wished to speak.

Joy replaced the grief on her tear-streaked face. She shouted toward the courtyard, “Father! Mother! Auntie! Come quickly! Little Sister can speak!”

Her cry finally brought our elders.

They stared when they found me sitting obediently beside her. They had ignored their second daughter for so long that they had not realized how much I had grown. I did not look deranged at all. I had become a remarkably pretty girl.

My mother wept and started forward, then hesitated. Perhaps she feared I would suddenly hurt her. Perhaps she was ashamed that she had abandoned me all these years.

My father asked my sister, “Yun’er, did you say she spoke?”

She nodded vigorously, fresh tears falling.

Stroking my head, she coaxed, “Qing’er, greet Father and the mothers.”

“Father. Mother. Mama.”

Those three obedient greetings filled the room with delighted surprise. A lunatic returning to normal—what rarer blessing could there be?

At last reassured, my sister entered her bridal sedan the next morning. She was sixteen then, and I was fifteen.

Afterward, I stopped hurting people so that she would not worry. I remained docile, though I spoke little, never smiled, and showed almost no feeling toward anyone or anything.

My father and the others gradually lowered their guard. They no longer locked me away and finally granted me the dignity due even to a concubine-born daughter.

What they did not know was that every night, when the residence fell silent, I pounded the floor with my fists to release the violence inside me.

My knuckles were often wounded. Whenever my mother asked, I answered with two words: “I’m fine.”

She never pressed me.

In time, everyone understood where the injuries came from, but they pretended not to see. As long as I looked normal, my father was satisfied.

Soon I was sixteen. My sister had been married for half a year. She seldom came home, and when she did, she avoided me.

I could not understand why. Did she no longer love me? Whenever the thought came, a dull ache rose in my chest.

Then one day, a matchmaker arrived for me.

My father was away. His wife and my mother greeted the woman with undisguised delight. Whoever the proposed man might be, they were eager to rid themselves of their burden.

My reputation as a lunatic had spread far and wide. Rumors now claimed I had recovered, but arranging a marriage was still nearly impossible. No noble family would take me, while commoners had neither the courage nor standing to reach so high.