Wei Caiwei carried a lantern, leading the wolf—no, leading her dead husband inside. She placed the lantern on the table and lit a candle for additional light.
"Sleep on this Arhat bed tonight. I’ll go upstairs to fetch bedding."
"Thank you." Wang Daxia sat stiffly on the Arhat bed. Though it was part of his mother’s dowry and technically his furniture, he felt uneasy—not out of awkwardness, but a fluttery, excited discomfort.
This young widow must have taken a liking to me!
Otherwise, why would she offer me wontons at our first meeting—and the very bowl she’d just offered to her deceased husband?
Last night, when I beat the grievance drum at the Shuntian Prefecture Yamen, she warned me to watch out for cold arrows.
Chen the Agent repeatedly cautioned her that I’m an unreasonable young master, yet she compared me to King Zhuang of Chu who amazed all with one brilliant feat, showing me nothing but kindness and admiration in her eyes.
No one has ever treated me this way. She must have feelings for me…
Wang Daxia’s thoughts drifted into wild fantasies on the Arhat bed, stirring improper desires.
She opened the door to invite me in, fed me, helped unpack my bundle, led me inside, and now to bed…
Wang Daxia sprang up abruptly, a fine sweat beading on his forehead.
He wiped the sweat with his elbow and, lifting his head, caught sight of the spirit tablet on the incense altar. The characters "Spirit of My Deceased Husband Wang Erlang" flickered faintly in the candlelight.
What a coincidence! Her dead husband’s surname is also Wang, and he’s also the second son.
So her kindness toward me is just transference of feelings for her dead husband. Could it be that her late husband looked like me too?
So I’m just a substitute.
Seeing the spirit tablet extinguished Wang Daxia’s improper thoughts, and he plopped back down onto the Arhat bed.
But he squirmed left and right, restless with dissatisfaction, and stood up again. He whispered to the tablet, "It wasn’t my idea to come in—your wife… she invited me. Your surname is Wang, mine is Wang; you’re the second son, so am I. We’re connected by fate."
Pricking up his ears to listen for movements upstairs, he continued, "Brother, I assume you’re a sensible ghost. With the curfew outside, I can’t leave now. If someone sees me running out of a young widow’s house in the middle of the night, I’m a rogue anyway—more lice won’t itch, more debts won’t worry me, so it doesn’t matter. But her reputation would be ruined, and she might not be able to stay in the capital. You understand, right? I’m staying here to protect her reputation."
Wang Daxia wasn’t just deceiving people; he was deceiving ghosts too.
He crafted a lofty excuse to justify staying overnight at the beautiful young widow’s home with a clear conscience.
Meanwhile, Wei Caiwei carried the lantern upstairs and opened the chest, only to realize she had only one set of bedding and curtains. There was no way the fourteen-year-old Wang Daxia could share a bed with her.
In her previous life, her marriage to Wang Daxia had lasted longer than his current age, so she had instinctively offered to bring down the bedding earlier.
Now, not to mention sharing a bed, as a widow, she couldn’t even give her bedding to an unrelated man.
But since she’d come up, she couldn’t return empty-handed. Wei Caiwei folded a winter coat to use as a pillow and carried her own pillow downstairs.
It’s summer, after all—he can sleep without a mattress. Giving him a pillow is gesture enough.
Hearing footsteps on the stairs, Wang Daxia turned to look and was instantly mesmerized: there stood a beauty in plain clothes, her waist-length hair flowing, holding a lantern in her right hand and a pillow in her left, evoking the grace of a spring-sleeping begonia flower.By lamplight, a beauty appears even more enchanting, and the wicked thoughts he had just suppressed began to stir again.
Wang Daxia instantly recalled the scene from The Romance of the Western Chamber he had seen at the opera house, where Cui Yingying embraced her pillow for a nighttime rendezvous with Zhang Sheng. Lines from their first encounter echoed in his mind:
"Shyly she refuses to raise her head, pressing the mandarin duck pillow close. Her cloud-like hair seems to sway with golden hairpins, charmingly tousled."
"I loosen the buttons, untie the silken sash... Why won’t you turn your face to me?"
As Wang Daxia lost himself in thought, Wei Caiwei placed a pillow on the daybed. "There are no extra quilts at home, so make do for the night. Use the clothes from your bundle as a cover."
Seeing the slightly worn pillow, Wang Daxia knew it was the young widow’s usual one.
Bringing a pillow in the middle of the night… Is she hinting at something? That’s how it always goes in the operas.
His heart raced with restless thoughts, his newly prominent Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. The moment his fingers touched the pillow, it was like a fuse igniting invisible fireworks in his mind.
Wei Caiwei had no idea that Wang Daxia was mentally staging a grand drama of Cui Yingying’s nocturnal visit to Zhang Sheng. Under the combined glow of the candle and lantern, as they stood close, she finally noticed the large tear in his sleeve and the abrasions on his forearm, smeared with moss and dust.
Pointing at his wound, Wei Caiwei said, "Take off those dirty clothes, wash up, and change into clean ones. I’ll prepare some topical medicine. In this hot weather, dirt in the wound can easily lead to festering and sores."
Wang Daxia’s mind was a cacophony of exploding fireworks. Though she mentioned tending to his injury, what he fixated on were the words "take off your clothes" and "wash up."
Having visited places like the Red Sleeve Brothel, Wang Daxia had never indulged himself but knew the ways of the world. A man and a woman alone at night, tending to wounds—it can’t be just that!
She’s a lonely young widow, and I bear some resemblance to her late husband. She must be projecting her feelings onto me. That’s why she was kind from the start—the only woman in the capital who believes I have the talent of King Zhuang of Chu.
Our eyes have met, and she’s liked me since our first encounter.
Wang Daxia’s mind raced through every moment of his interaction with the young widow that night: from his fall over the wall to her opening the gate and inviting him in. At every step, she had taken the initiative.
She gave me watermelon, deep-fried pastries, invited me to stay the night, offered me her own pillow, told me to undress and wash up…
How could I have been so blind! She’s clearly lovesick, seeing me as her late husband, offering herself for a night of passion!
I’ve been so slow to catch on!
As a young widow, she couldn’t say it outright. She’s hinted so many times, and I’m only realizing it now.
Could such a thing really be happening?
Wang Daxia immediately stripped off his upper garment, fetched a bucket of water from the courtyard jar, and doused himself from head to toe, even sniffing his armpits for any unpleasant odor.
But the cold water jolted him back to his senses. This young widow is a good person, driven by longing and momentary impulse, mistaking me for her late husband and seeking a night of passion.
However, taking advantage of her in a vulnerable state, exploiting a grief-stricken widow—that wouldn’t be right.
After all, she saved my life.
I can’t let her momentary lapse in judgment lead her into irreparable ruin.As the son of a Thousand-Household Title holder, I have a noble lineage to inherit and cannot marry a commoner widow.
Since I cannot marry her, I must not touch her.
Yet, this little widow is so alluring... It would be a shame to miss such a rare opportunity...
Wang Daxia’s heart was torn with conflict. In the end, he fetched another bucket of water and doused himself from the navel down.
By the time Wei Caiwei finished preparing the medicine and brought it over with a lantern, Wang Daxia had already covered himself with his clothes and fallen asleep on the Arhat bed, emitting soft snores.
Of course, Wang Daxia was only pretending to sleep. He believed this was a silent way of rejecting her while preserving both their dignities. The next day, they could act as if nothing had happened and remain friends.
Wei Caiwei’s eyes welled up with tears. Wang Daxia looked exactly as he had in his sleep in their previous life. They had shared a bed for nearly thirty years, their marriage lasting twice as long as his current age, bound by deep affection.
To Wei Caiwei, Wang Daxia had passed away just four days ago. No matter how she cried and called out to her dead husband, the man lying on the funeral bed had given no response.
Now, her fourteen-year-old husband was sleeping right beside her.
His breathing was even, full of youthful vitality, every strand of his hair radiating life.
He was alive. How wonderful.
Worried that his wound might fester, Wei Caiwei gently pulled aside the clothes Wang Daxia was using as a blanket, intending to roll up his sleeve and apply medicine to the abrasion on his upper arm.
But the moment she moved the clothes, his snores ceased abruptly. Wang Daxia’s eyes flew open, and he immediately yanked the clothes up to his neck, wrapping them tightly around himself. He curled into a ball and shrank toward the inner side of the bed. "Don’t come any closer! If you try to strip me again, I’ll scream. No matter how much you miss your dead husband, you can’t use me as a substitute. Get a grip on yourself—stop before it’s too late. Don’t make one mistake after another."
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