As we grow older, we all realize the futility of youth. When we integrate into society and are slapped with unrealistic expectations, and stringent timestamps to meet those expectations, we look at our younger days with envy. That we should have enjoyed what we had as outliers. When no one cared about what we did. It's almost bittersweet to accept that your youth is only going to run farther and farther away from you. A coping mechanism to this is to squench the fleeting residue of our childhoods as tightly as we can. It isn’t unusual to see an adult embellishing their bodies with ink of their past interests, like tattoos. We want to savor the aftertaste of something that we can recall so briefly, something we have so little record of. We can’t accept that we’ve grown up.

      Daiyu Shu was no stranger to this feeling. Yet, it wasn’t that she missed what she had. It was that she had no better way to conceptualize her reality.

She would lean on the meager chi of space her employers accommodated for her in her tight room. If that didn’t restrict her enough, Lady Zhau would only allow a spike in Daiyu’s dopamine through an outdoor retreat if she had finished her extraneous list of chores for the day. And this wasn’t often, as Daiyu Shu grew frail from eating just a quarter cup of the ubiquitous champa rice that had been doing wonders throughout Song China. Daiyu Shu’s home town had nearly tripled with this innovation, but she grew to believe in irony as it was the very thing she grew to abhor most in the Li Fang palace of Huangzhou. 

      Daiyu Shu resorted to rationalizing her sadness. That she was crying, like a delicate baby, and that was keeping her youthful. That maybe her tears would replenish the drying Yangtze River that was used to maintain the abundance of that darn champa rice. That maybe, someone would notice her tears and tactfully wipe them from her tear ducts, maybe that way she would finally mean something to someone.

      That night, she performed her routinal ritual. Her overgrown, muddy nails dug into the Confucian robe she wore to bed each night, something her mother gifted her before she left her home in Taohuawu. Daiyu Shu was a proud Confucian, but she grew up amongst many Buddhists. Following the expansion of Silk Road routes, the teachings of Buddha spread to China. It had a completely different focus from what Confucius said, with Buddha emphasizing meditation, the four noble truths and the eightfold path  to be used to reach nirvana and escape the suffering of the world. There were many forms of Buddhism, Theravada, Mahayana and Tibetan, as well as Chan Buddhism with a mix of Daoist elements that Daiyu’s childhood radiated. Daiyu would sometimes wonder why her faith contrasted that of her peers, and why her family adopted Confucianism over Buddhism. Even under the face of Neo-Confucianism, which was more a social and ethical philosophy and had spread to China’s orbit nations, why was she the only Confucian out of her group? Why was everyone else of Taohuawu Buddhist? 

      Oh, how she cherished the ideas of Confucius, well, that was debatable. It was more that these ideas would anchor her mind back home. How all of her boisterous little siblings would kowtow, or bow in front of her as she offered them rice cakes, a depiction of their respect to her under all the mischief. That she had to obey the orders of her parents’, yet it wasn’t one sided, like all things she had loved. This was known to Song China as xiào (filial piety), a structure of relationships one had to maintain, by the words of Confucius. He instructed how we all were meant to respect those above us and prioritize familial values. Oh, the hypocrisy, as Mai, or Mei, whatever her name was, Lady Zhau’s daughter who was half Daiyu’s age, would throw black earth all over Daiyu´s sheets when no one was watching.

      It’s funny how the things that made everyone better just tore Daiyu apart. When she turned 15, her family sent her to be a personal maid to the Zhou family, aristocrats who prospered in the Silk Road trade. Following the rise of Silk Road trade, Daiyu’s mother traveled to be a trader in the Grand Canal, the hottest water transportation system at the time. There, she met a scribe of the Zhau’s who had informed her of the family' s interest in expanding their house help. On the other hand, Daiyu's father had his own cottage industry, growing cotton in her small village to be sold abroad. Money was tight for the family. This offer seemed like a golden ticket, or silk ticket, to becoming closer to the scholar gentry, or the elite class. Within 24 hours, Daiyu was sent off.

      Daiyu’s feeble, veiny hands contrasted the grandeur of the Zhou estate's gold railings. Her next job would be to serve visitors from Korea who were inquiring to offer tribute to the Song imperial court. Many individuals of such sort had visited over the weeks. As China grew, nations globally participated in the tribute system to offer money or goods towards the bureaucracy in order to better relations and stimulate trade between the two powers. Daiyu prayed, clutching onto her bamboo sheet, that maybe an eggplant or a radish would be amongst the offerings of the guests. If all went well, maybe Lady Zhau would bat an eye if she took a bite. 

     “Ni hao, ma’am. What’s on the agenda for today?” Daiyu asked as she bowed, slyly tugging a strand of her silky hair behind her ear.

Lady Zhau didn’t look up from her scroll as she answered, sinking into the waves of her brocade clothing. Her eyes consumed the words on the paper without a fancy for its taste.

     “Daiyu, sit down, let’s talk,” the woman ordered, her expertise in manipulation unable to disguise the tension in her voice. 

      “Do you know someone named Shu Zhang,” she inquired.

     “Yes, ma’am, that’s my mother,” Daiyu responded slyly.

      “What does she do for work?”

      “She’s just a trader in the Grand Canal. She’s been out there for a couple of months. All she has is cotton, nothing like your silk,” Daiyu replied.

      If there was a Chinese Phobos, Lady Zhau’s face would have easily passed as such at that moment. Her right eyebrow levitated up the thick rolls in her forehead, uniting just an inch from her hairline. 

      “Then why is her name featured in one Mr. Seol’s tribute scrolls?” her anger could not be hidden under the zhunangye on her face.

      Daiyu’s confusion hijacked her thin frame. Her mother, who has never gotten her hands on a sheet of silk, on a tributary document?

     "You must be mistaken, my mother is no noble. We come from a small home in Taohuawu. Maybe another by the same epithet?” Daiyu shook off the possibility.

“      "Oh, little dame, the tributes do not make mistakes. Certainly not in Goryeo Korea. You come from riches, don’t you? Aren’t you facetious trying to gain my pity? It's clear your mother has some association with the imperial court,”

      “I-I”

      “I’ll keep up this act for the rest of the evening. Go clean up near the drawing room before the guests arrive,” Zhau directed.

      “Yes, ma’am,” was all that Daiyu could mouth.

      There was no way this was possible. Daiyu had lived with her mother all her life, a woman who was barely able to tie her wants to reality. Her mother was in the canal for less than a year, could she have gotten her hands into the loot then? What did Lady Zhau know? 

      Was it true that her mother was part of the Chinese bureaucracy? Well, that’s impossible. Under the Song, civil service exams were administered, and many referred to the new imperial court as a meritocracy. Even under the Song innovation of the printing press, which spread access to literature, her mother was nearly illiterate in anything Confucian. She essentially lacked any intellectual skill, how would she fit in a meritocracy?  Daiyu could recall her infamous squint any time she showed her mother a new text. 

      Daiyu pondered as she sweep, up and down, left and right, cursing into the marble flooring every now and then when it appeared to reflect her face in it. The Chinese pandas storming through her stomach were afraid of one thing: public humiliation. Not for herself, for the Zhau’s regular derogation had made her known as a disappointment. Rather, she had to keep up some potency for her family. There was no way her traditional, Confucian family would be able to face society if Lady Zhao portrayed their own kin as a traitor. Daiyu would rather work in the tedious terrace systems growing rice, taking on the role of animals in plowing the land then face the discomfiture. 

      Tributaries had been visiting the estate quite regularly, as water transportation technology advanced. The new compass, the enhanced ships, and the precious paper that made navigation charts a reality permitted states like Japan and Korea to be closer to the Middle Kingdom than it had ever been before. Yet it couldn’t escape Daiyu Shu’s mind that maybe their presence today was plotted. That Lady Zhau wanted them to say something that would change it all. 

      The Korean representatives arrived. It was only Mr. Seol’s jeogori that could outshine the Li Fang palace. His wife was carried into the room, with her own feet binded. Foot-binding had become almost a trend throughout Song China, where the feet of young girls would be tightly wrapped to stop them from growing properly. This was to keep women out of societal affairs, and almost bound them to their homes. But in a home of the wealthy, oh how Daiyu would adore that luxury. Ah, the thought of its pain scratched Daiyu’s sanity, but oh how she would love to not have to work. Not have to be spat on. Not have to be startled with the news of how her mother may not be who she always loved her to be. 

      Visitors came from Korea, Japan and Vietnam. Yet, Korea was most directly impacted by sinification, adopting faith and scripture.  Vietnam’s trade with China proliferated, and Chinese literature and architecture also embodied the Vietnamese landscape. Daiyu had a love-hate relationship with Vietnam, for they produced the first of the champa rice whose mention would nauseate Daiyu. Japan was quite influenced as well, but given the extended physical distance between the two, Japan had slightly more freedom. Despite this, Japan's Heian period, almost a contemporary of the Song period, emulated Chinese tradition in art, politics and literature. One of the very few books her mother could read was the Tale of Genji, a book revolving around Heian court and royalty. Daiyu always imagined what life would be like if she was wealthy. But she wondered more about what life would be like if she was Japanese and wealthy. Women often thrived under greater liberties and nuclear families. But above all governments centralized and bureaucracies thrived. Stronger nations often meant stronger people. What if Daiyu’s mother was a stronger woman than Daiyu thought.. One she never knew about?  

      A strong whiff of clove snatched Daiyu’s thoughts away from her. Her eyes followed her sense of kinesthesia and her thin body turned in desperation to see the carrier of the scent. The man was tall, almost hugged in a sage color as his thick veins cradled his neck. The same sage veins Daiyu would pick at every night, hoping to form a row of scabs on her pinky finger. His skin hinted a rose hue, something Daiyu had as a child but lost as misfortune landed on her family and starved her sense of satiety. The man was just a boy hidden behind aged features, and was certainly at least a hand of years younger than she was.

      Daiyu found herself bowing to the child in front of her. She followed protocol with the rest of the family, and ran off to prepare dian cha for the guests. As she whisked the convocation in front of her, she could feel Mei line up behind her, ready to serve the treat and swallow credit for its creation herself. 

      Daiyu found herself standing next to Lady Zhao throughout their talks, being readily accessible to cater to any of her impulsive demands. The Korean family was sweet, and for once, Daiyu had an interaction with an aristocrat beyond the occasional head-to-toe glare. The wife of the family offered a quick blessing, doubling the brevity of so when she did the same to Mei, which gifted Daiyu a quick chuckle.

      The young maid made her way to the kitchen to prepare for Mei’s delivery that maintained her image of the polite, well-rounded daughter. Daiyu Shu had only begun rinsing the porcelain cups when the same scent of cloves jumped beside her. 

      Daiyu shuttered in her steps, losing all sense of manner despite her counterpart being a fraction of her age. She had never seen a Korean hanbok up close, and wanted to drown herself in its soft fabric. She attempted to maintain composure, but what resulted was a disproportionate mix of awkwardness and peculiarity. The wealthy boy took the first step towards conversation. 

      “You must be Daiyu Shu. I could recognize you from a mile away,” the youthful boy broke the ice with.

      “And how shall you determine that?” Daiyu responded.

      “Well, our mother sent me here,”

      “Our?”

      All the boy could do was form a misplaced smile. One, that for the first time, was not contagious to Daiyu Shu.