Chapter Four: Itching Hands

As it happened, Lu Jing had been watching the Zhang siblings shape clay at the kiln for over a year now, and his hands had been itching to try it himself for no small while. But the siblings were always too busy to spare a moment for indulging Seventh Young Master Lu's whims about playing with clay, and besides, his servants kept discouraging him from it — so he had only ever admired it wistfully from the sidelines, never once getting the chance to try it with his own hands.

Then one day, with fine weather and the Zhang siblings' workload lighter than usual — nothing left but tending the kiln fire — Zhang Ping brought over a large lump of prepared clay under the awning in front of the house and taught Lu Jing how to knead it, how to use his palms and fingers to draw out a rough form. After his explanation, Zhang Ping hurried off again to watch the kiln fire, occasionally sending Zhang Ning over to check on the young master's "masterpiece" in progress.

Zhang Ning came and went several times, and still could never quite make out what exactly it was that the young lord was shaping in his hands. Though she often complained that his paintings made her look ugly, at least in his paintings one could tell who was who, and the objects and scenery outside the window were perfectly clear and unmistakable — quite deft and skillful, in fact. Nothing at all like the lump he now held, wretched and shapeless, without so much as the beginning of a "form."

But that was not even the worst of it. The real trouble was that Lord Seventh Lu had sent his servants away and, working alone, rolled up his sleeves and dug into the clay — leaving his top-quality moon-white robe utterly caked in mud, along with his face and hair, unable to escape the disaster either. What had been a pristine, fair-skinned young gentleman no longer bore any trace of the refined bearing of the Fanyang Lu clan; he looked no different from a child who had been rolling around in the mud. Seeing his clothes soaked through, Zhang Ning hurried to summon his servants — the young master's constitution being weak, he really ought to change. But since the whole business of playing with clay today had come about so suddenly, they had not brought a change of clothes for him. With no other choice, Zhang Ning went and found a set of Zhang Ping's coarse hemp clothing for Lu Jing to reluctantly change into. Lu Jing, for his part, showed no distaste at all — attended by the flustered fussing of his servants, he emerged from Zhang Ping's bedroom, and the sight made Zhang Ning burst into laughter despite herself.

Because Zhang Ping, from years of hauling clay and pottery, had grown sturdy and well-built, his clothes hung loosely, almost like a sack, over Lu Jing's frame, with Lu Jing's rather thin, pale elbows poking out visibly from the sleeves.

"My lord, you truly look like you're wearing a hemp sack," Zhang Ning said, pointing at him.

Lu Jing silently shot her a sidelong glance, then tried to return to working on his "masterpiece." But now the servants would have none of it — the young master had just sneezed several times, and fearing he would catch cold, they clamored around, urging him to return to the Lu residence. This thoroughly ruined Lu Jing's good mood, and, still clad in his "hemp sack," he was hustled bodily into the carriage and driven off by a swarm of servants.

Gazing at the "battlefield" Lu Jing had left behind, Zhang Ning shook her head — that same Lord Seventh Lu who was master of the qin, poetry, letters, and painting, utterly defeated by mud and water, forced to admit surrender and bow his head before it. All that remained was for her brother to come and "sweep away" the leftover clay along with the rest, restoring the cleanliness beneath the awning.