The Embroideress

Su Wannian’s embroidery frame stood by the window. The window faced north and admitted little sunlight throughout the year, but the northern light was even and gentle, just right for fine needlework. She had sat beneath that window for twelve years, from the age of eighteen to thirty. She had embroidered countless things: peonies on brocade, cranes on screens, curling lotus vines on garments. Beneath her hands, those patterns came alive and died, only to end up as ornaments in other people’s halls, a little face to show the world, a dignity no one ever had to speak of.

Her hands were steady. For an embroiderer, that was the most basic requirement: the strength of the wrist, the strength of the fingers, the sharpness of the eyes. Su Wannian had all three in abundance. Whenever one of the prominent families in the city needed a large piece of embroidery, she was the first person they thought of. Her reputation spread beyond the county seat to the prefectural city. One year, an official there was celebrating his birthday and sent her a length of plain silk, with a specific request: Pines and Cranes for Longevity. She spent three months on it. When it was finished, she sent it to him. He was pleased and rewarded her with a pair of silver bracelets. She could not bear to wear them and kept them at the bottom of her chest. Later, she pawned them for a shi of rice and several chi of cloth, and made her daughter, Afu, a new set of clothes.

A-Fu was eight years old. She had her mother’s eyes and her mother’s quiet nature. Unlike the other children in the lane, who ran wild in the streets, she preferred to pull up a small stool beside the embroidery frame and watch her mother work the needle through the cloth. Sometimes she would fall asleep watching, her little head slowly nodding forward. Su Wanniang would free one hand to steady her head and gently draw her close to her knee. Even when A-Fu was asleep, the needle in her hand never stopped. She was used to it. She only felt at ease when there was work in her hands.

That afternoon, when someone came from Madam Chen’s household, A-Fu was crouched beside the embroidery frame, shelling lotus seeds. The old man who sold lotus roots at the end of the lane had given them to her. They were freshly dug and tender, he had said, good for the child to taste. A-Fu shelled them carefully. A thin layer of lotus skin lodged beneath her fingernails, but she paid it no mind. She simply arranged the white seeds one by one in a small dish, lining them up in perfect rows.

The visitor was a middle-aged woman who looked like a household steward. She wore a clean indigo cloth tunic and carried a red-lacquered box. She stopped at the doorway without stepping inside and said politely, “Is this the home of Mistress Su? My mistress would like to commission a piece of embroidery. She would like you to come to the manor so the details can be discussed in person.”

Su Wanniang set aside her needlework, stood up, and brushed the loose threads from her apron. She recognized the woman who had come for her, a stewardess from the Chen household, the wealthiest family in town. Madam Chen was the daughter of a local official’s family. Since marrying into the Chen household, she had kept its vast estate under tight control. She rarely ventured out, and whenever she did, people on the street would turn to look. Being summoned so suddenly by a woman like that made Su Wanniang uneasy. Then she thought it was probably a large piece of embroidery for some celebration.

“A-Fu,” she said, turning to her daughter, “stay here. When you’ve finished shelling the lotus seeds, copy two pages of the Three Character Classic. Mother will be back soon.”

A-Fu murmured her assent and kept her head down, quietly shelling the lotus seeds, like a quiet little kitten.

The Chen household lay in the eastern part of town, a succession of deep courtyards enclosed by white walls and dark-tiled roofs. Two large osmanthus trees stood at the entrance. They were not yet in bloom, but their dark green leaves covered much of the plaque above the gate. Su Wanniang followed the stewardess through several gates and along a covered corridor before reaching Madam Chen’s courtyard. There were flowers there too, but unlike the gardens of other households, this one was not lush or crowded. It had a spare, open quality instead: several clumps of bamboo, a few Taihu rocks, and a small tea pavilion built beside the water. A stream had been drawn in from outside and gathered in the center of the courtyard into a shallow pond.

Madam Chen was waiting in the tea pavilion. When Su Wanniang entered, she was leaning against a curved garden bench, turning the pages of a booklet. On the table beside her sat a plate of osmanthus cakes and a pot of tea. She looked not yet forty and was remarkably well preserved, with fair skin and a composed, dignified air. Yet there was nothing imposing about her. Instead, she carried a faint weariness, like someone who had lived in a large house for so long that the walls had begun to feel too bare, and was looking for something to fill them.

“Mistress Su, come in. Sit.” Madam Chen set aside the booklet, straightened slightly, and pushed the tea toward her. She then had the stewardess open the red-lacquered box. Inside lay a length of plain white satin. It was Yunjin, cloud brocade, with a soft pearly sheen beneath the light, smooth as water beneath the fingers.

“I want a Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix embroidered on this satin. It is to be given as a gift, three months from now. If you can take the commission, name your price.

Su Wanniang reached out and lightly touched the satin. With a Yunjin ground, the silk threads would have to be extremely fine and closely packed. A Hundred Birds was a large piece: the phoenix was the master, the birds its attendants. The composition had to be full without becoming crowded, and no two birds could have the same posture, plumage, or expression. She had done similar pieces before, but never in three months. A work of this size normally took at least half a year.

“Three months is rather tight. If I work day and night, it may be possible, but…”

“I know,” Madam Chen interrupted. “I won’t shortchange you. One hundred taels. Half in advance, the other half when it is finished.”

One hundred taels. Something seemed to strike Su Wanniang inside. She had been embroidering for more than ten years, and the highest payment she had ever received was twenty taels. One hundred taels would support her and A-Fu for three or four years. It would pay for a good tutor for A-Fu, repairs to their house, even a small plot of land.

She was silent for a moment. “May I ask who it is for? The pattern should be suited to the recipient. A gift for an older person should be more restrained; for someone young, brighter and more lively.”

At this, the faint weariness on Madam Chen’s face deepened. She lowered her eyes and traced a slow circle around the rim of her teacup with one finger. After a long while, she said, “It is for a young woman. She is leaving, going somewhere very far away. I want to give her something to take with her. Something to remember me by.”

Su Wanniang did not ask any more questions. She only said, “I’ll draw a few drafts of the design and bring them to you in a couple of days. There is a particular way to arrange a Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix. The phoenix must be at the center, with the hundred birds gathered around it. Not one of them can have its back turned. There must be a sense of response between them, a direction to their movement, as though they are all looking toward the phoenix.”

Madam Chen nodded twice, seeming not especially concerned with such details. Just as Su Wanniang was about to leave, Madam Chen suddenly called her back. She hesitated before saying, “Mistress Su… make the embroidery beautiful. That child… this may well be the only beautiful thing left in her life.”

Su Wanniang stood there for a long while without answering. She looked into Madam Chen’s eyes. Something moved beneath them, like an undercurrent in deep water, impossible to see clearly. A faint question stirred in her mind, but she did not ask. She only said, “Don’t worry, Madam. I’ll do my best.”

It was already dusk when she returned home. A-Fu was hunched over the table, copying the Three Character Classic, a streak of ink across her little face, though she was completely unaware of it. A bowl of porridge was keeping warm on the stove, along with yesterday’s leftovers—salted vegetables stir-fried with dried tofu. Su Wanniang sat down by the stove, spread the piece of Yunjin across her knees, and examined it closely by the light of the oil lamp. In the dim, yellow light, the satin gave off a soft, warm sheen, like moonlight that had hardened into something solid. She ran her fingers over it. Beneath her fingertips she could feel the extraordinarily fine, dense weave, the threads extending, branching, and coming together again like the tributaries of countless rivers. She suddenly had the feeling that something was hidden beneath the surface of the fabric, buried among those crossing and recrossing threads. She did not yet know what it was, but she could feel it.

Three days later, Su Wanniang took her pattern designs to the Chen household. Madam Chen looked them over without saying much. She simply nodded and told her to begin work at once. From that day on, Su Wanniang did not leave the house. Every day she sat beneath the north-facing window, bent over her embroidery frame, stitching the Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix, one needle after another. A-Fu still brought her little stool and sat beside her. Sometimes she shelled lotus seeds, sometimes she copied from her book, and sometimes she did nothing at all, simply watching her mother in silence.

Su Wanniang had always had a habit when making embroidery: she would hide things in every piece that only she herself understood. She did not do it deliberately. The things simply emerged from her hands as she worked. Sometimes the shape of a leaf would be slightly crooked. Sometimes the color of a feather would be half a shade darker. Sometimes a bird’s eye would have one extra stroke for an eyelash. These details were so small that they could not be seen without looking closely, and even when seen, they might simply be taken for mistakes. But Su Wanniang knew they were there. They were a secret language between her and the work, a small piece of herself she left in every piece, like someone making a small mark at the end of a letter, one that only the person receiving it would recognize.

As she worked on the Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix, those things began to emerge from her hands again. As she stitched the birds’ feathers, the phoenix’s tail plumes, and the patterns of the auspicious clouds, she suddenly felt that every needle was piercing something tender. She could not name it. She only felt something slowly taking shape inside her, spreading like mist until it blurred the pattern before her eyes.

On the sixth day of the embroidery, the stewardess came again, this time accompanied by a young woman. She looked no more than sixteen or seventeen. She wore a slightly worn, moon-pale tunic and was slender, with delicate features. Her complexion was unnaturally pale, and her lips were pale too, like those of someone who had not seen the sun in a long time. She followed the stewardess inside with her head lowered and said nothing. She glanced timidly at Su Wanniang, then quickly lowered her eyes again. The stewardess explained that this was Miss Lin. Madam Chen had sent her to see how the embroidery was coming along. Miss Lin knew a little needlework herself and could help with the work.

Su Wanniang looked at Miss Lin, and something stirred quietly inside her. The girl stood by the doorway, twisting the hem of her tunic, afraid to raise her head. Her body leaned slightly toward the doorframe, like a bird poised to flee at any moment. Su Wanniang suddenly remembered what Madam Chen had said that day: “That child—this may well be the only beautiful thing she has left in this life.”

“Please, Miss Lin, sit down.” Su Wanniang moved the chair beside the embroidery frame toward her. “Come and have a look. I’ve finished half the phoenix’s head.”

Miss Lin slowly came over and sat down, her eyes falling on the embroidery. Su Wanniang noticed that when she saw the half-finished phoenix, her eyelashes trembled, like the wings of a butterfly brushed by the wind. She reached out to touch the threads, but halfway there she drew her hand back and simply looked at them for a long time.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice as fine as a silk thread about to snap. “It looks alive.”

Su Wanniang said nothing. She took a strand of pale gold thread from the basket, threaded the needle, and continued stitching the phoenix’s tail feathers. Miss Lin sat quietly beside her, watching. From time to time she drew a soft breath, as if the colors had momentarily dazzled her. Her eyes rested on the embroidery, but Su Wanniang could feel that her gaze passed through it and settled somewhere beyond. She did not know where that place was, but she knew it was very far away, and very cold, like a river frozen over in winter.

“Is Miss Lin going on a long journey?” Su Wanniang asked, keeping her tone as casual as she could.

Miss Lin paused, then nodded. She did not say where she was going, and Su Wanniang did not ask. The two of them sat in silence for the whole afternoon—one embroidering, the other watching. As the sky outside gradually darkened, Su Wanniang lit the oil lamp. Their shadows fell across the wall, one taller, one shorter, overlapping like the two halves of a single character.

As the days passed, Su Wanniang gradually learned when Miss Lin would come. She did not come every day, but every two or three days. Each time, she sat beside the embroidery frame and watched for an entire afternoon. She rarely spoke. Sometimes she would point to a bird and ask what it was called. Su Wanniang would tell her. “That’s an oriole. That one’s a hwamei. And that one, with the long tail, is a paradise flycatcher.” Miss Lin would listen, and the faintest smile would appear at the corners of her mouth, like the shadow of a flower in the morning mist, barely there and gone in an instant.

One day, Miss Lin arrived later than usual. Her eyes were red when she pushed open the door. She said nothing. She pulled a chair over beside the embroidery frame, sat down, picked up a strand of silk thread, wound it once around her fingertip, then put it down again. After a long while, she suddenly said, “Mistress Su, have you ever had to go somewhere you didn’t want to go?”

Su Wanniang’s needle paused. Without looking up, she continued stitching the phoenix’s tail feathers. “I have. In this life, who hasn’t had to go to a few places they didn’t want to go?”

Miss Lin lowered her head, twisting the hem of her garment tighter between her fingers. “But… what if you could never come back from that place?”

This time, Su Wanniang put down her needle. She turned and looked at Miss Lin. In the lamplight, the young woman’s face was almost transparent with pallor, a faint darkness beneath her eyes. Her lips were pressed tightly together, as if she were holding back something immense.

Su Wanniang suddenly remembered herself many years ago. She, too, had once been young. She, too, had known places she did not want to go, a man she did not want to marry, a life she did not want to live. She had no fine satin like this girl’s, and no Madam Chen to commission a Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix for her. One autumn morning, she simply gathered a few clothes, took A-Fu by the hand, and walked out of that place. She walked until her legs went numb, until A-Fu fell asleep on her back, until every light behind her had gone out. Only then did she stop. Afterward, she began to learn embroidery, starting with the simplest running stitch. Stitch by stitch, she slowly sewed those places she had never wanted to go to shut, until they could no longer be seen.

“Miss Lin,” Su Wanniang said softly, “you don’t want to go there, do you?”

Miss Lin’s shoulders suddenly tensed. She bit her lip. She neither nodded nor shook her head, but the things in her eyes—the things she had kept hidden behind those timid, lowered lashes—suddenly spilled out like water. She did not sob. Her tears simply fell, one by one, onto her moon-pale tunic, leaving dark circles where they landed.

Su Wanniang reached out and gently took her hand. It was cold and thin, like a withered winter branch. She asked nothing. She knew there was no point. Miss Lin had not come seeking help. She had only come to let herself cry for a while in front of a woman she barely knew, then gather herself and put everything away again. The wick of the oil lamp crackled. A spark flew onto the half-finished Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix and burned a tiny black spot into the satin. Su Wanniang saw it but did not wipe it away. The little black spot lay beside the tassels of the phoenix’s tail, like a tear that had hardened.

It was completely dark by the time Miss Lin left that evening. Su Wanniang walked her to the gate and watched her slight figure disappear around the corner of the lane. The mist inside her suddenly cleared. She had guessed the truth. Miss Lin was to enter the imperial palace. Under the current dynasty, the selection of palace women took place once every three years. Officials across the country compiled the names of eligible young women from respectable families and sent the lists to the capital. Those chosen stayed in the palace; only those who were not chosen were allowed to return home. Some families did not want their daughters to enter the palace and tried to marry them off or send them to the countryside before their names were entered on the lists. But for a wealthy family like the Chens, who had close dealings with the authorities, there was no avoiding it. Su Wanniang did not know what Madam Chen was to Miss Lin, but she understood now what the Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix was meant to be. It was a farewell, something to send her on her way.

Su Wanniang returned to the embroidery frame. More than half the piece was finished. The outlines of the hundred birds were complete; only the phoenix’s crest and tail feathers remained, along with the last auspicious cloud at the very top. She picked up her needle but did not lower it. She looked at the phoenix in the center, its head raised, its wings spread in a proud pose. Yet in its eyes, she felt, there was no wish to fly. It was like a bird nailed in midair, forever flying, and forever unable to fly away.

Su Wanniang set down her needle and thread and went to the cabinet. From the very back she took out an old wooden box. Inside were silk threads she had collected over the years, some in rare colors that could no longer be bought. She searched for a long time before finding a bundle of extraordinarily fine thread, almost transparent in color. She had dyed it herself with the juice of a rare herb. In the light it was almost colorless, and beneath the fingers it had a faint roughness. The thread was so fine that it would break between two fingers. She had never used it. She had kept it all these years without knowing why. Now she did not know why she had suddenly thought of it.

She returned to the embroidery frame and threaded the transparent strand through the eye of the needle. Then she lowered her head and began to stitch something new into the spaces between the birds and the phoenix she had already completed.

Her stitching changed. It was neither the ordinary running stitch nor the seed stitch, but an extremely fine and densely worked hidden stitch. She threaded from the eye of one bird to the wing of another, looped from the phoenix’s tail feathers to the edge of the auspicious cloud, then doubled back, tracing a dense network of paths across the satin. To the naked eye, the paths left almost no trace. Only by looking very closely, from a particular angle, could one see the faintest mark, like a finger lightly drawn through the morning mist on a pane of glass.

She did not know what she was stitching. She simply followed an instinct, joining the birds and the phoenix with thread. The pattern was so small that even she had to lean close to see it clearly. As she stitched, she thought: Miss Lin will not see this. Even if she does, she will not know what it means. And even if she does know, she still cannot leave. But Su Wanniang kept stitching. Stitch by stitch, she buried the transparent thread beneath the phoenix’s wings, between the feathers of the hundred birds, and in the folds of the swirling clouds. She was not stitching a secret code. She was stitching something she had wanted to do, but had never been able to do, when she was sixteen. That year, she too had stood in a doorway, facing a road she did not want to take. No one had stitched anything for her then. Now she was stitching it for Miss Lin, even though she knew that Miss Lin would most likely go her whole life without ever discovering it.

Dawn was breaking when she finished the last stitch. At some point A-Fu had woken and was standing barefoot behind her, rubbing her eyes. “Mama, what are you stitching?”

Su Wanniang turned and stroked her daughter’s hair. “Nothing,” she said. “Just a little flower.”

A-Fu leaned closer and looked for a long time. Then she tilted her head. “But I don’t see any flower.”

Su Wanniang smiled. She turned the embroidery over and tucked all the loose ends into the back. The hidden stitches disappeared into the weave. There was nothing to see from the back, and almost nothing from the front. They were simply like invisible little paths winding beneath the brilliant colors. Su Wanniang knew those paths led nowhere. She simply stitched.

The Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix was finished two months later. When Su Wanniang brought it to the Chen household, Madam Chen was in the courtyard watching someone prune the bamboo. She took the embroidery, unfolded it, and looked at it for a long time. Sunlight filtered through the bamboo leaves and fell across the satin, making the phoenix’s golden feathers seem to glow. Madam Chen looked for so long that even the person pruning the bamboo stopped. “Very good,” she said, her voice slightly hoarse. “Mistress Su’s skill is indeed as renowned as they say.” She rolled up the embroidery, placed it in a brocade sleeve, and handed it to the stewardess. Then she turned to Su Wanniang as if she wanted to say something. Her lips moved, but in the end she said only, “You have worked hard.”

Su Wanniang took the remaining fifty taels of silver and left the Chen household. The sun was bright that day. The osmanthus trees by the roadside had already put out small buds, and a faint fragrance hung in the air. After walking a few steps, she stopped and looked back at the compound. White walls, dark tiles, osmanthus trees rising around them. From inside came the repeated snip of shears cutting the branches, one cut after another, like someone shortening something inch by inch. Su Wanniang turned and walked on. She never saw Miss Lin again. Later, she heard that the young women selected for the palace had left the city and gone toward the capital. Several small green-canopied sedan chairs had passed through the South Gate just before dawn, when there was hardly anyone in the streets to see them. Su Wanniang did not go to see them off. That day she sat before her embroidery frame, needle and thread in hand, not knowing what to stitch. Nothing seemed right. Outside the window, the light slowly brightened, then faded again. A-Fu slept at her feet, breathing softly. Listening to that small, steady breathing, Su Wanniang suddenly felt that Miss Lin must already be far away.

The days flowed by like water, swift and silent. A-Fu grew up, married, and had a daughter. Su Wanniang grew old. Her eyes were no longer as bright, her fingers no longer as steady, but she continued to embroider. She moved from the small alley in the southern part of the city to a little courtyard house on the outskirts, where she planted a pomegranate tree and a few clumps of balsam flowers. She still sat by the north-facing window, stitching small things—handkerchiefs, fan cases, sachets. They were not valuable, but she made them with exquisite care. Whenever she took them to the market, there was always someone who recognized her needlework.

She rarely thought of the Hundred Birds Paying Court to the Phoenix anymore. As the years passed, many things faded, like old embroidery, their colors slowly dimming until only a blurred outline remained. She remembered only the faint, slightly rough feel of the translucent silk thread passing between her fingers. She did not know what had become of Miss Lin. She did not know whether she had understood. Most of the time, she thought the hidden stitches she had made would probably never be discovered. That was all right. Some things were meant to be stitched for oneself.

One afternoon, Su Wanniang was shelling beans beneath the pomegranate tree. Warm autumn sunlight lay across the courtyard. Someone knocked softly at the gate. She rose to open it and found an old woman standing outside, dressed in gray cloth, her hair streaked with white, her face worn and haggard. In her hands she held a bundle wrapped in faded blue cloth. The old woman looked at her for a long time, as if trying to recognize something in that face covered with wrinkles.

“Mistress Su?”

Su Wanniang nodded. She did not recognize the woman.

The old woman handed her the bundle. Su Wanniang untied it and found a piece of old satin inside. The pearly sheen of the Yunjin was long gone, leaving only a dull, dusty white. The embroidery threads had faded as well, the hundred birds’ feathers blurred into an indistinct tangle. Only the phoenix’s golden tail feathers were still faintly recognizable. She recognized her own stitches. Holding the old embroidery in her hands, Su Wanniang’s fingers trembled.

She looked up at the old woman. “You are…?”

“My surname isn’t Lin,” the old woman said, her voice hoarse. “I entered the palace with her all those years ago. She died young. Before she died, she left this to me. She told me to take it out and find someone. She said I was to let that person have a look.” The old woman reached out. Her withered fingertip stopped beneath the phoenix’s wing, among the folds of the swirling auspicious clouds. “She said there was something there.”

Su Wanniang stood beneath the pomegranate tree. Autumn light fell across her graying temples, her trembling fingers, and the faded embroidery in her hands. She lowered her head and looked at her stitches. Those translucent silk threads had been buried there for decades, beneath the faded clouds and the phoenix’s tail feathers. The old woman turned the embroidery over. In a corner on the back, almost impossible to see, a few characters had been stitched in even finer thread. Su Wanniang leaned closer. The characters were tiny and faint, like something written by a person afraid to press too hard. It took her a long time to make them out. Four characters: I understood. The embroidery slipped from her hands and fell beside the roots of the pomegranate tree. She crouched down, picked it up, folded it carefully, and held it against her chest. She did not cry. Her tears had dried up many years ago. She only felt cold. The autumn wind came through the gate, making the leaves of the pomegranate tree rustle. She remained there, crouched on the ground, holding the old embroidery, for a long time. So long that the old woman eventually came over and gently placed a hand on her shoulder.

“She said thank you,” the old woman said.

Su Wanniang did not look up. She looked at the faded birds and phoenix on the satin and thought: So she saw it. She really saw it. But what could seeing it change? She still had not escaped. She had only seen it, and then died there. Su Wanniang did not know when Miss Lin had died, what she had been like at the end, or how she had lived through those final years. She knew only that she had seen it. The embroidery had remained beside her for so many years. She had seen the paths traced by those hidden stitches. She had seen the character concealed within them. She had understood. And nothing had changed. Su Wanniang suddenly felt that when she had stitched those hidden lines all those years ago, she had not truly meant to help Miss Lin escape. She had only wanted her to know that someone, somewhere, wished for her to leave. Perhaps that had been enough for Miss Lin. Perhaps it had not. Su Wanniang would never know.

After the old woman left, Su Wanniang placed the old embroidery at the bottom of her chest, alongside the silver bracelets, a few pieces of old cloth, and a bundle of translucent silk thread that had long since dried and stiffened. She told A-Fu nothing. Many years after Su Wanniang died, A-Fu was sorting through her belongings when she found the old piece of satin. She did not know what it was. It was terribly worn, its colors almost completely gone. When she turned it over, she found a line of tiny characters on the back. A-Fu knew neither the stitchwork nor the four characters. She looked at them for a long time. In the end, she burned the embroidery with the old clothes. As the fire rose, the faded birds and phoenix curled, blackened, and turned to ash. No one stood there watching. Only the autumn wind lifted the ash and carried it past the branches of the pomegranate tree, past the north-facing window that had long stood empty, and out into the world beyond the courtyard.