Transmigrated to the Northern Song Dynasty as a County Magistrate (GL) - Chapter 4

4: Fan Zhuzhu’s Misfortune in Marriage

Qingyu glanced outside before replying, “Second Young Master, it’s the Yun family’s people here to prepare the bridal chamber. This is the second and final group. Would you like to inspect their work?”

Tian Qingyi thought: So the earlier commotion must have been the first batch from the Yun family.

“Preparing the bridal chamber” was the first ritual before the wedding ceremony. The day before the wedding, the bride’s family would send people to the groom’s house to hang curtains, arrange dowry items, and display jewelry. After setup, the bride’s maids would guard the room, forbidding outsiders from entering.

“No,” Tian Qingyi answered without hesitation. The thought of tomorrow’s wedding made her head spin—she had no mood for sightseeing. If it weren’t her wedding, she might’ve gone out of curiosity, without needing Qingyu’s reminder.

Just then, Wei Shier returned carrying two food boxes. Qingyu and Ruoshui took them and began setting the table, laying out three dishes, a soup, and rice. The food looked appetizing, with both meat and vegetables, though none contained chili peppers.

Hungry, Tian Qingyi unconsciously ate two bowls of rice. When she reached for a third, she paused—Two bowls already? As a part-time hanfu model, she usually avoided rice at night to maintain her figure, limiting herself to one bowl at most.

But today, even after two bowls, she was only half-full. It dawned on her: This isn’t my body. A quick mental scan of the original host’s memories revealed she typically ate four to five bowls per meal. No wonder she was still hungry.

Her mind screamed stop, but her stomach growled in protest. As she hesitated, Qingyu silently refilled her bowl.

Well, wasting food is worse, she reasoned. The bowls were small anyway. Compared to the original host’s usual intake, three bowls would only leave her comfortably satiated.

She firmly declined a fourth serving. Even if she woke up hungry at midnight, she wouldn’t eat more.

After the meal, dusk fell quickly. The noise outside gradually quieted, and when the maids lit the lamps, silence enveloped the estate.

Tian Qingyi had meant to ask the time but forgot. In the northern lunar third month, darkness likely fell before 7 PM—far too early for her modern sensibilities.

The idea of sleeping so soon after waking grated on her. If I had my phone, I could at least scroll mindlessly. But here, there was no electricity, no entertainment.

From the original host’s memories and her own limited historical knowledge, Kaifeng’s nightlife was supposedly vibrant. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to go out. A stubborn hope lingered: Maybe if I sleep, I’ll wake up back home.

Staying indoors felt like clinging to modernity.

After sitting blankly for a while, she forced herself to bed—only to toss and turn, waking intermittently from hunger and nightmares.

In one dream, her project manager harassed her about overdue park design drafts. In another, a client endlessly revised urban planning blueprints. When she jolted awake, the faint lamplight confirmed her worst fear: She was still in the Northern Song Dynasty.

No more overtime drafting… but also no phones, no computers, no skincare! Her unfinished Lancôme set—a gift from her ex—flashed in her mind. Did my ex even use the products I gave her? The thought brought fresh tears.

She cried herself back to sleep, only to be roused by Qingyu while it was still dark. Since when did nights feel this long?

After permission was granted, lantern-bearing maids filed in, illuminating the room. Ruoshui and others followed, carrying fresh clothes, hats, shoes, and toiletries.

Tian Qingyi wanted to stay buried in bed, but Qingyu—human alarm clock that she was—kept calling through the screen until resistance became futile.

Behind the privacy screen, Qingyu dressed her in a white wide-sleeved official robe, its fabric smoother than yesterday’s. The new boots, though fine by Song standards, paled beside modern footwear.

Her hair was tied up again, but this time topped with a black scholar’s scarf instead of a crown—standard attire for outings.

Post-washing up, she nibbled pastries, visited the toilet, and finally ventured out.

The toilet surprised her: a lidded wooden bucket lined with plant ash, surprisingly clean and well-ventilated, with incense in the corner. A washbasin and towel stood ready.

The lack of toilet paper, however, was jarring. The original host used bamboo strips—ouch. If I ever need to poop, I’m bringing paper. Crumbled paper beats reusable bamboo any day.

Dawn tinted the sky as she walked toward the main gate. The lavish decorations—red lanterns, silk drapes, paper cutouts—screamed wealth. The Jiufang estate sprawled in a rectangular layout:

– Shangfu Courtyard: Central, grandest, housing Jiufang Xin and his wives.
– Qinhai Residence: East wing, home to the elder brother’s family.
– Yuzhu Residence: West wing, where the original host lived alone.

Pavilions, corridors, and landscaped gardens dotted the grounds, tempting Tian Qingyi’s professional eye (so many design details!), but this wasn’t the time for sightseeing.

Passing through a moon gate, she collided with an unexpected figure: Fan Zhuzhu.

Recovering, Tian Qingyi mimicked the original host’s manner, clasping her hands: “Greetings, Mother. May you have peace and blessings.”

Fan Zhuzhu, petite and youthful at forty-something (thanks to meticulous skincare), wore a purple-red straight-collar gown with pearl-adorned hair ribbons. She grasped Tian Qingyi’s hands warmly:

“I wanted to visit last night, but you’d already retired. I worried when I heard you stayed in all day—but seeing you well eases my heart. Now that you’ve passed the exams, I finally have hope. As for the marriage, don’t fret. A virtuous wife matters more than noble birth.”

Fan Zhuzhu had initially opposed the original host taking the exams (too risky!), but after the preliminary exam results came, her “fainting from joy” was actually terror. She’d nearly fled with the original host that night, only deterred by Jiufang Xin’s watchfulness and the promise of a phoenix coronet robe—a noblewoman’s privilege she’d craved since youth.

As a concubine, Fan Zhuzhu could never earn such honors herself—unless her “son” became a high-ranking official.

Their bond, though built on lies, ran deep. To Fan Zhuzhu, Jiufang Xiyan was more than a cover: she was her redemption, her revenge.

—

Fan Zhuzhu’s Tragic Backstory (Flashback)

Years ago, a young Fan Zhuzhu—skilled embroiderer, hopeless romantic—fell for Jiufang Xin’s sweet lies when he was a minor official in Xiongzhou. After his promotion and transfer, he abandoned her, unaware she was pregnant.

The birth nearly killed her, leaving her infertile and her son sickly. Penniless, she begged on the streets until an elderly widow took them in.

Ten years later, her son died. The widow’s family perished in a fire—only a granddaughter disguised as a boy (per a monk’s prophecy) survived. The widow, on her deathbed, entrusted the child and estate to Fan Zhuzhu.

Grief and rage twisted into vengeance. She buried her son under the granddaughter’s name, sold the estate, and—guided by the former spy leader’s machinations—set off to infiltrate Jiufang Xin’s household with her new “son”: the original host.