The Secret Healer of the Manor

Lady Wang

Shen Qingwu crossed paths with Lady Wang on the morning of the third day.

It was purportedly a chance encounter, yet Shen Qingwu never believed in coincidences. She had just returned from fetching breakfast in the kitchen and was passing through the moon gate of the garden when a retinue blocked her way.

Four maidservants and two elderly matrons flanked a woman in a deep purple jacket—Lady Wang herself. She was around forty, with dignified features and an air of entrenched authority etched into her brows. A jade bangle on her left wrist caught the morning light, glinting softly.

Shen Qingwu halted, lowered her head, stepped aside, and curtsied deeply. “This servant greets Your Ladyship,” she said, her voice steady and posture impeccable—nothing to fault.

But Lady Wang stopped in her tracks.

Shen Qingwu felt the older woman’s gaze settle on her, sharp and appraising. She kept her head bowed, maintaining the curtsy, her heartbeat calm. In the emergency room, she had faced far more intimidating family members; this level of scrutiny was trivial by comparison.

“You are Shen Qingwu?” Lady Wang’s voice was not loud, yet every syllable carried the weight of command.

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

“Look up.”

Shen Qingwu raised her head, her eyes resting on Lady Wang’s chin—not daring to meet her eyes directly (too presumptuous) nor lowering them fully (too guilt-ridden).

Lady Wang studied her in silence for a long moment.

Shen Qingwu observed her in return, using the keen eye of an ER doctor: Lady Wang’s complexion was pale, with faint dark circles under her eyes (a sign of chronic sleep deprivation); her left hand rubbed the jade bangle unconsciously, a nervous tick; her back was straight, but her shoulders hunched slightly forward, as if from years of hunching over a desk.

Conclusion: High stress, and she relied on her authority to cling to control.

“I heard you saved Ah Fu?” Lady Wang asked at last.

“Yes, Your Ladyship. Ah Fu fell ill suddenly, and this servant happened to know some emergency first aid,” Shen Qingwu replied.

“Emergency first aid?” Lady Wang frowned. “Who taught you such skills?”

“To answer Your Ladyship: my father was a traveling physician in his lifetime. He taught me some basic medical knowledge,” Shen Qingwu said—this was the cover story she had prepared. Women practicing medicine was frowned upon in those times, but “taught by my father” could quiet most objections.

Lady Wang fell silent for a beat, then suddenly pressed: “What was your father’s name?”

Shen Qingwu’s heart tightened.

This was a trap. If she invented a name, Lady Wang would investigate—and if no trace of him was found, it would be deemed deception. If she claimed not to know, her earlier words would be exposed as lies.

“To answer Your Ladyship,” Shen Qingwu said, her voice remaining calm, “my father’s surname was Shen, given name An. He passed away when I was young. I only remember he traveled constantly, rarely returning home. My mother said he fell off a cliff while gathering medicinal herbs and never came back.”

Every word was true. The original Shen Qingwu’s father had indeed been Shen An, a traveling physician who died in a fall from a cliff—information gleaned from the original’s diary.

Lady Wang’s gaze lingered on her face, as if weighing every word for falsehood.

“Shen An…” Lady Wang repeated the name, her tone flat. “I have never heard of him.”

“Father was a humble nobody, Your Ladyship. It is only natural you would not know him,” Shen Qingwu replied evenly.

Lady Wang said no more. She turned to leave, took one step, then paused without looking back. “Go to the kitchen less often. Your place is in the side courtyard,” she ordered.

“Yes, Your Ladyship.”

Lady Wang departed, her retinue following her through the moon gate until they vanished into the depths of the garden.

Shen Qingwu remained in her curtsy until the sound of footsteps faded completely, then straightened up.

Her back was soaked in cold sweat—not from fear (she had faced far more peril in the ER), but from the thrill of a hunter spotting its prey.

Lady Wang was testing her. She had been noticed.

This was not necessarily bad. Being noticed meant she had value. As long as she could convince Lady Wang that she was more useful alive than dead, she would be safe—for the time being.

She turned back toward the side courtyard, her mind racing to dissect the conversation.

Lady Wang’s three questions had been carefully crafted, each locking into the next:

“You are Shen Qingwu?” – Confirming her identity.

“Who taught you?” – Verifying the source of her medical knowledge.

“What was your father’s name?” – Testing for lies.

Had she faltered at any point, she might already be…

She cut off the thought. Pushing open the door to the side courtyard, she found Su He waiting anxiously.

“Miss! Are you all right? I heard the Lady was in the garden…” Su He fretted.

“I met her,” Shen Qingwu said, setting down the breakfast tray. “She asked me a few questions.”

“What kind of questions?”

Shen Qingwu recounted the conversation, and Su He paled. “Does the Lady suspect you?”

“She was assessing me,” Shen Qingwu corrected. “Suspicion means she thinks you are a problem. Assessment means she thinks you might be useful—but she is not yet certain.”

“Then… what did she make of you?”

Shen Qingwu considered. “She is still undecided. But she gave me a warning: to stay away from the kitchen.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Shen Qingwu said, glancing out the window, “she does not want me drawing attention to myself. A lowly concubine saving someone is not a merit in her eyes—it is showing off.”

Su He nodded, though she did not fully understand.

Shen Qingwu did not elaborate. She picked up a steamed bun and ate slowly, her mind calculating her next move.

Lady Wang had noticed her. She would need to be more careful—but this also meant an opportunity to access higher-level information.

In the ER, there was an unwritten rule: to learn a patient’s true condition, do not ask the patient—ask their family. Families often held secrets the patient would never reveal.

Now, Lady Wang was the “family” who knew all the estate’s secrets—including the truth behind the original owner’s death.

The question was: How to make her talk?

Shen Qingwu bit into the bun, her gaze falling on the old locust tree outside. Its leaves rustled in the wind.

She suddenly recalled a line from the original owner’s diary: “I know what they’re doing.”

Did the “they” in the diary include Lady Wang?

If yes, then Lady Wang was either one of the murderers or knew who they were.

If no, then Lady Wang might also be a target of “them.”

Either way, Lady Wang was her breakthrough.

Shen Qingwu swallowed the last bite of the bun. She needed to create more “chance encounters” with Lady Wang—not to curry favor, but to observe, gather information, and find her weaknesses.

In the ER, she had dealt with countless “impossible” family members. But she had learned one universal truth: Everyone has a weakness. Find it, and you can open any door.

What was Lady Wang’s weakness?

Recalling her earlier observations—the nervous rubbing of the jade bangle, the sleep-deprived face, the need to control with her order to “stay away from the kitchen”—the answer was clear:

Fear.

Fear of losing control, fear of being replaced, fear of the order she had built crumbling around her.

This realization made the corner of Shen Qingwu’s mouth twitch into a faint smile.

Fear could make people cruel. It could also make them vulnerable.

And she was a master at dealing with fear—whether it belonged to patients, their families, or powerful women like Lady Wang.

Outside the window, a crow took flight from the locust tree, cawing once before vanishing into the sky.

Shen Qingwu pulled her gaze back and began clearing the table, her next steps already taking shape.