Outside Hangzhou's outer city, between a stretch of wilderness near West Lake and a cluster of villages, Annie had bought herself a small garden estate. Then she and Yue Lingshan had settled in there without a care in the world.
The residence nestled in a valley outside the city, backed by mountains and facing the water. With its gray-brick walls, dark-tiled eaves, and high surrounding walls, from afar it looked like a pale-ink scroll slowly unfurling.
The estate was neither large nor small, and had three courtyards. The first held a reception hall, with a bamboo blind hanging over its moon gate and nanmu tables and chairs set beneath the banana leaves outside the window. The second was the living quarters: open the window of the upstairs chamber and you could see the flying eaves and bracket sets, while carved lattice screens filtered the soft daylight—and offered a view of distant West Lake. The final courtyard housed a study connected to the back garden. A leaky window in its whitewashed wall offered a glimpse of bamboo shadows in the garden beyond.
Though the garden was not large, it captured all the charm of a Suzhou-style garden.
Its winding corridors followed the contours of the grounds, linking a half pavilion, a waterside pavilion, and a warm room. A Taihu rock stood against the eastern wall, shaped like a cloud frozen in place. Beneath it lay a shallow pool where koi swam nose to tail, their rippling water harmonizing with the wind chimes.
Osmanthus, plum, and magnolia trees grew in the western corner, so the garden was never bare in any season.
In the depths of spring, moss crept over the stone steps, and wisteria brushed the couplets on the pillars. When rain slanted through the air and the eaves bells chimed