When the sun was slanting westward, Mai Sui walked through the courtyard gate with her basket on her back.
She set the basket down by the kitchen door, and before she could even catch her breath, Gu Xiaoya darted out from behind her legs, still clutching the branch she’d been using as a walking stick, and hollered the moment she got inside: “Mom! Sis-in-law dug up winter mushrooms! And wild yams! This many!”
Liu Guifang poked her head out of the main room, and the moment she spotted the half-basket of winter mushrooms in the woven basket, her eyes lit up. She quickly put down what she was doing and came over: ”These are hard to find even in winter! Sui’er, how did you find them? And so many!”
“Just got lucky, ran into them.” Mai Sui picked the winter mushrooms out one by one into a basin, then took out the yams, each one as thick as a finger. “An old woman in the mountains gave me these.”
“An old woman?” Liu Guifang’s hands paused as she took the yams, a note of surprise in her voice. “You mean that Mute Granny from the north mountain? You ran into her?”
“You know her?”
Liu Guifang set the yams gently on the stove top and wiped her hands on her apron, her tone tinged with sighs. “Back in the day, she was the number one midwife for ten villages around. Her skill was beyond reproach—your husband was delivered by her own hands.”
Mai Sui’s hands didn’t stop moving, but her ears perked up.
“Then why did she move up the mountain?” she asked.
“Nobody knows.” Liu Guifang shook her head and sighed. “Her family won’t talk about it either. The villagers guess all sorts of things—some say her son was unfilial, some say her daughter married far away and abandoned her, and some say she can read fortunes and is spooky like that… It’s all blind guessing.” She paused. “Later she went to live alone on the mountain, and for ten-odd years she’s had nothing to do with anyone. At first people still went up the mountain looking for her, wanting to hire her to come down and deliver babies, but she ignored them, and gradually nobody went anymore.”
“I heard she gathers herbs in the mountains. Sometimes in the middle of the night she comes down, leaves a basket of medicine at the back door of the supply cooperative, and just walks away—doesn’t take money, doesn’t leave a word. Nobody knows what she’s after.”
Mai Sui didn’t respond. Ten-odd years without coming down the mountain, yet she knew exactly where everything grew in those hills; kept away from people, yet came down in the dead of night to deliver medicine.
That old woman was a mystery from head to toe.
“Sui’er,” Liu Guifang suddenly took her hand, her tone turning serious. “Mute Granny is a bit odd—doesn’t like dealing with people. When villagers talk to her she acts like she can’t hear. But if she was willing to give you things, she must have taken a liking to you. Nobody knows the things of these mountains better than she does.” Then her tone shifted, and worry crept onto her face. “Still, you’re a new bride and don’t know these mountains and ridges well yet. Don’t go too deep into the mountains. There are plenty of wild beasts up there—your father saw boar tracks on the north slope last time, prints bigger than cow hooves.”
“Don’t worry, Mom. I know my limits.”
The words had barely left her mouth when a commotion came from the kitchen. Wang Cuijuan had come back at some point and was standing in front of the stove, reaching into the basin of winter mushrooms, turning them over and over to inspect them.
The moment she heard Mai Sui approaching, a smile spread across her face, rounder than the mushrooms in the basin. “Big Sis, you’re really something! First time up the mountain and you dug up this much! These mushrooms stewed with potatoes are so delicious. Tonight I’ll show off a dish for the family—I guarantee it’ll be so good you’ll swallow your tongues!”
As she talked, she reached out to pick up the basin, moving with such brisk efficiency you’d think the basin already belonged to her.
“No need.” Mai Sui walked over and took the basin away in one motion.
The movement wasn’t fast, but it was crisp and decisive, leaving no room for negotiation.
Wang Cuijuan’s hands hung in midair, the smile on her face frozen for an instant, her fingers still holding the posture of carrying a basin.
“Second Sister-in-law has been busy all day—I’ll handle dinner.” Mai Sui poured the winter mushrooms into clean water without lifting her head. “The corn grits porridge Second Sister-in-law made yesterday was pretty good. Today it’s my turn to practice. As the old saying goes, a new bride can’t eat idle rice for her first three days in the house. I can’t let people say the Gu family’s eldest daughter-in-law only knows how to make porridge, can I?”
Her voice was gentle, her tone soft—not a single flaw to be found in it. Yet the more Wang Cuijuan listened, the more uncomfortable she felt, her expression turning as sour as an eggplant hit by frost.
She watched the deftness of Mai Sui washing the vegetables—soaking, scrubbing off the dirt, pinching off the roots, separating the caps—one fluid motion after another, flowing like drifting clouds and water. How did that look like a new bride who’d just learned to cook? She was clearly an old hand.
The corner of Wang Cuijuan’s mouth twitched, but in the end she said nothing, turned around, and headed out.
The kitchen threshold was right there—she walked past it every day, couldn’t trip over it even with her eyes closed. Yet at this very moment, Wang Cuijuan caught her foot on the threshold, staggering and grabbing the doorframe to steady herself.
In the courtyard, Li Ming’e was squatting at the base of the wall, shelling corn cobs. Her hands moved listlessly, one stroke at a time, but her eyes were fixed on the barred chicken pecking at food in the yard, a faint, barely-there smile hanging at the corner of her mouth.
She hadn’t set foot in the kitchen the whole time, but the spot where she squatted happened to give her a perfectly clear view of everything going on inside.
A very cunning angle.
When Wang Cuijuan came out of the kitchen, Li Ming’e raised her head.
The two exchanged a glance so brief it lasted no longer than a blink—but everything that needed to be said was said.
In the kitchen, Mai Sui took in every movement of those two.
She lowered her head and went on washing the vegetables, the corners of her mouth curving up.
Interesting. Really interesting.
Dinner that evening was made by Mai Sui: winter mushrooms stewed with potatoes, and mountain yam and pork rib soup. The ribs had been dug out of the pickle crock—the last two left, lean with hardly any meat on them. But she simmered them for a good half hour anyway, controlling the heat with absolute precision, and managed to boil out a pot of soup that was thick and milky white.
When the big basin was set on the table, the whole room filled with a fresh, savory aroma.
The fragrance drifted out through the cracks in the door—even the barred chicken in the courtyard stretched its neck toward the main room, clucking away.
With the dishes on the table, the whole family sat in a circle around the kang table. Liu Guifang glanced toward the door and murmured, “Qingye isn’t back yet. Shouldn’t we wait a bit?”
“It’s already dark. What did he go off doing?” Gu Dashan asked.
“He went up the mountain to gather firewood.”
Mai Sui froze for a moment. He’d gone up the mountain too?
Meanwhile, Wang Cuijuan’s chopsticks were already reaching out, her target clear, heading straight for the basin of rib soup. “Oh, Ma, Big Brother’s never back from work at any set time. By the time he returns, the food will be cold. Let’s eat first. Big Sister-in-law made so much—she wouldn’t not save some for her man, right? Don’t you worry, we’ll just leave it in the pot to keep warm!” As she spoke, she dropped a piece of potato into Tiedan’s bowl—stewed so soft it fell apart at the touch of the chopsticks.
Gu Dashan said nothing, picked up his bowl, and took a sip of the soup—which counted as tacit approval. But the moment the soup hit his mouth, he froze. He took another sip, then set the bowl down and said nothing for a long while.
“What’s wrong, Dad? Not good?” Gu Qingshan asked, holding his bowl.
“Delicious.” Gu Dashan’s voice was a bit muffled. He stared down at the soup in his bowl, took another sip, his Adam’s apple bobbing, and then said nothing more.
He kept his head down, looking at no one, just staring blankly at the soup in his bowl.
Xiaoya crouched on the doorstep with her bowl, taking a sip and then glancing at how much was left in the pot. When she finished, she carried her bowl over to the stove and stood on tiptoe so Mai Sui could ladle in another small half-spoonful of soup.
Mai Sui patted her head and added a piece of pork rib to her bowl. The ribs had been stewed until the meat fell right off the bone—a quick push with the chopsticks and the meat came loose.
Liu Guifang watched from the side, and her eyes suddenly reddened.
She knew exactly what was going on with the old man. This meal was the first proper one this family had had in months. It wasn’t that they couldn’t afford it—there was just no one to make it.
Wang Cuijuan cooked carelessly, throwing everything into one pot and calling it done. Li Ming’e simply stayed far away, busying herself with nothing and never lifting a finger. Liu Guifang ran herself ragged inside and out; getting food cooked at all was good enough—who had the luxury of worrying about taste?
Wang Cuijuan downed two big bowls of soup, praising it to the skies at the top of her lungs: “Sister-in-law, your cooking is amazing! Better than the head cook at the town canteen! This soup—amazing!”
She drank more than anyone and praised louder than anyone.
And while her mouth was busy praising, her hands were busy too, piling pork rib after pork rib into her own bowl.
“That’s right! Grandma’s cooking is way better than my mom’s! From now on, Grandma should cook every day!” Gu Tiedan, sitting between Gu Qingshan and Wang Cuijuan, was five years old this year—only half a year younger than his little aunt. As the Gu family’s eldest grandson, he’d been spoiled rotten by Wang Cuijuan and had the sharpest tongue of anyone.
The moment those words came out, the table went silent for an instant.
Mai Sui glanced up at Wang Cuijuan.
The smile was still hanging on Wang Cuijuan’s face, but the corners of her mouth had started twitching. She reached over and smacked Tiedan on the back of the head. “You little brat! Even eating can’t shut your mouth!”
Tiedan hunched his shoulders and giggled. He didn’t cry or fuss over the smack, just kept shoveling food into his bowl, his mouth shiny with grease.
Mai Sui looked up at Wang Cuijuan, then smiled at Tiedan. “Sure, if Tiedan likes it, Grandma will make it often.” Then she changed tack, turning to Wang Cuijuan, her tone still soft and gentle. “But Second Sister-in-law, you should learn a thing or two. Once the kids get picky, can a mother really keep letting her sister-in-law do the cooking? If word gets out, people won’t call you lazy—they’ll say I, the eldest sister-in-law, stole your spot at the stove.”
The smile froze on Wang Cuijuan’s face. No one picked up the thread.
Mai Sui noticed that over the whole meal, Li Ming’e only reached for food three times—but each time, her chopsticks landed exactly at the moment Wang Cuijuan was about to reach out but hadn’t yet. It wasn’t stealing; it was positioning.
She ate quietly, keeping her presence to a minimum, but the best pieces of pork rib at the table all ended up in her son’s bowl.
Gu Qingshan kept his head down shoveling rice the whole time, never saying a word. His wife had been publicly called out by their son, and he didn’t utter a peep—whether out of habit or simply because he couldn’t be bothered, who knew.
Li Ming’e raised her head and gave Mai Sui a look, one with a hint of scrutiny in it, as if sizing up this newly arrived eldest sister-in-law all over again. But that scrutiny flashed and was gone. She lowered her head, added another piece of meat and mushroom to the bowl of her three-year-old son, Gu Jinbao, and coaxed him softly, “Eat slowly, don’t choke.”
Gu Qingbai was a straightforward sort. He gulped down three bowls of soup in a row, a ring of grease glistening around his mouth, and when he set down his bowl he let out a loud burp, wiping his mouth with his sleeve.
Li Ming’e immediately shot him a sidelong glance, her lips moving, but before she could say a word, Gu Qingbai spoke first: “All right, all right, I know, I know.”
Then he went right back to wiping his mouth on his sleeve, with no intention whatsoever of changing his ways.
Gu Qingye came home the latest.
He came in through the back yard carrying two bundles of firewood on his shoulder, the bundles stacked taller than a man, yet he walked steadily under their weight. He washed his hands at the well, shook off the water droplets, and by the time he walked into the main room, the meal was already half gone.
“Big Brother’s back!” Wang Cuijuan hurriedly greeted him, her enthusiasm back in full force. “Your sister-in-law made this—come try it, it’s so fragrant!”
Gu Qingye sat down in the empty seat beside Mai Sui.
Liu Guifang ladled him a bowl of soup. He picked it up and took a sip.
His movements paused for a moment.
Then he kept drinking without a word, but the pace of his drinking clearly quickened—in the blink of an eye, most of the bowl was gone.
Mai Sui watched him finish one bowl and go ladle himself a second, and the corners of her mouth curved up slightly without her meaning to.
This man never praised anyone out loud, but his stomach was honest—far more honest than his mouth.
Xiaoya scooted over with her bowl to Gu Qingye’s side, tilting her head up to look at him without saying a word, just gazing at him expectantly.
Gu Qingye glanced down at her, picked up the piece of pork rib from his own bowl and placed it in hers, then went back to drinking his soup with a blank expression.
Xiaoya pressed her lips together, grinning, and ran back to sit on the doorstep with her bowl, gnawing on the rib until her whole face was greasy.
After the meal, Mai Sui washed dishes in the kitchen. The water was cold, and her hands turned red from the chill.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Not heavy, but the kitchen was small, so they came through especially clearly.
“Ginger water.”
A red-flower enamel mug was set down on the stove beside her, steam rising from it, the scent of ginger mixed with sweetness rushing into her nose.
The mug looked like it had seen years of use—several chips of enamel had knocked off, revealing rust-colored metal underneath—but it was washed clean.
Mai Sui’s hand paused as she wiped it, and she turned her head to look at him.
Gu Qingye stood at the kitchen doorway without coming in. The kitchen was narrow to begin with, and with his build planted in the doorway, he had basically blocked every escape route—but he seemed completely unaware that he was blocking the door, his face still wearing that expressionless look, no different from a breathing wall.
“When did you make this?” Mai Sui picked up the mug. It was hot—so hot her fingertips flinched, and she switched it to her other hand.
“While you were washing dishes.”
“You put ginger in it?”
“Mm.”
“What else did you put in?”
“Brown sugar.”
Mai Sui lowered her head and took a sip. The spiciness of the ginger rushed down her throat, the sweetness of the brown sugar settling under her tongue—not cloying, just right.
She narrowed her eyes slightly and took another sip, and from the corner of her eye she noticed Gu Qingye still standing in the doorway, not leaving.
She looked up at him. “What are you standing there for? Something you need?”
“Tomorrow’s market day,” he said, his tone still as stiff as ever. “I’m going to the town post office to mail a letter. Are you going?”
Mai Sui’s hand paused on the mug.
She’d already been planning to go to the market one of these days, to bring the winter mushrooms and yams and test the prices—she hadn’t even brought it up with him yet, and here he was asking first.
“I’ll go,” she said, setting the mug down. “I can bring the winter mushrooms and yams along and see what they’re going for.”
Gu Qingye nodded and took a sip from the other army-green enamel mug in his hand, its faded red five-pointed star printed on the side.
“The market’s full of strangers. Don’t flash your money around.” With that, he turned and headed out the door.
“Gu Qingye.”
His footsteps stopped at the kitchen doorway.
Mai Sui looked at his back—a patch of his army-green shirt soaked through with sweat, the outline of his shoulder blades showing through the fabric. This man had carried two bundles of firewood down from the mountain, drunk three bowls of soup, boiled ginger water for her, and now stood there waiting for her to speak—but he just wouldn’t turn around and look at her.
“The ginger water turned out well,” she said.
Gu Qingye was silent for two seconds. “Mm.”
Mai Sui cradled the enamel mug in her palms, the steam washing over her face.
In her past life, she had met plenty of people.
Hundreds of customers came and went through the restaurant every day, and she could tell at a glance who was genuinely generous and who was just being polite, who meant well and who was putting on an act.
But someone like Gu Qingye—she’d rarely come across his kind.
Cold as ice on his lips, warm as coals in his hands.
When she finished washing the dishes and returned to the east room, Gu Qingye was already lying down on the far side of the kang. The bowl of water in the middle sat undisturbed, its surface perfectly still.