Madam Yu had emptied her family’s coffers just to marry a daughter-in-law into the house. Now that she had her, she couldn’t simply leave her aside. Since her son wouldn’t budge, she resolved to use other methods.
The Zhou family was already in such a dire state; what business did they have with rules? She would first get the two of them into the same room. She refused to believe her son could resist if they slept in the same bed every night! Hardening her heart, she went to persuade Ye Jia again.
Ever since she overheard their private conversation, Ye Jia had remained incredibly calm. She didn’t refuse, only saying they should wait until her husband’s body recovered.
Madam Yu took this as a yes and immediately beamed with joy. She turned her full attention to nursing Zhou Jingchen back to health.
Ye Jia was calm, of course. It was obvious Zhou Jingchen had someone else in his heart and was likely keeping himself pure for her. In the original novel, he married the original owner but never even touched her. If she had to move in, she would just treat him as an extra roommate. Besides, Zhou Jingchen might not even want her to move.
With a thought, Ye Jia put the matter out of her mind. In the meantime, the roof was leaking everywhere, making the room damp.
In ancient farmhouses, the floors were made of earth—the kind of fine-grained soil that became slippery when wet. If one wasn’t careful, they could easily slip and fall. She had miscalculated; knowing it would rain today, she should have taken advantage of the clear morning to fix the roof.
The northwest wasn’t like the rainy South; its winters were dry and bitterly cold. Most houses here had single-sloped, flat, or gabled roofs, or were even yurt-style tents. The roofs were designed with a shallow pitch and thick walls to withstand the extreme cold.
The Zhou family’s roof, however, leaked constantly. Either the tiles hadn’t been laid tightly enough when the house was built, or the quality of the tiles was poor, and rain, snow, and hail had shattered them over the years.
Madam Yu had probably grown so desperate over the leaks that she’d covered the roof with a layer of straw, but the fierce northern winds had blown it all away, leaving it completely useless.
Repairing it wouldn’t be difficult—Ye Jia could do it herself. The real problem was the money. Even these cheap black tiles cost something, and she had none.
A single penny can stop a hero in his tracks, she thought bitterly.
Ye Jia knew they couldn’t keep going like this. One tael of silver wasn’t nearly enough to feed four people, especially when one of them was on medication that cost a fortune.
With a handful of millet in her grip, she headed to the kitchen. To protect the four chicks she’d brought home yesterday from the cold, she had kept them under the stove. In just one day, the small area she’d enclosed with firewood had been completely covered in chicken droppings.
It was, she had to admit, a real mess.
But there was no helping it. If you wanted to raise chickens, you had to put up with the droppings. In the countryside, you couldn’t expect fresh eggs without the mess.
Madam Yu had noticed the state of the enclosure when she came to fetch water that morning. She had started to say something to Ye Jia several times, but the words died on her lips. She knew all too well how dire their situation was; they couldn’t afford to be so particular about such things. If her daughter-in-law wanted to raise the birds, she had no right to complain, even if she personally detested the idea.
Her silence was the sensible choice. Ye Jia refreshed the chickens’ food and water, then swept the small area clean. The chicks’ cheerful chirping was surprisingly pleasant, offering a fleeting sense of peace.
Taking advantage of the quiet, Ye Jia brought out the large bag of daikon radishes, fetched a bucket of water from the well, and went inside to wash them. She planned to make radish pancakes for lunch.
Radish pancakes were a simple, homey snack—easy to prepare, yet delicious if made right.
Ye Jia kneaded the dough, then quickly shredded the radishes into fine strips. After blanching them, she wrapped the shreds in a piece of gauze and squeezed out the excess water before chopping them into small pieces. She mixed in salt and seasonings. In the past, she would have used Thirteen Spices, but the Zhou family’s kitchen lacked such luxuries. Instead, she kept it simple with minced scallions, ginger, and soy sauce. On second thought, she took a bowl of flour to the neighbor’s house and traded it for two eggs. She fried the eggs, chopped them up, and stirred them into the mixture.
Ye Jia was busy in the kitchen when she turned around and bumped into a soft little body. Looking down, she saw Rui’er grinning up at her, a hopeful smile on her face. After eating the dumplings Ye Jia had made yesterday, the little girl had clearly decided Ye Jia was the one who cooked the good food. She’d followed the sounds of activity in the kitchen and wandered over.
Ye Jia had never much cared for children. An only child herself, she’d spent her years working, rarely returning home and keeping to herself rather than visiting relatives. The occasional family visit with crying, screaming toddlers was a nightmare.
To her, children were simply a nuisance.
But Rui’er was quiet and rarely cried. She’s a good little thing, Ye Jia thought. “Go sit behind the stove, sweetie. Don’t get in the way.”
The little girl sniffed, obediently stepping back. She pointed a stubby finger at the basin, her eyes shining. “Auntie, yummy food!”
“Mhm.”
The sight of her—so adorably clumsy—brought a smile to Ye Jia’s lips.
She turned back to the dough, tearing off a large piece. Suddenly, the light in front of her was blocked. She looked up to see a tall figure silhouetted against the doorway. The kitchen was small, divided into two tiny rooms to store firewood, and the man’s presence now obscured half the entrance.
As their eyes met, Ye Jia found herself staring into a pair of calm, bright eyes.
The man silently studied her, his gaze then shifting to Rui’er, who sat nearby on a small stool. He seemed to be looking for someone. His eyes swept across the small room before he finally spoke.
“Jia-niang,” he said, his voice sounding awkward, as if unused to addressing a woman by her given name. “Have you seen Mother?”
Ye Jia blinked, stunned. Wasn’t Madam Yu just here?
She glanced down at the little girl. Rui’er frowned, her brows knitting together. “Someone came looking for her,” she stammered. “Grandmother went out.”
Ye Jia looked up, and the man by the door gave a slight nod.
He turned to leave, but his injured leg made the effort difficult. He had already strained himself just to reach the door; now, trying to limp back, his face was slick with cold sweat despite the winter chill.
Ye Jia, still rolling dough, clicked her tongue at the sight. She washed her hands in a basin, walked over, and gripped his arm, hoisting it over her shoulder.
Zhou Jingchen’s expression hardened. Perhaps he was unused to such rough handling, his eyes flashing with coldness before he forced himself to remain calm.
Ye Jia ignored whatever he was thinking. She hauled him into the room and leaned him against the stove. Then, she dragged a stool from behind the stove and firmly pressed him down onto it.
“Sit here,” she commanded. “I’ll help you back once I’m finished.”
After she finished, Ye Jia ignored him completely. She washed her hands and went right back to making radish pancakes.
Zhou Jingchen sat stiffly on the stool for a long time, his expression gradually hardening. His long eyelashes partially shaded his eyes, and the light from the doorway fell on his shoulders, tracing a soft, luminous outline around his figure. He glanced at his niece, who sat beside him on a small stool, her eyes fixed on the woman working. The girl was staring so intently that drool was nearly dripping from her chin.
He looked up again at the young woman. Steam rose in curls from the boiling pot on the stove, and she stood enveloped in the mist, her slender figure a striking sight. The fresh scent of shredded radish mixed with the pungent aroma of green onion and ginger. She worked with her head bowed, completely focused. Her hands moved with nimble speed, her expression so serene that it created a fleeting illusion of peaceful, undisturbed days.
The oil sizzled as a pancake hit the pan, filling the room with the most honest and comforting of scents. Zhou Jingchen, who had only eaten a small bowl of millet porridge that day, felt a sudden pang of hunger.
There were many ways to prepare radish pancakes, each region with its own customs. Ye Jia was making the most common northern-style version. The dough was first soaked in oil, then rolled into long strips. The radish balls were wrapped inside, shaped into spheres, and then gently pressed into flat cakes. The method was similar to making Xinjiang beef pancakes. Once shaped, they were brushed with a little oil and pan-fried.
The fried cakes were ready, their crusts golden and crisp, their centers tender and savory. A single bite yielded a satisfying crunch, the flavor so rich it could make one forget everything else.
Ye Jia had only just finished the first batch, but Rui’er was already too impatient to sit still. She circled Ye Jia like a little tail, calling out, “Auntie, Auntie!”
Ye Jia picked one up and placed it on a plate. “It’s hot. Let it cool before you eat.”
Rui’er nodded obediently, standing by the small table and blowing on the plate to cool the cakes.
The child is a bit plain, Ye Jia thought, but she’s so sweet it makes my heart ache. Seeing her so eager, Ye Jia knew she would obey any instruction.
Zhou Jingchen watched them from his seat, his dark, ink-like eyes shimmering. When Ye Jia turned, her gaze met his. He didn’t look away, instead offering a faint smile that softened the usual cold, aloof aura surrounding him. In that moment, he looked like a refined scholar, gentle as jade.
Ye Jia’s heart skipped a beat. After a pause, she scooped another cake into a bowl and held it out to him. “Alright, alright. Here, you can have one too.”
“…”
Zhou Jingchen murmured a polite thanks and reached out to take the bowl.
But Ye Jia pulled it back, setting it on the stove. “No, I forgot you’re still taking your medicine. Never mind, you should stick to the porridge.”
Radishes neutralized the effects of medicine, and eating them during a course of treatment would render it useless. Those herbs had cost her over one tael—she wasn’t about to let them go to waste.
Zhou Jingchen stared at her in silence.
…Was Lady Ye always this temperamental? It had been so long, he couldn’t remember.
Ye Jia paid his strange, contemplative expression no mind. She fried up thirty radish cakes in one go. They were filling; a single cake could sustain a small appetite for an entire afternoon. Thirty would last their family of three several days.
By the time she finished, the medicine on the small stove was ready. Madam Yu still hadn’t returned, and Ye Jia had no idea what was keeping her. She wrapped the small pot in a damp cloth and strained the liquid.
The scent of the Chinese medicine was overpowering. Just the smell made Ye Jia feel as if she’d vomit gall.
Holding the bowl of black liquid, she pinched her nose and brought it directly to Zhou Jingchen. “Drink up. It’s fresh and hot.”
Zhou Jingchen stared at the scalding bowl, a faint shiver running through him.
Ye Jia set the medicine down and grabbed a stool, sitting opposite him. She and Little Bean Sprout each took a radish cake, munching away with satisfying crunches.
“Drink it,” she urged between bites. “It’ll taste worse once it cools.”
Zhou Jingchen stared.
“What are you looking at? Drink your medicine!” Ye Jia chewed, her mouth full of the savory radish cake. She turned to Rui’er. “Is it good?”
Rui’er nodded without looking up, too busy eating to speak.
Zhou Jingchen downed the medicine in one gulp, his face contorting as the bitterness hit him. He wiped his mouth and asked Ye Jia for some water to rinse.
“Rinse? It’s all medicine!” Ye Jia blinked innocently, as if she hadn’t deliberately made it so bitter. She wiped the grease from her hands, stood up, and took his bowl back to the basin. Then, turning to him with a picture-perfect expression of wifely virtue, she said, “Wouldn’t drinking water wash away the medicinal properties? Husband, you’re not a child. Are you still afraid of a little bitterness?”
She grabbed another radish cake and took a large, crunchy bite right in front of him.
Zhou Jingchen said nothing.
Ye Jia huffed, then proudly piled four radish cakes onto a plate to take to the old woman who had just traded eggs with her. Last time she’d gone to borrow some strong liquor, several neighbors had refused. But the old woman next door had overheard and generously given her a large bowl. Ye Jia remembered such kindnesses. Now that she’d made these, she’d bring some over.
The old woman took a bite and beamed with praise. “This is better than anything they sell at the town’s taverns! You’re a natural, child!”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” Ye Jia replied modestly. “I was just messing around in the kitchen.”
She delivered the food and left, but the old woman’s words sparked a new idea. Ye Jia recalled her last trip to town; there were so few eateries, it seemed there was only one. And that place mainly sold wine. The food they served was just a side, meant as a snack for the patrons drinking.
Ye Jia began to wonder how much she could earn selling radish cakes in town.
Radishes were cheap, sold by weight at two wen for three jin. Flour was more expensive, but each cake used only a small amount. If she sold a radish cake for five wen, she’d make a decent profit. If they sold well, this could be her first real windfall.