The rain finally tapered off by evening.
Ye Jia scattered a handful of millet for the chicks, then turned her attention to the small patch of land behind the courtyard.
The Zhou family owned no land of their own; their daily staples were all bought from the grain shop in town.
With their pockets empty, meat, eggs, and vegetables were rare luxuries. Their daily fare consisted of porridge and pickled vegetables. That afternoon, Ye Jia had opened the jar of pickles, only to be met with a stench so foul it was unbearable. If they weren’t so desperate, she would have thrown the two large jars away. Instead, she soaked the vegetables in water to leach out the salt, then spent a considerable amount of time reprocessing them.
It wasn’t until evening that she noticed the large, empty space in the Zhou family’s backyard.
When you’re truly poor, your standards drop, she thought. She used to despise the elderly in her apartment complex who ripped up flowerbeds to plant vegetables. Now, she wondered if she could put this vacant lot to use—perhaps by tilling the soil and planting some edible greens.
Madam Yu returned home late that evening. Ye Jia saw her passing by the courtyard and called out.
Madam Yu replied with a weary sigh, then went inside to sit down, where she immediately began lamenting their situation.
As it turned out, Aunt Liu from the same village had come to call for Madam Yu that morning. The two women had excitedly made their way to town together to collect their pay from the embroidery shop’s manager.
After spending the entire day there, they had secured their wages, but they’d managed to offend the employer in the process. The merchant, shaken by his recent business losses, had decided to reduce his staff. Madam Yu left with nearly one tael of silver, but without her job.
“How will we survive now?” Madam Yu wailed, her tears completely spent. “It’s not that I didn’t give the employer a chance to explain—but we have no choice. We need that money! Without a way to make a living, the four of us will be eating the wind!”
“We still have rice and grain,” Ye Jia said calmly. “We can last three months.”
“And what happens after that?” Madam Yu’s despair had turned to regret. If she’d known this would happen, she would have thought twice before going. But now, there was no going back. The employer had been absolute in his dismissal, leaving no room for negotiation.
She wept and rambled, but Ye Jia didn’t know how to comfort her. She went to the kitchen and brought back a few shredded radish cakes for her to eat.
Madam Yu shook her head, wiping her eyes. “I can’t eat.”
Ye Jia sighed and turned back to her room.
That night, the Zhou household fell into a silence so profound not a single sound broke it. Madam Yu was too consumed by her own despair to attend to Rui’er. The young girl, not knowing any better, followed Ye Jia like a little shadow, as her grandmother had told her she should always stay by her aunt’s side.
Ye Jia quickly heated a few cakes and made a simple meal for Rui’er. Then, she turned and carried a bowl of porridge to Zhou Jingchen.
He was propped up in bed, his expression grave, as if he had heard Madam Yu’s distraught words from earlier. His leg was still broken, and the wound on his forehead had yet to heal. The brief time he’d spent outside that afternoon had exhausted him; now, he lay unable to move. Yet, when he raised his eyes to look at Ye Jia, they glimmered with a dark, unfathomable light.
Her heart skipped a beat. Ye Jia lowered her gaze and said only, “Watch Rui’er tomorrow. I have to go to town.”
With that, she turned and left the east room.
Though his gaze remained fixed on her back, Ye Jia paid it no mind. That night, Madam Yu tossed and turned incessantly, but Ye Jia ignored her, forcing herself to sleep.
Before dawn the next morning, Ye Jia was already up. She strapped a basket to her back, grabbed an umbrella, and stepped out.
Madam Yu was still asleep—she hadn’t fallen off to bed until the gray light of dawn after tossing and turning until the third watch. As Ye Jia entered the courtyard, she noticed a figure standing by the window of the east room. Zhou Jingchen was staring out, his gaze fixed on something she couldn’t see. Hearing her, he turned to look.
Their eyes met, and Ye Jia paused for a moment.
“If you can get up,” she said, “remember to feed the chickens in the back. If not, just call Rui’er.”
“I’m fine,” he said.
He had been standing by the window for who knew how long. His voice was as clear and sharp as striking jade.
Ye Jia fought the urge to rub her ears, then turned away, her face a mask of indifference as she left the courtyard.
The rain had stopped, and many of the shops in town were already open. Ye Jia was pleasantly surprised to find a tile market in a small place like Libei Town. It was still too early for the market to officially open, but merchants from all over—some with shoulder poles, others driving sheep—were already gathering.
The market was just an open area enclosed by a row of deer-antler fences. Two burly men guarded the entrance, a bronze gong hanging beside them.
Ye Jia waited outside for a while, watching the crowd press against the fences.
The vendors were a mix of locals from the countryside and outsiders. There were grain sellers, vegetable farmers, and fish and meat mongers. She even spotted several curly-haired merchants among them. It was still early, so they had set their shoulder poles on the ground. With no food stalls open yet, those who had brought dry rations crouched on the street, gnawing on plain cakes. Those without food could only swallow hard at the savory aroma wafting from their neighbors’ meals.
A thought struck Ye Jia, and she slipped along the edge of the crowd to get a closer look. There wasn’t a single cooked food vendor in sight. By chance, she overheard a curly-haired, bearded man—his eyes green with hunger—speaking a rough version of the Official Language of Great Yan.
He was trying to buy some cakes from a dark-faced old man selling mutton.
The old man had baked the cakes himself, and they must have just come out of the oven. The air was thick with their scorched, savory aroma.
“Ten wen each,” he announced. “Two for fifteen.”
At the mention of the price, Ye Jia’s ears practically pricked up. Her eyes kept darting to the cakes. They were about the size of a shaobing, perhaps half again as large as a shredded radish pancake. Ten wen each?
The curly-haired, bearded man, clearly famished, gritted his teeth and fished out fifteen wen. “Give me two.”
Ye Jia’s heart hammered against her ribs. She circled the crowd, noticing many others buying cakes on impulse, paying five or ten wen without a second thought.
A sudden gust of wind sent a shiver through her. She rubbed her hands together for warmth. At the entrance, the burly guard struck the bronze gong, and the deer-antler fences were pulled open. The small-scale vendors streamed in, their shoulder poles balanced as they filed into the market.
One of the sheep drivers lagged behind. Ye Jia’s gaze fell on a ewe with a heavy, swollen udder. She followed the man and asked if he would sell her some goat’s milk.
In these days, ordinary families didn’t drink goat or cow milk. Those who raised sheep might have a few sips, but they found the taste too gamey and avoided it. The sheep driver had never encountered a customer who wanted the milk but not the sheep.
The old man seemed to have some Western Regions blood in him, his face a dark, ruddy red and his features deeply carved. “How much do you want?”
“Just a small bucketful,” Ye Jia said. She knew there were many ways to prepare goat’s milk, but she wasn’t a professional chef and didn’t know how to make any of the fancy dishes. If she bought too much, it would just spoil. She couldn’t afford meat, but she could at least drink some milk to nourish herself.
“Ten wen!” the old man declared. He’d never sold goat’s milk before, but this first time, he boldly called out, “I’ll give you a whole bucket.”
“No, no need.” A whole bucket was too much to drink. Ye Jia only wanted a small portion.
“If you don’t want a whole bucket, I won’t sell,” the old man said. He’d seen how much Ye Jia really wanted the milk. When she didn’t walk away after he’d named his price, he knew he had the upper hand.
Ye Jia wasn’t really haggling over a few wen. It was the old man’s arrogant, “take it or leave it” attitude that was so infuriating. She argued with him for a long while, eventually promising that if she liked the milk, she’d come back to buy more. Only then did the old man suspiciously agree.
He placed a wooden basin beneath the ewe’s belly and soon squeezed out a small amount. Ye Jia squatted beside him, watching, and asked how much it cost to set up a stall here.
The old man answered in a few words as he worked. After a while, Ye Jia figured it out: it only cost ten wen to enter and set up a stall. The quality of the spot was purely a matter of luck—you took whatever you could grab, and the positions were rotated daily.
Ye Jia paid six copper coins for more than half a basin of fresh goat’s milk. She also bought a small bucket.
“Will you be back tomorrow?” the old man asked.
“Not tomorrow,” Ye Jia replied. “The day after.”
She carried the small bucket of milk, weaving through the crowd. It wasn’t heavy, but her arm began to ache after a while.
She decided to take another walk around town. As she circled back from the far end, she noticed there were indeed a few other food stalls, though not many—three at most.
One was a tavern that specialized in meat: braised mutton and braised beef. Ye Jia knew that eating beef was forbidden in ancient times, so she was surprised to find a small shop selling it.
She stopped to ask about the prices. Raw beef was eighty wen per jin, and raw mutton was fifty. The cooked meat was even more expensive; braised beef sold for one and a half qian per jin. It was pricey, but the shop seemed to be doing well.
When Ye Jia asked to buy some, the owner told her they were all out of meat and to come back the next day.
The other two establishments were a bit different. One was an inn that also served food. The other was the only place dedicated solely to food, selling naan and noodles. A piece of naan was five wen, and a bowl of noodles was ten.
Ye Jia bought a piece of naan to try. It was ordinary, tasting simply of grain, but it was very filling.
After a full circuit of the town, Ye Jia felt confident. Without wasting another moment, she headed straight to the blacksmith’s shop. She needed a large, flat-bottomed frying pan—the kind used for making pan-fried buns in her own time. Since her family lacked a proper stove, she bought one of those as well.
By the time she was done, the two silver taels she had been clutching had dwindled to a few copper coins. Ye Jia was ruthless with her spending. Even with only a handful of coins left, she hired an ox cart to haul the stove and the goat’s milk back home.
As the cart creaked to a halt at their doorstep, Madam Yu was crouching by the well, drawing water.
She must have just woken up; her face was still clouded with worry. When she saw Ye Jia returning with a cartload of goods, she dropped her ladle and hurried over with small, quick steps. Early that morning, Madam Yu had been filled with regret for crying in front of Ye Jia the day before. She was terrified that Ye Jia would realize the Zhou family had no future, despise them for it, and run off to the town to find that man.
“Where have you been?” she asked.
Ye Jia carried the milk herself and paid the old driver to unload the stove. She then quickly explained her plan to Madam Yu.
Madam Yu listened, her heart racing with a mix of alarm and uncertainty. “Can we really do this? What if we lose all our money?”
In ancient times, the imperial court had always prioritized agriculture over commerce. The social hierarchy—scholar, farmer, artisan, and merchant—placed traders at the very bottom, the most despised of all. Madam Yu, born into a family of officials, had been exiled for three years, yet this deeply ingrained prejudice was not easily erased.
Her hesitation stemmed from two sources. First was her lingering disdain for those in trade. Second, she feared the instability of a merchant’s life—a constant journey, forever away from home, as poets often lamented. Her heart sank with uncertainty.
But Ye Jia had already bought the stove, ordered the pan—it would be ready in three days, the payment already made. Madam Yu found she could no longer object. Though she grumbled that Ye Jia was too impulsive, she still came over to help carry the stove into the house.
Ye Jia didn’t notice her mother-in-law’s sorrow. She simply stated her need for silver to buy ingredients.
Madam Yu gripped the one tael she had earned only the day before, the veins on the back of her hand bulging. She couldn’t bear to part with it.
Just then, Rui’er came pattering from the kitchen, shouting, “Auntie, I fed the chicks! Auntie, can we have pancakes for breakfast?”
The child’s enthusiasm was a testament to how delicious they were; having eaten them yesterday, she was already craving them again this morning.
Ye Jia didn’t press her for the money. The original owner of her body had a checkered past, always asking for money only to send it back to her natal home. Ye Jia knew that if she wanted to sell food in town, she would have to endure hardship. The market would be bustling early in the morning, and she couldn’t afford to miss the peak hours. The double-pot and the stove were heavy, and for the business to thrive, she would have to cook on-site. Transporting them would require a cart.
Fortunately, Wangjia Village wasn’t far from town. They could carry them over with a bit of extra effort.
Though it would be hard work, it was nothing compared to the burden of those who carried heavy loads on shoulder poles.
Knowing Madam Yu wouldn’t agree to her request so quickly, Ye Jia took the goat’s milk to the back kitchen.
If she was going to work, she needed to eat well to maintain her strength. She added a bit of sugar to the pot of milk and tossed in a handful of almonds from a small pouch she kept tucked away to remove the gaminess. Then, she reheated a few pancakes.
After finishing a large bowl of hot goat’s milk, Ye Jia felt the warmth return to her numb hands and feet. She poured a bowl for the child. The little girl wasn’t used to the taste, but she drank it obediently at Ye Jia’s urging. After a few sips, she whispered, “It’s delicious.” Children truly did love the taste of milk.
When Ye Jia and the child finished eating and came back out, Madam Yu was gone from the courtyard.
Ye Jia returned to the kitchen, filled another bowl with milk, and brought it to the east room.
Lifting the curtain, she saw Madam Yu inside. Zhou Jingchen was trying to persuade her to give Ye Jia the silver.
Madam Yu hesitated, but ultimately chose not to mention how Ye Jia had always taken money to support her natal family. Her son already disliked his wife; besides, she feared she would never have a grandson to hold in this lifetime.
Ye Jia raised an eyebrow and placed the milk in Zhou Jingchen’s hands. “Drink some goat’s milk. It’ll nourish you so you can do the work for me. I’ll be relying on you to move the stove and pots later.”
Zhou Jingchen stared at her, speechless.