The little red horse carrying the handsome man galloped away like a gust of wind, vanishing in the blink of an eye. Nie Qinghe let her mind linger on his stunning looks, wondering how he would look when he smiled, or if his voice was as pleasing as his face. So many men had the perfect face, only to ruin it the moment they spoke—either with buckteeth or a voice like a strangled duck. A real shame.
She was just letting her imagination run wild for a bit of fun, admiring him like a rare flower. Once seen, it was just a pleasant memory, nothing more.
She headed west along the main street toward the Embroidered Apparel Pavilion to find her cousin, Nie Yunduo, and pick up her younger sister, Nie Honghua, and brother, Nie Xiaoli.
Nie Yunduo was seventeen this year. She had lived with their family since she was eight or nine, apprenticing under Mother Nie to learn needlework.
Their maternal grandmother had come from a family of master embroiderers, and Mother Nie, who inherited her innate talent, had far surpassed her own teacher. After moving to Jintai City, she began taking on commissions for the Embroidered Apparel Pavilion.
Yunduo lacked her mother’s natural gift, but her quiet, patient nature more than made up for it. Though she couldn’t innovate, she had mastered the fundamental skills under Mother Nie’s guidance. By strictly following the prescribed color schemes and stitch patterns, she could still produce excellent work.
When she turned fifteen, Mother Nie had recommended her to the Pavilion for an assistant’s position. Now, Yunduo was supervising several young apprentices, all just eight or nine years old.
With Nie Qinghe ill, Mother Nie couldn’t manage everything alone. Their cousin had brought Nie Honghua and Xiaoli to the embroidery workshop. Honghua continued her training there, while Xiaoli played with the other children, including the shopkeeper’s.
However, Mother Nie no longer worked at the pavilion. Years of overwork had damaged her eyesight, leaving her unable to handle intricate patterns. Father Nie urged her to rest, but she refused. She also looked down on simple embroidery jobs, complaining they paid too little. Instead, she paid a retired embroiderer to teach her the art of weaving silk slippers. Now, Mother Nie wove slippers from home, occasionally taking on simple embroidery commissions to distribute to women whose skills she deemed acceptable.
Workers at the Pavilion entered through a side gate in the alley. As Nie Qinghe turned into the alley, she saw several children gathered around a disheveled middle-aged scholar, teasing and laughing.
“Quick! It’s your turn to finish the story!” one of them urged.
The scholar laughed and waved a hand. “Very well. But who can sing the song I just sang?”
The children began to act out, some tugging at his headcloth, while the boldest one pulled his beard.
He didn’t mind their antics, but he still refused to continue the story.
Among them was a five- or six-year-old boy. Though he wore the simplest coarse cloth clothes, he stood out as the most striking child of the group.
It was hard not to notice him. He was simply beautiful, with a round, smooth head that begged to be patted.
His skin was fair and clear, and his features were exquisitely pretty. The moment he opened his small mouth, he began to sing:
“Peaks gathered like crowds, waves raging like fury. Mountains and rivers, within and without—the road to Tong Pass… To rise is the people’s suffering; to fall is the people’s suffering~”
His childish voice couldn’t convey the poem’s underlying sorrow, yet he had mastered the tune perfectly. It was a testament to the boy’s astonishing memory.
Nie Qinghe couldn’t help but smile. Her little brother was truly adorable.
The scholar reached into his grimy robes and pulled out a dirty handkerchief wrapped around a few pieces of candy. He held them out to Nie Xiaoli.
“A reward for you.”
Nie Qinghe quickly stepped forward and thanked the man, then pulled Xiaoli away to keep him from taking the candy.
Who knows what bacteria are on those, she thought. If Xiaoli gets diarrhea, it could be serious. Medicine isn’t advanced enough these days—typhoid or dysentery could be fatal.
The little scholar’s own younger brother had died of dysentery.
“Ah,” the man said, “this little cub is a natural for reading. Why not send him to me? I’ll pay you twenty taels of silver.”
Nie Qinghe’s brow furrowed. Could he be a human trafficker?
She had heard stories of kidnappers who scouted for clever children to buy and sell as playthings for the wealthy. If they couldn’t buy them, they stole them—vile creatures, the lot of them.
She was about to report him to the authorities when an employee emerged from the Embroidered Apparel Pavilion.
“Teacher Xie! Mealtime! The food and wine are ready.”
Oh, so he’s a teacher at the pavilion.
Relief washed over Nie Qinghe. She finally let her brother go and led him toward their cousin and Honghua.
Nie Xiaoli wriggled out of his sister’s grip. His small, pale hand dipped into the robes of his little monk’s outfit, producing a tiny pouch. He poured out a few sugar-coated rice balls, now melted and sticky from his own body heat.
He scratched the back of his bald head, his expression troubled. “Aw, they’re all sticky! Miss Qin gave these to me.”
Nie Qinghe smiled, popped one of the candies into her mouth, and said, “Xiaoli, you’re so generous to share your treats with Second Sister.”
The boy tilted his round head, looking up at her. “Second Sister, what does ‘generous’ mean?”
Nie Qinghe couldn’t resist reaching out to rub his smooth, shaved head. In the summer heat, it was common practice to shave boys’ heads to keep them clean and cool. As she stroked him, she took a moment to explain the word.
Nie Xiaoli narrowed his large eyes and stuffed a candy into his own mouth. “I’m generous to myself, too!”
As they walked, Nie Qinghe asked him what he’d done that day, if anyone had bullied him, and what the deal was with that Teacher Xie.
To Nie Xiaoli, however, Teacher Xie was simply “stories and candy.” He had nothing more to say about the man.
Nie Qinghe’s cousin was embroidering with a few other apprentices, and her younger sister, Nie Honghua, was there too.
Nie Qinghe was surprised to see Honghua sitting so still and focused on her work. In the original owner’s memories, this sister had always been lazy and fond of eating. Whenever she was asked to learn to cook, she’d complain that the water scoop was too heavy to lift. When told to learn weaving, she’d claim that sitting all day made her back ache.
Eventually, Mother Nie had laid down the law: “You must learn a skill, or you won’t eat!”
She’d told the girls that while a woman’s cooking didn’t have to be perfect—at worst, her in-laws and husband might complain about the food—she must have a marketable skill. Whether it was weaving, embroidery, or sewing, having a craft that could earn money in the capital would force her in-laws and husband to respect her.
She also warned them about the women who stayed home, cooking and raising children without earning a cent. No matter how hard they worked, their husbands still treated them like servants, barking orders and demanding they be waited on.
In contrast, the women in the city who earned their own wages were treated differently. Even if a husband had a temper and tried to hit them, others would step in to defend them. After all, their employers relied on them to make money.
For some reason, Nie Honghua had taken this to heart. She’d decided to learn needlework and embroidery.
Nie Qinghe’s cousin was still busy and couldn’t chat for long. After asking about Nie Qinghe’s health, she urged her to take the younger siblings home.
On the way, Nie Honghua, knowing her sister had some pocket money, pestered her to buy a small packet of candied plums.
At four wen per packet, they weren’t cheap—the price of two large steamed buns. Still, Nie Qinghe bought them.
To her, Nie Honghua’s sweet tooth was no big deal. What child wasn’t fond of sweets? She’d been the same way when she was little, but she never asked for anything, knowing how hard their mother worked. By the time she grew up and had money, the treats she had once craved already lost their sweetness.
As they walked, Nie Honghua munched on the candied plums and buttered up Nie Qinghe with honeyed words, making little Xiaoli burst out laughing.
With the younger ones in tow, they walked slowly. By the time they reached home, the sun was already dipping in the west. Still, summer days were long; there was plenty of time between sunset and darkness.
As they entered the house, they found Mother Nie leading a group of women in needlework. Seeing the children return, Mother Nie called an end to the work. The women packed their sewing baskets, greeted Qinghe and the rest, and took their leave one by one.
“Honghua, have you and Xiaoli sweep the yard,” Qingqing said, “We’ll eat outside later. I’ll go wash the vegetables and cook.”
Mother Nie wanted her to rest, but Nie Qinghe insisted, urging her mother to inspect the embroidery work instead. She didn’t want any mistakes to jeopardize their delivery.
Nie Qinghe had volunteered to cook for two reasons. First, the kitchen was stifling, and she wanted her mother to step out of the heat. Second, Mother Nie’s cooking was, frankly, terrible.
Cooking was a matter of innate talent. The same ingredients and methods could yield a masterpiece from one person and a disaster from another. Nie Qinghe’s own skills were unquestionable. In her past life, she and her mother had relied on each other, and whenever her mother was away, Nie Qinghe took over the stove. She had honed her craft from a young age. Even in college, she’d managed to bake delicious, affordable birthday cakes and wrap dumplings and buns using only small dorm appliances. Her cooking had become a campus sensation, and she’d made a small fortune just taking orders from her fellow students.
Surveying the kitchen, Qinghe decided on vegetable dough-drop soup—filling, nutritious, and a meal in itself.
Most common folk back then were not well-off, following the tradition of eating dry grains during the busy farming season and porridge during the slack. Although the Nie family earned enough from their craft to buy grain and avoid a daily diet of porridge, they still had many dependents back in their old village. With limited funds, they had to budget every penny.
Estimating the family’s needs and appetites, Qinghe scooped out some coarse wheat flour, mixed in some cornmeal, and stirred in water to form a dough.
Nie Qinghe didn’t need help with the fire. She deftly lit the stove and heated the wok.
From a small clay jar behind the stove, she scooped out a bit of vegetable oil with a wooden spoon. Once the scallions sizzled and released their fragrance, she added water, brought it to a boil, and dropped in the dough.
As the dough drops bobbed and sank in the soup, she waited until they were nearly cooked through before stirring in some coarsely crushed salt. Then, she tossed in the chopped greens and gave them a quick stir.
Outside, Honghua and Xiaoli were splashing water in the courtyard. They shouted in unison, “Wow, it smells amazing! It’s been so long since we’ve had anything this fragrant!”
Nie Qinghe ladled the soup into bowls and set them on the stove to cool. By the time the family returned for the meal, it would be just the right temperature.
But Honghua couldn’t wait. Drawn by the aroma, she dropped her rope and rushed into the kitchen.
“Which one’s mine?” she asked, grabbing the fullest bowl and taking a huge gulp.
“Careful—” Nie Qinghe started to warn her, but before she could even say “it’s hot,” Honghua slammed the bowl down, hopping from foot to foot and fanning her mouth with her hand. “So hot! So hot!”
“Couldn’t you wait a few minutes?” Qinghe asked.
“What few minutes?” Honghua gasped.
“Quick, drink some cool soup. Did you burn your skin?”
Honghua licked the inside of her cheek and pointed into her open mouth. “Up here… it’s blistered.”
“Now you know,” Nie Qinghe said. “Don’t be so reckless next time.”
“It’s no use telling her,” Mother Nie sighed. “She’s always been like this with her food—rushing in as if it’ll be gone if she doesn’t eat it all right now.”
“But am I not fast at work?” Honghua asked. “Am I not quick with my embroidery?”
Nearby, Xiaoli was taking his time. He pursed his lips, blowing gently on the soup before taking a delicate sip. “Mmm, so fragrant! This is amazing!” After another slow sip, he added, “Mom, Second Sister’s cooking is better than yours!”
Mother Nie gave him a mock glare. “You didn’t see how much oil she used. The sizzling sound alone made my heart ache for the cost. That much oil could have cooked three whole meals!”
Nie Qinghe laughed. “Mom, I was going to crack an egg into it too, but I didn’t dare, knowing you’d get a heartache over the expense.”
“Every time you kids ask for something good to eat,” Mother Nie said, clutching her chest dramatically, “it’s like you’re cutting pieces out of my own heart!”
They carried the table out into the courtyard, arranging benches, bowls, and chopsticks. Just then, her older cousin arrived, followed by Father Nie.
Customs were strict about the separation of the sexes; even an uncle and his niece wouldn’t walk side by side. Father Nie let his niece walk well ahead, trailing about twenty feet behind her—close enough to keep watch, but far enough to maintain proper distance.
Father Nie had been a handsome young man, but years of grueling labor in the workshop had taken their toll. His back was now slightly hunched, and his large hands were rough, covered in scars and calluses. Yet he still cut the figure of a handsome middle-aged man.
Seeing him return, Nie Qinghe’s mind immediately conjured an image of the ultimate nightmare: a woman with a pale face, a pointed chin, high cheekbones, and thin lips. Her eyelids drooped, and her forehead was balding. Though short and stout, she was terrifyingly nimble, constantly on the move, wailing and causing a scene.
That was her grandmother, Old Madam Nie.
Her parents earned a decent living, but their lives were always strained. Eighty percent of that was Old Madam Nie’s “doing.”
By modern standards, Father Nie was an exceptionally good man and father. He never argued with his wife, spent his free time helping with the children and housework, and was always patient and loving. He did everything in his power to help the family.
But Qinghe felt it wasn’t enough. He was too filial—no, not even filial piety. It was more like he had been broken by her. He was so thoroughly controlled by his mother that he was like the Monkey King trapped in Buddha’s palm, unable to stir.
Even from two hundred li away, if Old Madam Nie so much as sneezed, Father Nie would be the one with a cold.
The abacus in Qinghe’s mind clicked and clattered away instantly. She was already calculating how to “deprogram” her father and drag him out from under Old Madam Nie’s five-fingered mountain.
The family sat down to eat, chatting about mundane matters.
Father Nie was a simple, honest man. He rarely spoke outside, preferring to keep his head down and work. The dinner table was the only place he ever really opened up.
Mother Nie chatted with him about family and neighbors, asking how things were at the workshop.
Sensing the mood was right, Qinghe spoke up. “Dad, how about a few drinks?”
Men who did hard labor loved a drink or two to shake off the fatigue, and Father Nie was no exception. They couldn’t afford the good stuff, so they drank the cheap, potent liquor the local landlords brewed from corn and sorghum.
He grinned foolishly. “My girl is all better! Dad’ll have a few drinks to celebrate!”
After three cups, Qinghe saw her father beginning to slouch and sway. “Dad, Mom, Teacher Xie at the Embroidered Apparel Pavilion said Xiaoli is a natural student. Why don’t we send him to Teacher Xie’s for his first lessons?”
Father Nie let out a drunken hiccup, his expression a bit blank. “Huh? School? Your grandmother said only Fourth Uncle is meant for books. He’ll bring honor to our family and help us all live a good life.”
He reached for the small wine jug again.
Qinghe shot him a glance, then snatched the jug away, leaving him clutching at empty air.