WSMTATMC C77

Chapter 77

As the year’s end approached, household chores multiplied.

New Year gifts for relatives had to be prepared. This year, besides Fourth Uncle and Third Aunt, gifts also needed to go to the eldest uncle’s family. In past years, that branch wasn’t included; since this was the first year doing so, Wang Ying planned to make the offerings generous and have Qingyan and Qingsong personally deliver them.

For Fourth Uncle, as usual, there were mountain delicacies from the manor, and this year also several jars of grape wine brewed in their own shop. In autumn, Wang Ying had harvested all the grapes from the experimental field and brewed ten jars. It was simple: layer sugar and grapes, cover, and allow natural fermentation.

The finished wine was filtered through fine hemp cloth—sweet-tart, lightly alcoholic, pleasantly smooth, and not heady even in quantity. Two jars were sent to Fourth Uncle; the remaining four were reserved for New Year’s.

At night, Wang Ying pulled Qingyan into the experimental field to tally the stored copper coins.

They had saved quite a bit this year. Ever since Yuanbao’s birth, Li Shi had no time for temple offerings, which spared a significant expense.

Everyday costs—food, clothing, shelter—were taken from the shop’s earnings, while the rents from the manor were saved untouched. Altogether, they had put away over 100 strings of cash this year.

Adding what they had previously, plus the red envelopes from the baby’s full-month celebration and the imperial reward, they now held over 500 strings.

They counted as they went, re-threading loose coins and stacking them neatly in chests.

Qingyan was surprised. “We have this much on hand?”

“This isn’t much,” Wang Ying said. “I hear in the capital land is worth its weight in gold. Buying a two-courtyard residence could cost over a thousand taels.”

“We’re not moving to the capital—why buy a house there?”

Wang Ying shut the chest and perched on it. “Who can say? If you top the imperial exam list and get posted in the capital, we’d have to move.”

Qingyan laughed. “Zhuangyuan isn’t so easy. I’m fairly confident about xiucai; juren? I don’t dare claim a sure thing.”

“Don’t say that where Master Liang can hear you, or he’ll thrash you senseless.”

“How would I dare—I’m only talking. I still have to give it my all; can’t bring shame to our teacher.”

“Don’t shoulder too much pressure. Do your best, that’s enough. There’s always someone better. Many candidates have been prepped since childhood—ordinary folks can’t compete head-to-head.”

Qingyan sat beside him. “I’ve heard in Suzhou, students start at four and pass the tongsheng exam by ten. Every year they produce far more xiucai than the north. Last year alone, they say one county in Suzhou had over twenty xiucai, while our Longquan County recruited only four.”

Wang Ying was startled. “That big a gap?”

“And that’s a small one. In the ninth year of Tianyou, 467 passed the metropolitan exam—guess how many were northerners?”

“One hundred sixty?”

Qingyan shook his head. “Eighty-three.”

“So few!”

“The disparity sparked protests from candidates nationwide, but nothing changed. The court made exam papers public, and anyone could see southern scholarship was stronger. That was that.”

“The south has deep cultural roots: the White Horse Academy through six dynasties, the esteemed Qingtong Academy, Suzhou’s Duchuan Academy—the atmosphere is steeped in learning.

“Under such influence, their scholarship outstrips the north’s. I hear wealthy families even send children south to study.”

Wang Ying sighed. “You and Qingsong truly were lucky to meet Master Liang.”

“Yes.” Sometimes Qingyan marveled: had he not been expelled and instead taken exams normally, his ability might have won him xiucai at most; he’d never have had the opportunities that followed.

Because of similar misfortune, Liang came a long way to teach him, help him, and work to clear his name—expecting neither money nor reward.

“Perhaps this is the balance of fortune after calamity.”

Done with the coins, Wang Ying harvested a batch of mature vegetables and water plants from the experimental field, cleared the withered growth with one click, and sowed new seed.

The field’s progress was stuck at 11%. After level five, hugs and kisses barely added experience; even intimacy scarcely moved the needle. Wang Ying suspected the leveling condition had changed, but he hadn’t found the pattern.

With less than half a month until New Year, the village felt richly festive.

When Dunzi went to town with vegetables, Wang Ying had him bring back a load of firecrackers—no New Year was complete without noise and color.

On the twentieth day of the twelfth month, they bought two pigs and a sheep. Many villagers came to help slaughter; Wang Ying cooked a huge pot of meat and fed every helper a bowl at noon.

The harvest had been good this year, and villagers were living better. With grain in their homes, tempers softened; even at the meat pot, no one scrambled—“When granaries are full, people know propriety.” The ancestors’ wisdom stood unmatched.

Vegetable sales had been strong, uniquely so in the county—over 30 strings of cash in a single month, with astonishing margins.

Envy brought trouble, of course, but fortunately they had patrons of some status who discouraged any thinking of causing harm.

The business had secured a foothold in the county.

Li Shi pulled Wang Ying aside to ask about Lin Qiu’s baby. “I couldn’t go for the full-month—how are mother and child?”

“All well. Little Mai eats and sleeps like a dream—gained three or four jin in the last month.”

“That’s good. A sturdy baby is less likely to fall ill. Winter is so cold—mind warmth for both mother and child. When it’s warm next year, bring them back here for a visit.”

“Alright!”

For lunch, they prepared hotpot. The family sat around a big table with two cauldrons: one tomato broth and one spicy broth with zhuyu. The dipping sauce was thick sesame paste sprinkled with cilantro and scallions—irresistible.

The children were stuffed; even Master Liang ate quite a bit. Older bodies don’t digest heavy meat well, so Wang Ying had prepared hawthorn tea—one small bowl after eating aided digestion.

Yuanbao couldn’t yet chew meat, and drooled with want. Li Shi picked soft fatty bits and gave him a taste, which left his little mouth slick with oil—and set him clamoring for more.

Seeing that, Li Shi fed him a few more bites—leading to an upset stomach that evening. Even his stools were flecked with oil.

He was still very young; his gut was underdeveloped. The fat was too rich to digest, and he passed it straight through, crying his little heart out. Li Shi held him, torn with pity and guilt—she would never feed him indiscriminately again.

Soon it was New Year’s Eve. At dawn, they began to hang peach charms.

Couplets weren’t yet a common folk custom; paper was dear, especially red paper, used sparingly even for weddings.

Peach charms were carved from peachwood with the guardian brothers Shentu and Yulei. Legend said they subdued demons, and hanging peachwood effigies kept evil at bay—an auspicious sign.

This year’s charms weren’t bought—they were gifted by an old village carpenter, carved days in advance.

His craft was fine—the charms could pass as art, the figures vivid and lifelike, hanging broad and striking above the door.

Master Liang didn’t go to his son’s house this New Year. The winter had been bitter, snow upon snow, and the journey was long—he feared falling ill.

Truthfully, he hadn’t intended to go anyway—last year’s New Year there was dull, and they didn’t have Wang Ying’s cooking.

After lunch, the men went to the ancestral graves. The Chen family tombs lay on the hillside near the manor—Chen’s father, the old master, and the great-grandfather.

While Father lived, he made the offering himself each year. After he passed, Qingyan had fallen gravely ill, so Chen Bo had made the offerings these last few years.

Snow lay more than a foot deep on the mountain—each step sank to the knee. Chen Bo led, with Qingyan, Qinghuai, and Qingsong behind.

At the tomb, Chen Bo cleared the snow off the mounds, swept a space, and set out the offerings.

Chicken, fish, a pork hock, three kinds of pastries, a large basket of folded paper ingots, and a jar of wine.

Chen Bo lit incense and candles and placed them at each grave, murmuring, “Ancestors, Old Master, it’s New Year—come collect your money.”

Qingyan removed his hat, lifted his hem, knelt, and bowed. “Father, your son is unfilial—I haven’t come for so long.”

He reported the major events of recent years—he had a child now. One does not know a parent’s love until one becomes a parent; with Yuanbao, he felt his father’s love more deeply than ever.

“Father, rest assured. I will care for my siblings, raise Yuanbao well, and support our family.”

He kowtowed three times; his brothers followed suit.

When Father died, Qingsong was still little. After the New Year, he would be thirteen—growing into a young man. He vowed silently to study hard and make a name, so as not to shame his teacher.

Back home, Wang Ying, Qingyun, and Dunzi’s wife, Zhang Cuihong, prepared the New Year’s Eve feast.

Twelve dishes total—four cold, eight hot—each carefully chosen to please the eye, nose, and palate.

The staple was dumplings with cabbage and pork filling, neatly arranged to be boiled at night.

When the dishes were ready, Wang Ying stopped Cuihong to give her something. The shy, reserved woman hadn’t taken any extra food since receiving her wages.

In the storeroom lay a bolt of patterned cotton; the dye had bled a little and the cloth wasn’t fit for fine garments—better to give it to her.

“This is too precious—I can’t accept it.”

“Not precious at all. The colors ran—it’s no good for proper clothes. If you don’t want it, I’ll cut it for rags.”

Hearing that, Cuihong accepted it, running her hand over the soft fabric. There was some bleeding, but she could easily hide it in children’s clothes.

“Thank you, master.” She hugged the cloth and knelt to kowtow.

Wang Ying quickly pulled her up. “No need—get home and cook for your children.”

Cuihong left happy with the cloth. Outside, dusk was falling; occasional firecrackers popped, filling the air with the New Year’s atmosphere.

By late afternoon, Qingyan and the others returned from the mountain. They set the table, boiled dumplings, and gathered around. Seven or eight lamps lit the room bright as day.

When the dumplings were done, Chen Bo lit the firecrackers outside.

Amid the crack and snap, a new year arrived!