WSMTATMC C112

Chapter 112

It took a long while before the sobbing subsided.

Madam Li and Fang Ling had rushed out so quickly they hadn’t put on thick coats.

Wang Ying said, “Let’s go inside before the cold gets to anyone.”

Madam Li wiped her eyes. “Right, right—inside.”

A brazier warmed the room; the whole family gathered around to chat over tea.

Master Liang and Fang Ling were old acquaintances. Seeing her in Jizhou, he couldn’t help saying, “Such a distance—Chen Jing was willing to let you travel alone.”

“He was not at ease,” Fang Ling replied, patting her son’s head. “But I was even less at ease staying away from Huai’er. I traveled with a caravan at first, and once we reached Jizhou we kept to the official roads—safe enough.”

She added, “But you—your letter said you set out in the eleventh month. Why so long?”

Qingyan explained, “Not long after leaving Yangzhou, we all caught cold in turn. By the time we reached Xuzhou, we couldn’t push on—we rested several days before moving again. After Xuzhou we met a troop marching north. The commanding general was an old acquaintance of Teacher’s, so we attached ourselves and came together.”

Qinghuai picked up the thread. “Then we hit a blizzard and had to divert to Sishui County to wait seven days before continuing. After that the snow lay thick, hard for carts and horses to pass. But we made it home before the New Year.”

Those few words brought tears back to Madam Li’s eyes. One could imagine the hardship. She turned her younger son’s hand over and over. “So thin—this time, eat well and build yourself back up.”

Qingsong nestled at his mother’s side, recovering a measure of boyishness.

There was no end of things to say with family reunited, but bodies had limits. Master Liang was yawning, and the three young men showed dark hollows under their eyes. They had pressed on for days with little sleep—their bodies were past the edge.

Wang Ying stood quickly. “Baths and bed first. We can talk more when everyone’s rested.”

“Yes—go rest.”

The servants had already heated the bathwater. After washing in turns, they each went to their rooms.

The compound was small; everyone had to squeeze in. Madam Li and Qingyun took the east room. Wang Ying and Qingyan bunked in the west room with Yuanbao.

Fang Ling and Qinghuai took the three rooms of the west wing; Master Liang and Qingsong the three rooms of the east wing.

The servants filled the street-side rooms. The martial escorts were put up at an inn—after so much road, they deserved real rest.

After his bath, Qingyan fell face-first into sleep. Yuanbao circled, wanting his father to hug him, but Wang Ying plucked him aside. “Shh. Don’t bother your father. He’s worn out—let him sleep.”

Lips puckered, the boy protested, “Didn’t Ah Fu say when Daddy came back he’d play with me?”

“Tomorrow he’ll play.”

“Alright. I’ll go find Auntie then.” Docile enough, the little one scampered to the east room to see Grandma and Auntie.

Sitting at the bedside, Wang Ying towel-dried Qingyan’s damp hair and stooped to kiss his brow. With his beloved beside him, his heart settled.

In the east room, Madam Li and Fang Ling were altering clothes. Qingsong and Qinghuai had shot up over the year; the new clothes no longer fit. Better to adjust them now so they could wear them at New Year.

Their faces wore the look of mothers with chicks under the wing—lightness in their voices.

“After the New Year, Huai will be eighteen,” Madam Li said. “Is there a match?”

Fang Ling nodded. “Already discussed. A girl from the Bai family in Laizhou—Bai Yuqiu—same age as Qingyun. Her father, Bai An, was a schoolmate of my husband’s. The families pledged the match years ago, and letters have gone back and forth these last years. We plan to settle it after Huai has taken his exams.”

The Bais were a scholarly house. Bai An had been zhuangyuan—first of his year in the palace exam.

But he was taciturn by nature and disinclined to court; he returned to Laizhou to open an academy. Years ago, Chen Jing had considered sending his son to study under him.

Fate brought them to someone even more suitable—Liang Boqing—and the boy and teacher took to each other; he became Master Liang’s student.

After speaking of Huai’s marriage, they turned to Qingyun. Boys were easier—married, they could still remain by their parents’ side. Daughters and ge’er were different. If they married far, years could pass without a visit; the thought stopped Madam Li’s heart.

“There’s nothing yet for Qingyun,” she sighed. “We meant to find her a good family in town—then the flood. There’s hardly anyone left. Here in the prefectural city, we don’t know people; it’s even harder.”

“Don’t fret,” Fang Ling soothed. “With Qingyan and Qingsong back, after the county exam next year—with a title to their names—matchmakers will knock on their own.”

“Let’s hope… I won’t ask much—only that she doesn’t marry too far. Seeing each other often would be enough.”

Qingyun, busy keeping Yuanbao amused, sprang into Madam Li’s arms. “Mother, I won’t marry.”

“Silly girl—”

“I just won’t.”

Yuanbao joined in, tugging at Madam Li’s hem. “Don’t let Auntie get married. Let her stay home to play with Yuanbao.”

Fang Ling laughed and tapped his nose. “Do you know what ‘marry’ means?”

“Means go live in someone else’s house.”

The words struck both women. Indeed—married, and one lived in another’s home; return visits made one a guest.

“Enough of that,” Fang Ling said gently. “When they wake, they’ll need food. Qingyun, ask your sister-in-law if we’re eating out or at home.”

“Right away.” Qingyun took Yuanbao to find Wang Ying.

Wang Ying was arranging the valuables. Master Liang had brought back items from Yangzhou that were too fine—eight bolts of brocade alone. The stuff cost a fortune; common folk couldn’t even buy it.

This might be the earliest luxury good. A skilled weaver could manage only a single bolt in a year; one mistake in the pattern and the whole bolt was ruined.

The motifs were exquisitely fine and beyond words; under different lights at different hours, they shimmered into changing designs. Yang’s Trading House’s master owned such a robe; though he wore it often, it was precious nonetheless. After each wearing, servants cared for it meticulously before the next.

Who knew why the old master had brought so much brocade? He feared mice would gnaw it in storage; better to wrap it and hang it from rafters.

Aside from cloth, there were fine medicines—storage was an issue. Wang Ying could tuck them into the field, but what if the old man needed something on the spot?

“Never mind. Put this chest in the storehouse. When he wakes, I’ll ask.”

Locking up, he returned to find Qingyun and Yuanbao waiting.

“Sister-in-law, Mother asks whether we’re dining out or at home.”

“At home. After all that travel, they must be worn out. We’ll eat and let them go back to bed.”

“I’ll tell Aunt Chen to prepare, then.”

“I’ll go—need to buy a few things anyway.”

“Ah Fu, I want to go too,” Yuanbao piped.

“No. It’s too cold. Be good—stay with Auntie and the boys, and help Ah Fu take care of Daddy. If he wakes and can’t find us, won’t he be sad?”

The little one drew himself up, solemn. “Mm! Yuanbao will take care of Daddy!”

Wang Ying laughed at the act, rubbed his head, threw on a cloak, and went out with Chen Bo to buy provisions.

Master Liang and Qingyan loved hotpot; Qingsong and Qinghuai loved roast meat. Wang Ying planned to buy a freshly slaughtered sheep—half for the pot, half for the fire.

At the butcher’s, he haggled for a sixty-jin fat sheep and asked for a fresh slaughter.

Father and son had it done in less than half an hour—legs, ribs, offal, hide all separated.

He took the hide for use—knocked eighty cash off the price—and paid four strings and some hundred cash for the rest, then loaded it.

City life had its perks—you could buy anything at any time. He had Chen Bo drive to the spice shop for ground pepper and cumin—supplies for the grill.

Back home, while the meat was half-frozen, Aunt Chen sliced it thin—ten jin of hindquarter into five grand platters.

Wang Ying fetched many hotpot greens from the field—baby bok choy hearts, radish cut long, fresh spinach, and coriander.

The roast was marinated early; he cross-hatched the legs and rubbed in sauce, then wrapped them in oiled paper to soak for hours.

For the staple, he planned “soup noodles.” In his old hometown there was a saying: “Dumplings when you depart, noodles when you return”—a charm for good fortune.

When he’d return from school in those days, his grandparents would serve a big bowl; with the hot noodles in his belly, the road’s weariness fell away.

When the food was ready, they waited for dusk. One by one, the sleepers rose.

Sitting on the bed, Qingyan blinked at the unfamiliar room, unsure of the day—until his son’s voice piped up at the door. He hurried to open it.

“Daddy!”

“Yuanbao!” He hoisted the boy to his shoulders; both wore wide smiles.

“Where’s Ah Fu?”

“Tending the coals—then we’ll have roast meat!” The boy had been longing for it. The cold had kept Mutou and Chunsheng from letting him outside.

Qingyan knew the two by name; it was his first time seeing them. “Which is Chunsheng, which Mutou?”

“Chunsheng, sir—and he’s Mutou.”

“Watch Yuanbao well. I’ll go see.”

“Yes, sir.”

He set down the boy and tweaked his nose. “Daddy will be right back.”

“Mm.”

In the courtyard, Wang Ying and Chen Bo were burning charcoal. In their rush earlier, they had forgotten to buy; Chen Fang had gone out and found the sellers already shut. They had to burn their own.

For household use, not much was needed. In short order, a basketful was ready.

“Awake?” Wang Ying asked when Qingyan came out.

“Mm. Even in sleep I felt like I was still in the carriage—swaying.”

“You’ll need a few days to get your land-legs. Hungry? We’re almost ready.”

Lamps brightened in the wings as the others woke.

The servants rolled in a great round table, and Wang Ying invited the old master to the seat of honor.

Liang demurred in form only; his smile showed every tooth at the spread.

He wasn’t one for many hobbies, but his palate was particular—and he had been craving this. Yangzhou had hotpots, but they weren’t the same as Wang Ying’s. Now, at last, the real thing.

Fresh slices kissed the broth—just a few breaths till they turned white. Dipped in sesame paste sauce—one bite and it was bliss.

“How does Wang Ying know how to cook so well?” the old master praised, chopsticks moving on to the next slice.

In the yard, Chen Bo and Chen Fang tended the grill—ribs and legs. After an afternoon’s bath in marinade, the lamb was suffused with flavor; on the coals, it sizzled and smoked, aroma cutting straight to the nose.

The children loved the roast—they hovered at the door, anchored by the scent.

Soon the platter of lamb came in; Chen Bo carved it into bite-sized pieces, and hands reached from every side.

The roast was richer in taste; Wang Ying had set out scallions and garlic to cut the fat. Oil shone on every lip as they ate—the joy of that moment beyond any price.

Footnotes:

• “Soup noodles” homecoming custom: In many northern Chinese regions, families serve dumplings before departure and noodles upon return as auspicious markers—noodles symbolize long, continuous fortune and safe homecoming. 
• Zhuangyuan rank: The top scorer in the imperial palace examination; below are bangyan (second) and tanhua (third).