Chapter One

Seventeenth year of the Jian’an era, early summer.

On South Lane of East Elm Street in the capital, among the grand residences of noble families, the old Song family mansion stood out awkwardly in its dilapidation. The once-imposing gate tower was now weathered and the red lacquer peeling, yet the two majestic stone lions by the entrance and the old hitching post still hinted at the family’s former glory. Now, they were only a subject of ridicule, a sign of faded fortunes.

As the moonlight first rose and the incessant chirping of cicadas filled the air, in the western wing of the Song house, a young woman gently fanned her sleeping child, all the while chattering to her husband: “Sanlang, since Mother wants to send Rui to study, we should let our Chen go too. We can’t favor one over the other.”

Sanlang kept his head down, carefully polishing the wooden spinning top he had just made for their son. He chuckled without looking up, “Rui is clever, a natural for study. He could recite the Three Character Classic by the age of three. Who knows, maybe he’ll win a scholar’s degree for our Song family and bring honor to our name. If that happens, he’ll surely help Chen as well.”

The young wife pouted in protest, “Why does he need help? Can’t our Chen win a scholar’s degree on his own?”

Sanlang had no answer for that, his lips twitching as he kept his head lowered.

Embarrassed and annoyed, the young woman seemed to realize she had boasted a bit too much. Her precious son was good in every way except that he had no interest in books. No matter how many times Rui tried to teach him, even she, as his mother, could remember those lines about ‘at the beginning of man, nature is kind’, but Chen never seemed to hear a single word.

The little rascal was always running around the courtyard with a fire poker, playing with bugs or mud. He even found amusement in his own mischief—aiming at ant nests, watering his grandmother’s favorite gardenias, and if left unchecked for three days, he’d be up on the roof making trouble.

If Chen were ever to pass the scholar’s exam, the ancestors’ graves would surely burst into flames in surprise.

But the young wife would never admit her son was inferior. Her beautiful, spirited eyes glared at her husband, lively and fiery: “Song Sanlang! Make it clear, who is really your own flesh and blood? All day you only praise that nephew of yours. Just wait—when you’re old and bedridden, I’d like to see if it’s Rui who cares for you, or our Chen!”

Sanlang only laughed, not bothering to argue. He put away the spinning top, now perfectly smooth, stood up, washed his hands and face, and slipped quietly into bed, lying down gently beside his son.

The young woman, still not quite appeased, pinched her husband’s strong arm.

“Careful not to hurt your hand,” Sanlang said indulgently, taking the fan from her and continuing to fan their son.

Had the young woman been more observant, she would have noticed that his fanning was perfectly even, each movement identical to the last.

“You only care about your son. I’m hot too,” she pouted playfully.

“I’ll fan both of you, one turn each.”

“Hmph, I don’t care. Go on, fan your son.”

Sanlang sighed, “Xiuniang, why are you so unreasonable?”

She lifted her chin defiantly, “So what if I am? What will you do about it?”

Sanlang leaned over and gently kissed her forehead. “My fault,” he murmured.

Xiuniang’s face flushed, and she searched for something to say. “Second Sister-in-law wore a plum blossom silver hairpin today, as if afraid no one would see it. She paraded it in front of me eight times—made my head spin.”

“When the Li family finishes making that canopy bed, I’ll buy one for you,” Sanlang replied.

“I’m not like her, flaunting things. We should save our money. Once we have enough, you can open your own carpentry shop and take on apprentices. Then you won’t have to work so hard.”

“It’s all right, we’re not short on money.”

“I don’t want it, and I don’t care for her silver. When our Chen grows up and succeeds, he’ll buy me gold instead.”

“All right, gold it is.” Sanlang moved their son to the small bed in the side room, extinguished the oil lamp, and climbed back into bed, drawing Xiuniang into his arms as he continued to fan, his heart filled with quiet contentment.

In this life, he had a cherished wife and a lively son. The child was endearing, and though his wife could be a bit stubborn, she was spirited and lovable. Watching her manage their household so diligently always moved him.

The past was gone; from now on, he was Song Sanlang.

...

At dawn the next day, Xiuniang rose quietly. The three daughters-in-law of the Song family took turns making breakfast, and today was her turn.

She slipped on her outer robe and peeked in on her son, who was sprawled in sleep. Stifling a laugh, she covered his belly and went to the storeroom.

From a clay jar in the corner, she took out an egg—this was not from the common stores, but brought from her own family, so no one could object if she cooked it for her son. Remembering that Sanlang seemed to have grown thinner lately, she took out another egg.

Opening the door, she saw that the window across the way was open, with Rui practicing calligraphy at his desk, sitting ramrod straight under his mother Jiang’s watchful eye and ruler in hand.

Xiuniang pursed her lips. She had never seen a mother so strict—her six-year-old son was up before the chickens, not allowed to play during the day, only to study endlessly. Wasn’t she afraid of turning the boy into a fool?

She looked at thin little Rui, then at her own plump, sleeping child, and decided that the hardships of the scholar’s life were best left to Rui. Sanlang was right; if Rui ever prospered, he wouldn’t forget his brother.

Xiuniang went into the kitchen.

The firewood was stacked neatly in the corner—the work of her industrious husband, who could split wood so evenly it was almost miraculous.

She filled the iron pot with water, washed a bowl of rice, and soon had it boiling. She placed a bamboo steamer over it, setting out several sorghum buns, two of which were mixed with wheat flour.

Her grandfather, a barefoot doctor, had told her sorghum was too heating for the elderly, especially those with constipation. She had seen the old lady struggle in the privy and had advised her accordingly. Though frugal, the old lady knew her own body and asked for buns mixed with wheat flour.

She also claimed Rui and Chen were still young and had weak stomachs. The old lady, thinking her daughter-in-law was just being filial, agreed—never suspecting the truth.

As she steamed eggs, Xiuniang thought of skinny little Song Jingrui’s bony wrists and considered sharing some of Chen’s egg with him. Build a good relationship now, and it might pay off in the future.

But she couldn’t just give it away. Chen was tired of boiled eggs—perhaps egg custard would be better, using family oil and salt, so no one could complain.

She quickly cracked the eggs into a rough ceramic bowl, whisked them with extra water to make more, and steamed the custard. She then took another egg from the communal jar for the old lady.

Soon breakfast was ready. She cooled Sanlang’s egg in water, dried it, and hid it in her clothes. She divided the egg custard into two bowls, one slightly larger, but after considering Second Sister-in-law’s sharp eyes, she made them more equal—no sense giving her an excuse to complain.

At the table, the entire family gathered around a large round table in the central hall. The old lady sat at the head, dressed in an ochre silk robe, faded with age but still dignified. She was the only true gentlewoman among the women of the family, her hair neatly arranged with a simple, elegant hairpin.

To her left sat the eldest branch: Song Wenping, who had failed the scholar’s exam repeatedly and now worked as a minor tax clerk thanks to his mother’s connections; his wife Wang, their married daughter Song Jingmei, their eldest son Song Jingmao—also a failed scholar, now working as a bookkeeper—and their unmarried daughter, Song Jingzhu, fourteen.

To the right sat the second branch: Song Wending, another failed scholar, but sociable enough to secure a sinecure in the Ministry of Works; his wife Jiang and their six-year-old son, Song Jingrui, the old lady’s favorite.

Opposite sat Sanlang’s family. Sanlang had never been clever—studying was like visiting a grave, so the old lady had him learn carpentry instead.

Widowed, she had single-handedly raised three sons and one daughter, married them off, and cleared the family debts. Her children were dutiful.

Xiuniang served the old lady first, placing her egg in front of her and explaining, “Mother, the weather is hot and Chen has lost his appetite. I brought some eggs from my mother’s house for him to build his strength, and since Rui studies so hard, I thought the two boys could share.”

The others exchanged glances. Jiang’s lips curled faintly—her sister-in-law never did anything without benefit. Today’s generosity must be because the tutor had praised Rui’s talent yesterday; she was currying favor in advance.

She disdained such calculating, mercenary women—vulgar, money-grubbing, the sort that could never be respectable.

Wang looked at both her sisters-in-law with equal contempt. Jiang always put on airs, but she was just the daughter of a fallen scholar. As for Xiuniang, she had been a famed tofu beauty before marrying in, and now had Sanlang wrapped around her finger like a wanton fox.

At that moment, Song Jingrui stood and bowed respectfully to Xiuniang. “Thank you, Third Aunt.”

His thanks were sincere; it wasn’t the first time he’d enjoyed her eggs—every time Chen sneaked an egg, he would secretly share half with him.

“We’re family, no need for such courtesy,” said Xiuniang, looking from her sweet, polite nephew to her own drowsy son, who kept leaning on his father, and felt a pang of jealousy.

Eat and sleep, sleep and eat—where did the boy find so much time to nap? Perhaps the mosquitoes kept him awake at night? She resolved to buy some mosquito-repellent sachets at the market that day.

The old lady saw through her daughters-in-law’s schemes, but none of them were truly bad at heart.

She was ever more pleased with little Rui—so young, yet already showing the bearing of his great-grandfather. As for Sanlang’s lad, let him be—robust and hearty was enough.

Now that the Song family had produced such a promising seedling as Rui, she would nurture him well. In the afterlife, she could face the ancestors with pride.

At that moment, Xiuniang nudged her son, “Chen, wake up—the egg custard won’t taste good cold.”

Song Jingchen rubbed his eyes with his chubby hands, blinking with innocent confusion.

“Chen, did you sleep well?” the old lady asked kindly.

He scratched his head, “Grandmother, I dreamed last night.”

“Oh? What did you dream?” she smiled.

Lately, Chen had been dreaming often—strange worlds with towering buildings and wheeled boxes that rolled away in a blink. He thought of telling his grandmother but hesitated; the dreams were too odd, and people might think he was bewitched. He definitely didn’t want to drink that foul black talisman water like the neighbor boy.

He rolled his eyes and said, “I dreamed of lots of people bowing to Second Brother, calling him ‘Your Excellency’.”

Among the old folk, it was believed that children under six could see things adults could not. Such dreams, though not taken too seriously, were considered auspicious.

Rui glared at his brother, who pretended not to notice.

Everyone at the table was delighted except Rui. As the saying went, if one person achieved success, the whole family would rise.

The old lady and her sons just smiled—who could take a dream so seriously? But the three daughters-in-law grew animated. Jiang suddenly found her sister-in-law much more agreeable. Wang felt the same about her two sisters-in-law. The three women started chattering as if Rui were already a high official.

“Chen, do you remember what color your brother’s robe was in the dream?” Jiang asked.

That stumped him. He didn’t know what the top officials wore, but he did remember wedding robes. So he blurted out, “Third Aunt, it was red!”

Red robes—reserved for fourth rank and above.

Jiang’s knees went weak; she nearly slid off her stool.

Xiuniang and Wang were both envious and pleased, their feelings mixed.

The old lady, seeing her daughters-in-law getting carried away, rapped the table and said sternly, “Burning incense and consulting fortune-tellers isn’t always reliable, let alone a child’s dream. Now that you’ve eaten, don’t just stand around—go about your business. Rui and Chen, you two stay and come with me.”

With that, she rose and went to her room.

At the table, the three brothers exchanged looks—Mother had believed it.