Chapter 13

July thirtieth marked the day Zhu Xuan turned six years old.

At dawn, Shen Yun rose early to cook a special bowl of spring noodles for Zhu Xuan, even frying an egg to lay atop the noodles. The broth was a deep soy color, flecked with bright green scallions, and crowned with a golden egg. Zhu Xuan sat at the octagonal table, cupping the bowl in her hands and noisily slurping the noodles.

Zhu Ying, sitting beside her, watched with envy, but the birthday noodles were for Zhu Xuan alone; the rest of the Zhu family started their day with porridge, as was customary. On birthdays, the celebrant always had a private bowl of noodles unless the family hosted a feast, in which case everyone would partake.

“You make such a racket eating noodles. Where are your manners?” Shen Yun tapped Zhu Xuan lightly. Zhu Xuan always ate noodles quickly, with little grace—large bites followed by loud slurping. When she was younger it had been endearing, like a piglet, but now it seemed less appropriate.

Chastened, Zhu Xuan tried to eat more delicately, slowing her pace. At last, she finished the bowl, not a drop of broth left.

The thought that her mother, despite expecting another child, still remembered to make her birthday noodles filled Zhu Xuan with joy. She couldn’t help but throw her arms around her mother’s arm and swing it playfully. “Mother, you’re so good to me.”

“If you think your mother is good to you, then wash the dishes when you’re done!” Shen Yun replied.

“But it’s my birthday.”

“Even the birthday girl must wash dishes! Are you trying to shirk your chores just because it’s your birthday? You’re not so little after today. There are younger siblings to watch over—you must set a good example, understand?” Shen Yun shot her a look.

Zhu Xuan immediately abandoned her antics, efficiently clearing the family’s bowls and chopsticks and carrying them off to be washed. Though she was headstrong, she was a child of ordinary folk and did her chores well.

She quickly washed all the dishes, wiped down the stove and table, and even scrubbed the big pot clean.

When her work was done, Zhu Xuan returned to the octagonal table and resumed her self-study, recognizing characters from the “Three Character Classic.” Each new character she learned, she would trace its shape with water on the table.

She hadn’t received any formal instruction yet, and Zhu Ming, no longer a tutor himself, had forgotten how to properly guide a child’s studies. There was no order of difficulty to how she learned; Zhu Xuan simply muddled through with her own clumsy methods.

The rest of the family had grown used to Zhu Xuan’s habits and no longer found her studiousness a novelty to tease her about.

But Zhu Ying had not yet adjusted. Of the five Zhu children, Zhu Tang and Zhu Lian were too old to play with her, and Zhu Di was too young. Only Zhu Xuan was close in age, and they had always been inseparable. Now, however, Zhu Xuan would rather spend her days tracing characters with water than playing.

Seeing Zhu Xuan at her usual spot, Zhu Ying waddled over on short legs and tugged at her sleeve. “Second sister, come play with me!”

Zhu Ming scooped Zhu Ying up, tapping her nose. “Your second sister needs to study. You play by yourself.”

Zhu Ying looked bewildered. Watching, Shen Yun called to Zhu Xuan, “Xuan, stop studying for now and play with your sister.”

Zhu Xuan looked up at her characters, then at the pitiful Zhu Ying, torn. Shen Yun said, “It’s your birthday—play and enjoy yourself. No one is asking you to study today. Tomorrow you’ll start school, and then it’ll be even harder for you to play together. So spend today with your little sister.”

At that, Zhu Xuan put down her brush and grabbed Zhu Ying’s hand. “Let’s go out and pick water caltrops in the ditch.”

“Don’t eat too many raw caltrops, and don’t go swimming or play recklessly in the water,” Shen Yun instructed them repeatedly before they left.

She watched the two girls go, then returned to her weaving. After a while, she heard the sounds of woodworking from outside her window. Opening the window halfway, she saw Zhu Ming sawing wood.

“What are you making?” she asked.

“She can’t keep studying at the dining table. The bench is too high, her feet don’t reach the floor—it’s not proper for learning. So before I leave, I thought I’d make her a desk.” The saw rasped as Zhu Ming wiped sweat from his brow and continued. He had learned carpentry before and could manage a table or chair.

“Don’t be too partial,” Shen Yun said. “Xuan isn’t our first child to go to school. You never made desks for the others. Even when Tang was in school, he made do with your old one.”

“You call this favoritism? Did you ever see Tang studying at home? Even if I made him a desk, he wouldn’t have used it,” Zhu Ming replied.

“When do you plan to leave for Yingtian? Last time you came back, you said you were drawing illustrations for a woodblock press there. That seemed like a good job—the money you sent home these past months was much more than before, certainly better than farming.”

Zhu Ming paused, glanced around, and lowered his voice to his wife. “I’m not staying in Yingtian.”

Shen Yun’s hands stilled. Her eyelids fluttered, unease rising in her heart. “Are you coming back to farm? Did you lose the position?”

He shook his head. “Yingtian’s a big city; it’s not easy to live there. But I’m not coming back to farm, either.”

“So where are you going now?” The heaviness in Shen Yun’s chest was familiar—she was used to having a husband like Zhu Ming.

Hearing the tone in her voice, Zhu Ming put his tools aside and came inside to hold her shoulders, studying her face. “Are you angry?”

“Where exactly are you going this time?” she asked, looking up at him.

His eyes flickered. “I’m going to Songjiang Prefecture.”

“Why Songjiang? Isn’t Yingtian better for painting and selling your work? What about your job there? Zhu Ming…” She hesitated. “Tell me the truth.”

“The job in Yingtian wasn’t as good as it seemed. At first, I was assigned to draw illustrations of talented scholars and beauties—those kinds of pictures sell well, and you know I’m good at figures. My illustrations made the books popular, and I earned a tidy sum.

“But my beauties were too well drawn, and the bestsellers in the marketplace are always those risqué novels. My boss didn’t care for propriety and thought it a waste if I didn’t illustrate some erotic scenes. I forced myself to do a few, but it was too humiliating. I couldn’t do it any longer.”

In truth, Zhu Ming had occasionally painted such scenes before for quick cash. But this job, which began with promise, had become a place where his talent was wasted on nothing but such pictures.

Entertainment in Yingtian was more varied than ever, even shockingly so—sometimes pushing beyond his limits. At first, he only drew elegant beauties, and the new generation of heroines, influenced by current trends, had spirit and character, not like the lovesick, submissive women of old.

His illustrations gave these women both grace and vitality, perfectly suited to his style. But that was the problem: the marketplace novels used the names and stories of famous romantic tales to sell their own “sequels,” which in a later age would be called fan fiction, but to Zhu Ming it was unsettlingly novel.

He couldn’t stand that the upright characters he’d just illustrated would reappear in these other books with the same names but in entirely different, often debased, roles. Yet the public loved it.

To make money, he had to let his heroines be forced into brothel life. For every set of “official” illustrations, he had to create an “adult” version as well. After half a year, he’d saved a small fortune and decided to quit.

A decade spent perfecting his skill in figure painting had gone unnoticed, but a few months of erotic scenes made him famous. Yet he wanted nothing to do with it. He had studied art to capture the vibrant life of the city, not to pander to the baser tastes that sullied his creations.

So much for Yingtian.

“But with the money I made, I heard the court is developing Songjiang as a port for overseas trade. I want to try my luck there. There are many foreigners, Westerners, whose style is different. And Songjiang is closer to home, so I can return more easily.”

Shen Yun caught the important point. “You’ve saved a sum—how much? You came home without a word!”

“Money shouldn’t be flaunted. I’m not at home often, and the family is just women, children, and old folks. If I came back showing off wealth, it would attract trouble. My parents can’t keep secrets. I’ll quietly give you half. We’ll live as before; this is our savings. When we really need money, you’ll have it.”

With that, Zhu Ming opened a hidden compartment in the cupboard and took out several large silver ingots.

Shen Yun estimated there were two hundred taels—enough to support the family for a dozen years. Even half was over a hundred, enough for a comfortable life.

She drew a sharp breath, having never seen so much money. Years of hard work had left the family matriarch with only a few fragments of silver and strings of copper coins, which she would sometimes count and weigh.

Clutching the silver, Shen Yun was both delighted and hesitant. “Isn’t it unfilial to keep this from your parents?”

There was only Zhu Ming’s branch in this generation; there was no need to split the household, unlike those families with multiple branches pooling their earnings. Still, hiding money from elders could be seen as unfilial.

“Just keep it,” Zhu Ming said. “This was fast money. I’ll never earn such a sum again. Half a year was my limit. This is our security. Just live as before—pretend it doesn’t exist. When we need a large sum, use it then.

“If we don’t flaunt it, no one will suspect. The world has been peaceful for only a few years. I’m not at home, and if anyone catches wind, it could bring trouble.”

Shen Yun nodded, hiding the money away.

Meanwhile, Zhu Xuan and Zhu Ying sat by the ditch eating water caltrops—fresh, crisp, and sweet. Zhu Ying took a big bite but looked melancholy. “Second sister, why can’t you play with me every day?”

“Because I’m going to school,” Zhu Xuan replied.

Zhu Ying still didn’t understand. “Can’t you not go? Can’t you just play with me forever?”

“That’s not possible, Ying.”

“Oh.” Zhu Ying looked up at the sky, imitating the adults’ sighs. For the first time in her life, she felt troubled—realizing that Zhu Xuan couldn’t play with her forever.

Her small head couldn’t grasp many things: why children began school at six, why her sister was eager to go, why everyone couldn’t always be together…

After a long silence, she seemed to make a great decision. Puffing up her cheeks, she told Zhu Xuan, “Then you should go to school. I’m already four, a grown-up, and I must stand tall, not cling to you like a three-year-old. That’s not proper!”

Zhu Xuan couldn’t help but laugh at her words. Hearing her laughter, Zhu Ying giggled too, hugging her water caltrop. And so, Zhu Xuan’s childhood seemed to slowly drift away on the scent of caltrops and laughter.