Chapter 50: The First Snow (Part One)

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Early December, with no sign of the sun.

Wu Yueling rose as always before dawn, practiced a set of fist forms, stretched, and brushed her teeth.

On time, Xiaochun brought in a bowl of noodle soup, garnished with chopped scallions and crowned with an egg.

Wu Yueling had given strict instructions to the kitchen: never serve her those thick, finger-pinched noodles again—she insisted on pulled noodles, thin and even, drawn out from the dough by hand. The noodles must be pulled, not pinched, and the soup must always include an egg.

She picked up her chopsticks and, for the first time in Tang Dynasty, tasted something akin to Lanzhou hand-pulled noodles. The broth, too, delighted her: lamb simmered with sauces and chilies, imparting just the right hint of spice and flavor.

After serving the princess breakfast, Xiaochun returned to the kitchen for her own meal—a bowl of hand-pulled noodles as well, though the soup had been mostly soaked up, leaving the noodles a little dry.

With breakfast done, Xiaochun began her day: washing and hanging clothes, scrubbing and sweeping every corner of Heavenly Gift Pavilion, except those places the princess had strictly forbidden entry to. The morning slipped away in diligent, silent labor.

At noon, she helped the princess wash and prepare vegetables, then cooked lunch. The meal was abundant—a pressure-cooked lamb stew with rice wine, a plate of salted vegetables stir-fried with eggs, steamed pastries, and a clear, delicate soup.

Xiaochun was most skilled at making meat broth, but the princess disliked it, preferring instead medicinal broths of various herbs. Today’s soup was chicken, simmered with several Chinese herbs, its color a deep amber. After months of adjustment, Xiaochun had grown quite used to the princess’s peculiar tastes.

As midday passed, Xiaochun and Xiaomi left together to the eastern market to buy fruit. Xiaochun had in mind a pear soup and selected the finest Aijia pears.

Of course, besides pears there were also oranges and tangerines—fruits from the south, costing nearly double the usual price. They bought them from a shop called Qin’s Fruits, which had come from Xiang County. They might have returned earlier, but a lady in blue, whose beauty rivaled even the princess’s, sat outside the shop playing the guqin. Her music drew scholars and noblemen alike, who then browsed and bought fruit, causing a delay. By the time Xiaochun and Xiaomi finally made their purchases, dusk was already falling.

Returning from the eastern market, twilight pressed in, and winter’s heaviness seemed to deepen.

“Sister Mi, that lady in blue played so beautifully. I doubt anyone but our Wan’er could compare,” said Xiaochun, leading a horse and walking beside Xiaomi, who did the same.

The basket on the horse’s back bumped and rattled. Xiaomi, smiling sweetly, glanced ahead at the princess’s residence and said, “That lady’s name is probably Qin Muyu, and Qin’s Fruits, I hear, is from Xiang County. Such beauty—what a pity she’s a merchant’s daughter.”

“Indeed, a real shame,” Xiaochun replied, her round face tinged with regret. Had she not been a merchant’s daughter, her standing would have been entirely different.

“Wait, Xiaochun, look—by the lake, isn’t that a child sitting there?” Xiaomi stopped, turning her gaze toward the water. Though distant and unclear, the small figure certainly looked like a child.

“Don’t scare me, Sister Mi. What would a child be doing by the lake…” Xiaochun looked over. Even from afar, she could just make out a child sitting by the shore.

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Exchanging glances, the two decided to go over and see. As they drew closer, their suspicions were confirmed—a child sat there, and they hurried toward him.

Xiaochun knelt before the little boy, who was dressed in an adult’s tattered hemp robe, looking blank and lost. All at once, her heart ached for him. She took him into her arms and asked urgently, “Where is your mother? Where is your family?”

Still half-seated on the ground, the little boy burst into tears as soon as she embraced him. He pointed to the water’s edge and sobbed, “Mama said she’d go into the water to catch fish for me. She told me to wait and not go in, but she hasn’t come up all day. I’ve been waiting here for her. I don’t want fish, I just want Mama to come back.”

Without another word, Xiaomi plunged into the lake. Soon, she emerged, dripping wet, pulling the emaciated corpse of a woman from the water. The woman’s belly was swollen, her hand still clutching a small dead fish—the boy’s mother.

On the bank, the boy clung to his mother’s body, begging her not to sleep. But she was long gone; the end of life is an endless sleep.

Watching this bewildered child beside her, Xiaochun’s heart filled with sorrow, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.

All hearts are as soft as tofu—the so-called heartless are only acting. When you turn away with cold indifference, your own heart will ache, and even a child who knows nothing of the world is no exception.

The boy seemed to grasp something, yet not fully. He ceased his crying and simply knelt quietly beside his mother. He had learned what death was, what it meant for life to end.

Xiaochun and Xiaomi made up their minds: they would bring the child back to the princess’s residence, and after informing the princess, see that his mother received a proper burial. It was the best they could do.

That night, in the grand hall of the princess’s residence, Wu Yueling sat by candlelight, listening as Mo Qianjin and Mo Dingkun made their report.

“Your Highness, the device—five in a row, five rows in a group—is completed. But may I ask, what do you intend to do with it?” Mo Qianjin smiled respectfully, right hand rubbing his left.

“That is not your concern,” Wu Yueling said, examining the firework tubes they had brought. Their handiwork was, she noted, quite good.

“Your Highness, my father said, this thing is quite like that little bamboo tube, only the structure is different—this one has no threads…” Mo Dingkun began, but was cut off by his father’s hand.

Mo Qianjin grew flustered—he had indeed said as much, but it was only a guess. Besides, the princess had strictly forbidden him from gossiping or sharing insights with others.

Wu Yueling glanced at him, then continued inspecting the firework tubes against the design drawings.

“Forgive us, Your Highness,” Mo Qianjin sensed danger and quickly knelt, blaming his son’s loose tongue.

“What is there to forgive?” Wu Yueling finished her inspection; the tubes matched the blueprints. These two had the skills of true carpenters.

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“I shouldn’t have gossiped. I realize my mistake,” Mo Qianjin said, an old man now, seasoned by many things. He knew how to be cautious, especially with matters concerning the royal family.

“Whom did you gossip with?” Wu Yueling asked, genuinely curious.

“My son…”

A silence fell.

“Then it’s nothing. You two may discuss things together as you wish,” Wu Yueling said with a wave of her hand, looking at Mo Dingkun, who stood quietly, hands clasped. Suddenly, she asked, “You two aren’t quarreling, are you? Well, fathers and sons never hold grudges overnight. Go on, shake hands and make up!”

After they had reconciled and left, Wu Yueling could not help but laugh, thinking to herself how amusing the pair was. Only after asking Hua Chuer, who kept watch over them, did she learn they’d never leaked secrets to outsiders. They’d merely bickered during the construction of the firework tubes, leading to a spat between father and son.

That same night, in the county magistrate’s residence, an old man sat kneeling on his cot. He had been there for a long while, untouched food beside him, a slender brush abandoned in the inkstone, whose ink had long since dried.

A few strands of hair hung loose and trembled without wind. The old man scraped at a splinter on the desk with his fingernail, glanced disinterestedly at the cold meal, and muttered that he wished to be left alone.

Loose-leaf calligraphy papers scattered across the floor, some blowing outside the door, some caught in icy water, others snagged in tree branches.

The old man poured wine into the inkstone, ground his ink, dipped his brush, and began to write. Wild strokes surged across the white paper like a nest of snakes, sweeping chaotically. Unless one was an expert, they would not recognize this as a letter of farewell.

When he finished, the old man lifted the inkstone and drained it in a single gulp, making several gurgling sounds as it went down. He wore an expression of deep satisfaction, then tossed the magistrate’s seal onto the floor. His black tongue licked his inky lips, which grew ever darker.

He took a few steps, then doubled back, hanging the seal and letter in the main hall before going to his room to pack.

This old man was running away from home—yes, and he would leave riding a donkey.

(End of excerpt.)