Chapter 15

Song Sheng was desperately suppressing his impulses, afraid that if he moved even slightly, he would lose control and press Lu Qing beneath him.

Still struggling to endure, he heard the soft, hesitant yet bold question from the delicate figure in his arms: “Shall we…?” His restlessness grew stronger.

His throat tightened, Adam’s apple bobbing as he forced himself to calm down. Lowering his head, he placed a gentle kiss on Lu Qing’s forehead, then released him and said in a husky voice: “It’s late. Go to sleep.”

Lu Qing felt a pang of disappointment. Was it because he wasn’t attractive enough? His husband had never shared a bed with him, yet his father had always said his looks were not lacking.

But then he remembered—his husband had kissed his forehead tonight. Wasn’t that progress?

Thinking of this, Lu Qing brightened. His husband surely liked him. Perhaps the reason he hadn’t touched him was simply shyness.

With those thoughts, Lu Qing drifted into sleep. November nights had grown cold, and he curled up tightly, pressing against the warmth beside him.

Song Sheng had not yet fallen asleep. It took him a long time to calm his body’s reaction. Just as he was about to rest, the little one rolled over in his sleep. Lu Qing, soft and delicate, lips slightly parted, made Song Sheng press his own lips together before pulling him back into his embrace. He lowered his head and placed a light kiss near those parted lips, then finally closed his eyes and slept.

The next morning, when Song Sheng woke up, his arms were already empty. He turned his head to the other side of the bed, no one was there. Lu Qing had already risen.

In the Song household, cooking was done in turns, and today it was Lu Qing’s duty. He had gotten up early to prepare breakfast and also collected eggs from the chicken coop in the backyard.

There were two piglets in the yard as well. Since they didn’t eat much yet, Lu Qing had cut pig grass, chopped it finely, mixed it with wheat bran, and boiled it. He poured the mixture into the trough, and the hungry piglets rushed out, devouring it eagerly.

By the time he finished all this, Song Sheng had just gotten out of bed. Farming families rose early, by modern reckoning, around five in the morning, when the sky was still dim. At first, Song Sheng struggled with this schedule, but now he had trained himself to wake at six, which already counted as early for him.

When he stepped into the courtyard, he saw Lu Qing feeding the chicks. These chicks had only recently been brought home, about a dozen in total. With so many family members, a small number of hens wouldn’t lay enough eggs. And not all chicks would survive, so they needed careful tending.

Seeing him, Lu Qing said: “Husband, you’re up. There’s water in the basin—wash up first. Once Father and Eldest Uncle and Second Uncle return from the fields, we can eat.”

Peasant families never rested. During busy seasons they harvested and planted, and during slack seasons they weeded. On rainy days they carried hoes to dig water channels in the fields.

That morning, Song Laoda and the others had gone to weed. In this era, there were no herbicides—everything depended on manual labor.

Weeds grew quickly. If not cleared in time, they would steal nutrients from the crops, making the wheat shoots weak and the ears of grain thin, which would hurt the harvest.

The November water was chilly. Song Sheng brushed his teeth with willow twigs soaked in water, then washed his face.

In the Jing Dynasty, there was no toothpaste, not even pig‑bristle toothbrushes. Wealthy families used herbal pastes made from ingredients like poria, but ordinary folk relied on willow twigs. These were soaked overnight, then chewed in the morning until the fibers split, forming fine bristle‑like strands. This was the simplest toothbrush, giving rise to the phrase “morning chewing of tooth wood.”

Willow twigs weren’t very effective. Song Sheng often scraped his gums painfully, making eating uncomfortable. He thought he should experiment with making a better toothbrush when he had time.

Just as he finished washing, his father, uncles, and cousins returned from the fields, while his sisters‑in‑law came back from washing clothes at the river. With everyone gathered, they could eat.

During slack seasons, meals were plain. Steamed sweet potatoes, pickled vegetables, sorghum bread, and thin porridge. It wasn’t tasty, but it filled the stomach.

Yet with corvée labor only ten days away, families made sure the chosen men ate well to build strength before enduring the hardship.

The Song family did the same. Though poor, they still provided what was necessary.

Lu Qing had cooked a special breakfast: stir‑fried meat, scrambled eggs, and wheat cakes stuffed with wild greens, brushed with butter for fragrance. He also made dumpling soup from dough pieces.

At the table, nearly all the meat was given to Song Laosan, who would soon serve corvée. He ate it all without hesitation—he needed strength to endure the labor and return safely to earn money for his son’s studies.

After breakfast, Lu Qing went to wash the dishes. Song Sheng reminded him: “The weather is cold now. When you wash the dishes, remember to mix in some hot water. If your hands get chilblains, they’ll itch terribly at night and be very uncomfortable.”

Hearing his husband’s concern, Lu Qing felt warm inside. He nodded and replied: “I know, Husband. It’s cold outside, you should go back inside the room.”

Song Sheng returned to his room to study, while Lu Qing finished cleaning the pots and bowls before going into the inner room.

The academy term was about to begin, so Lu Qing needed to prepare his husband’s things in advance.

The books in the chest could be packed by Song Sheng himself once he finished reading them. Lu Qing packed the paper, ink, and pens that Song Sheng often used.

He also took out the school uniform required for the county academy. He had already washed it days earlier and stored it in the cabinet. The academy had strict rules: students must wear the uniform, or else they would be punished by the discipline teacher.

After tidying up, Lu Qing sat down with his sewing basket to do needlework, while Song Sheng studied by the window. In his previous life, Song Sheng had been gifted and never exerted himself fully in his studies. But in this life, he knew he had to work harder.

Soon, the list of men assigned to corvée labor was released, and the villagers began gossiping. The Song family, after eating, went back to their work and ignored the idle chatter.

“Doesn’t the Song family have many adult men? Shouldn’t they send two? Why is it only one this year?”

“Don’t you know? They paid money to redeem one!”

“What? Redeemed with money? Since when did the Song family have that kind of wealth? Ten taels of silver! That’s not easy to gather. And didn’t Song Sanlang just get married? The wedding banquet alone must have cost a lot!”

“Exactly. I’m puzzled too. The Song family is known as one of the poorest households in the village. How did they suddenly come up with ten taels of silver?”

“Didn’t they marry into the Lu family from West Village? Maybe the Lu family helped.”

“Help with ten taels of silver? I don’t believe it. Besides, wouldn’t the Lu family also need money to redeem their own corvée labor?”

By the river, women and gē ér washing clothes gossiped noisily. Just then, Sister‑in‑law Wang from next door to the Song family came over carrying a wooden basin. Seeing her, everyone quickly called out to her.

“Sister‑in‑law Wang, you live so close to the Song family. Do you know what’s going on? Where did they get ten taels of silver to redeem corvée labor?”

Sister‑in‑law Wang arrived late, carrying her wooden basin. She looked around but couldn’t find a good spot. At that moment, a perceptive aunt shifted aside to make room for her.

Feeling pleased, Wang set her basin by the river, soaked the clothes inside, and began beating them against a stone. As if deliberately teasing everyone, she struck a few times before finally saying: “Of course I know.”

The moment they heard she knew the reason, everyone stopped wringing their clothes and crowded around, urging: “So what happened? Tell us quickly, we’re dying to know!”

Rarely the center of attention, Wang relished the moment. Moving her lips, she declared: “It was Song Sheng who sold his books to raise the money!”

“Oh my goodness! I’ve always heard that scholars treasure their books above all else. Those books are precious—how could he bear to sell them? Truly a wastrel!”

“Maybe he doesn’t plan to study anymore. He’s married now, after all. Perhaps after enjoying the warmth of married life he lost the heart for reading…”

“I heard the county academy is about to start term. If he sold his books, he surely isn’t planning to continue. Maybe after years of failing exams he’s grown disheartened and decided to give up. Better to sell the books for money than let them sit unused.”

The crowd chattered noisily, then returned to their washing. One aunt beside Wang asked curiously: “How do you know he sold his books?”

“Yesterday he went into town to sell them. My son Shuanzi happened to be there and saw it. And this morning I even heard Zhang Xinghua scolding him, calling him a wastrel. Think about it—Zhang Xinghua usually dotes on that grandson. If she’s cursing him, it must be true that he sold the books.”

For peasants, books were sacred to scholars. You could be poor, but you couldn’t be without books. Selling them meant abandoning study.

In village life, gossip was the main entertainment, especially during slack farming seasons. Idle energy was poured into talking about neighbors’ affairs.

The rumor spread quickly. At first, people said Song Sheng sold his books to redeem corvée labor. Soon it twisted into claims that he planned to drop out of the county academy altogether.

Every household had relatives in other villages, and kinship ties were tangled. Few students in nearby villages ever passed the exams, so Song Sheng’s reputation as a “child prodigy” had already made him well‑known.

Thus, the story of him quitting school spread from one person to ten, from ten to a hundred, until all the nearby villages knew.

In Gaojia Village, not far from Songjia Village, Li Hongyun also heard. Remembering the wager he had made with Song Sheng in town the day before, he grew increasingly uneasy. He didn’t know why, but he felt unsettled. That morning, after breakfast, he sat down to study, determined that in the academy’s big exam a month later he must surpass Song Sheng.

At lunchtime, he heard his mother chatting idly: “Zhuzi, do you know Song Sheng from Songjia Village? I heard he’s in the same academy as you.”

Li Hongyun used to be called Li Zhuzi, but after he began studying, he disliked the name for sounding crude. He looked through books and gave himself the new name Li Hongyun.

When he heard his mother mention Song Sheng, his heart skipped a beat. He worried she might have discovered the wager he made in town about the exam. But judging by her expression, it didn’t seem so—if she knew, she would have scolded him already.

He hesitated, then said: “I know him, but we’re not close. Why do you ask, Mother?”