The salty, damp air seeping from the cracks in the black wooden door of the Hu Family Salt Warehouse tangled with the indigo scent wafting from the dyeing mill next door, lingering in the morning mist of Yangzhou. The dampness, wrapped in the astringency of three-year-old salt and mingled with the fresh, plant-based aroma of indigo dye, resembled two twisted pieces of rag, wrung out a sour, rancid aroma in the mist. As the brass knocker of the Salt Inspectorate's office clanged loudly, Lord Li was picking at shredded meat between his teeth with an ivory pick. The remnants of sweet and sour fish from last night's banquet were lodged between his teeth. The copper hand warmer his advisor had brought was still simmering with stale charcoal, and water droplets condensed on the walls, slowly sliding down along the gluttonous pattern.

"Sir! Urgent!" A bailiff scrambled into the main hall, his boots scraping against the bricks with a harsh sound, startling the swallows nesting on the beams. Lord Li frowned as he took the envelope. The plain white rice paper bore no signature, but instead depicted, in thick ink, a fat, large-eared salt sack. A small mouse, pinched at its waist, was also painted on the sack's opening. Next to it, scribbled crookedly, were the words "Hu Wanguan's Salt Hoarding Chart." The ink smudged with the stench of cooking ash.

"What is it?" Lord Li unfolded the letter, the scent of ink mingling with the faint aroma of stove smoke. The letter detailed the Hu family's salt warehouse's stockpile of salt over the past three months, from three thousand to eight thousand taels. Next to the figures was a crooked abacus, the beads in the units digits stained with sugar. Three pieces of evidence of collusion with other salt merchants were listed, each circled in red pen with "Witness: Porter Wang Er" and a small figure carrying a salt basket drawn next to the name. At the bottom was an appendix, half a sheet of straw paper adhered to an abacus with beads. It contained a "List of Exorbitant Profits"—Hu Wanguan's net profit of 173,200 taels of silver. Next to it, in childish handwriting, was a mountain of silver taller than the Yangzhou city walls. Beneath it knelt countless weeping figures, one of whom even sang while holding a ceramic bowl.

"Rebellion! Truly rebellion!" Lord Li slammed the table and leaped to his feet. An ivory pick flew out and stabbed the peacock embroidered on the screen, plucking off a few of its tail feathers. "One hundred and seventy-three thousand two hundred taels!" He snatched up the abacus and slammed it on the table, sending the beads tumbling all over the floor. "That's enough to buy six months' worth of food for the people of Yangzhou! Is this Hu Wanguan trying to turn everyone into bacon?" His beard trembled with rage, and the copper hand warmer clanged to the ground. The charcoal residue splattered out and burned the master's cloud-toe boots. As the smoke rose, one could smell the charcoal ash mixed with the rice crust.

At this moment, Hu Wanguan was sighing over his overflowing warehouse of salt bags. The mountain of salt bags obscured the skylight, letting in only a few rays of light, which made the floating salt dust dance like countless tiny silver pieces, landing on his jade-inlaid abacus, forming a thin layer. Ever since the children sang the nursery rhyme, there had been a constant stream of curses at the salt warehouse entrance. Last night, someone had stuffed rotten vegetable leaves through the cracks in the door, and now even the most greedy porters refused to unload the goods. He was calculating his deficit on his jade-inlaid abacus, the beads clattering against the salt grains with a dull thud. Suddenly, he heard a commotion outside, and the gongs of the yamen runners shook the salt bags, causing them to drop salt like a fine snowfall.

"Hu Wanguan! Open the door!" Lord Li's roar pierced the door, causing Hu Wanguan's abacus to clatter onto the salt bags. He rushed to the window and lifted a corner of the grease-stained bamboo curtain. He saw the ceremonial flag of the Salt Inspector looming in the mist. The runners, holding signs reading "Silence and Keep Away," had surrounded the salt warehouse, their vermilion lacquer darkened by the salt fumes.

"It's over..." Hu Wanguan's legs gave way, and he collapsed onto the salt bag. The jade-studded belt buckle jarred his lower back. He thought of the man in the moon-white gown from three days ago, and the two children singing nursery rhymes. Suddenly, he slapped his thigh, colliding his jade ring against the salt bag. "It's them! It must be that bastard couple! And that little beggar!" Spit splashed onto the salt bag, only to be instantly absorbed without a trace.

When Lord Li kicked open the door to the salt warehouse, the hinges creaked mournfully, startling the bats from the beams. Hu Wanguan, clutching a bag of salt, howled as grains of salt rolled down his collar and into his lapels, stinging him and causing him to grimace. The servants rushed into the warehouse, a cloud of salt dust rising. The overflowing salt bags resembled white grave mounds, emitting a suffocating, salty stench. One yamen runner lost his balance and fell into the pile, unable to climb out for a long time. Lord Li unfolded the anonymous letter, and with each line, Hu Wanguan's face paled, from pale to bluish-white, finally turning the color of the salt frost on the window frames. Even his lips were bloodless.

"...a net profit of 173,200 taels, equivalent to half a year's food rations for the people of Yangzhou!" Lord Li read this and threw the letter in Hu Wanguan's face. The ink on the paper was imprinted on his forehead like a stamp. "Do you admit your guilt?"

Hu Wanguan fell to his knees with a plop, his forehead hitting the salt grains, making a crackling sound. The salt grains embedded themselves into his wrinkles: "Sir, please spare my life! I was bewitched... My colleagues were all hoarding salt, so I followed the trend..." Before he could finish his words, the yamen runners locked his neck with an iron chain. The salt rust on the chain rubbed against his skin, causing him to grimace in pain, but he dared not shout again.

Meanwhile, Su Jinli and her family were enjoying morning tea at the "Quyuan" teahouse. Outside the carved window lattices, the morning mist was being shattered by the sunlight, spreading across the blue brick road like a layer of gold, sending tiny sparkles of light where the porters stepped on it. Nianli nibbled on a five-nut bun, her cheeks puffed out like a hamster's, the sesame filling smearing against the tip of her nose, which twitched with each chew. "Mom, will Fatty Hu dare to raise the prices again?"

"Listen." Jiang Yan pointed outside the window with his tea spoon. The Biluochun tea leaves in the cup expanded like a reborn green butterfly.

Outside the teahouse, cheers erupted suddenly. People streamed past like a tide, waving newly posted notices. The notice, damp from morning dew, bore the words "Salt price restored to original: 80 wen per dou"—a striking sight. The ink, stained with water around the edges, resembled a weeping face. An old man, clutching a bag of salt, ran, shouting, his pipe jingling at his waist: "Heaven has opened its eyes! We can pickle duck eggs again!" The tofu seller nearby, her face wrinkled with smiles, tossed two more pieces of tofu into her bamboo basket, the tender whites still stained with dew. "Go home and make some salty pork soup for the kids!"

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