"The kid's telling the truth. What do you want?" Uncle Wang, the vegetable seller, lifted his shoulder pole, shaking the dew from the leaves onto Hu Wanguan's satin shoes. "Three hundred coins for a bushel of salt. Do you want to force us all into the canal to feed the fish?"
"That's right! If you dare to touch the child again, we will carry you to the Censorate for justice!" The guys in the dyeing workshop rolled up their sleeves, their indigo aprons still stained with unwashed dye, like warriors in armor.
Amidst the chaos, Nian Li suddenly pointed at Hu Wanguan on the second floor and shouted, her little finger almost poking the carvings on the window frame: "Look! That's the fat uncle hoarding salt! I saw him lock up the silver in the basement, it's taller than the Yangzhou city wall!"
The people erupted in an uproar. Some picked up salt from the ground and threw it at the gate of the salt warehouse. The white salt grains hit the door panels like a torrential rain. Hu Wanguan recoiled in fear, and his elbow knocked over the candlestick on the table. The flames licked the edge of the banknotes, instantly leaving a charred mark. He heard the children's songs from downstairs growing louder and louder, spreading from one street to another. Even the night watchmen sang on their clappers: "The salt merchants are too evil—the people are eating dust—" The tune was crushed by the night wind and drifted to every salt-starved stove.
In the backyard of Wanxiang Tower, Su Jinli listened to the distant commotion through a carved screen. The embroidery frame in her hand hovered in mid-air, a half-flowered gardenia still pierced the silver needle. Jiang Yan refilled her hot tea, the cinnabar mole between her eyebrows reflected on the celadon cup. "Nianli, your voice really does mimic the ferocity of your table-flipping days in Beijing."
"Siyan's plan paid off," Su Jinli put down her embroidery frame and traced her fingertips over the gardenia petals on the embroidery cloth. She had embroidered them based on the flowers in her grandfather's yard. "Just now, Uncle Hu sent someone to say that the salt inspector's sedan chair has arrived at the north gate, and underneath it is a copy of the account book we sent."
Before she finished speaking, Nianli rushed into the yard like a small cannonball, her coarse apron covered with white salt grains and a piece of candy painting. "Mom! So many people threw money at us! Siyan couldn't even count them!" Siyan followed behind, the copper coins in the ceramic bowl jingling, and the soot on her little face was washed into several grooves by sweat, revealing the pink skin underneath. "Mom, I calculated it. A total of 127 coins. At the current price, it can buy three dou of salt, and at last year's price, it can buy five and a half dou!"
Jiang Yan squatted down to wipe his son's face, feeling the cold sweat on his forehead, mixed with dust from the pot. "There were so many people just now, were you scared?"
Siyan shook her head, her chest puffed out, the abacus beads swaying in a firm rhythm against her chest: "Don't be afraid! Nianli sings so well, even the tofu seller joins in and gives us two extra copper coins."
Su Jinli looked at her children's shining eyes and suddenly remembered a past life in the prime minister's residence. She had secretly taught a little maid to sing a ballad satirizing her stepmother. After being discovered, she was confined to her room for three days, and could only sing to herself facing the window frame. Now, watching the children singing the truth confidently under the bright and clear sky, her nose suddenly felt sore, and the sourness was mixed with relief and bitterness, like brewing a cup of aged Pu'er tea.
"Go wash your face," Jiang Yan took off Nianli's hairnet, and pearls rolled onto the bluestone table. "Uncle Hu sent someone to send sweet and sour fish. They used carp from West Lake. After we finish eating, we can sit in the courtyard and listen to the night watchman from Yangzhou sing the opera we wrote."
Late at night, Su Jinli stood by the window, hearing the distant children's songs lingering, mingling with the gongs from the Salt Inspectorate's office, echoing through the Yangzhou night sky. Siyan, hunched over the table, calculated the day's "income," his abacus ticking away, licking his fingers as he flipped through the ledger. Nianli, clutching a ceramic bowl filled with copper coins, slept soundly, icing sugar still stained the corners of her mouth, perhaps still singing the song "The Salt Merchant's Heart Is Too Black" in her dreams.
Jiang Yan hugged her from behind, his chin resting on the top of her head. The scent of cedar mixed with a hint of salt. "I've had Hu Wanguan's account books sent to the Censorate, along with evidence of his collusion with the salt officials."
Su Jinli gazed at the lights toward the Hu Family Salt Warehouse. The lanterns swayed in the night breeze, like popped bubbles, their flames fading. "Tomorrow morning," she whispered, her fingertips tracing the carved patterns on the window lattice, "the people of Yangzhou should be able to buy salt for eighty wen a dou."
The pomegranate tree outside the window rustled, petals falling in a riot of color. A few drifted onto the windowsill and landed on Siyan's account book. Su Jinli recalled Nianli singing on the stone lion during the day. The soot on her face couldn't hide her sparkling eyes, which reflected the lights of thousands of homes and a freedom and courage she had never known before. The Jiangnan night was finally brightened by the children's nursery rhymes, and even the saltiness of the air seemed to fade.
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