The morning mist in Shu, like crumpled cotton wool, clung to the axles of departing carriages, carrying moisture from the Jialing River and stained the wood grain of the shafts. Su Jinli stood by the mottled wooden door of Wang's Spice Shop, ten packets of hot pot base tightly tied with waxed straw rope. The aroma of deep brown butter seeped through layers of oil paper, condensing into tiny beads in the cool morning dew, staining the hem of her moon-white skirt like a handful of finely chopped amber. Si Yan squatted on the bluestone pavement, fiddling with her abacus. The red sandalwood beads glowed a warm amber in the slanting morning light. The clatter of beads mingled with the clatter of the storyteller's wake-up stick from the neighboring Qinchun Teahouse, echoing across the empty street. With each bang of the wake-up stick, Si Yan's beads danced in time, as if keeping time for the storytelling.
"Ten bags of base material cost eight taels, and the shipping fee is five taels and three qian." His little finger, stained with the remnant of last night's ink, made a small sound on the abacus. "If I sell it to Madam Li from the silk and satin shop in Beijing, she'll add a 30% markup as usual, and then deduct the cost of the moisture-proof oil paper..."
"Have you figured it out?" Jiang Yan returned from the street corner, his navy blue shirt brushing the newly sprouted moss against the wall, his trouser legs still stained with mud from the morning dew. His sleeves bulged like a small bundle. Seeing Su Jinli looking over, he averted her gaze somewhat awkwardly, her ears flushing a faint red like newly ripe lychees. "The cart is already harnessed. It's the strong mule that Manager Wang helped find. It's sure-footed."
Nian Li tiptoed to grab his sleeve, the pomegranate-red pompom brushing against the muddy spots on his trouser legs, and silver bells jingled in her hair: "Dad, what did you secretly buy just now? Did you buy me the sweet-scented osmanthus cake from the Nantang Shop again?"
Jiang Yan coughed twice and pulled a plain white oil-paper package from his sleeve pocket. On it, the words "not spicy" were written in cinnabar ink. The strokes were a bit crooked, clearly written in haste. "Make...make non-spicy hot pot for your mother." Sunlight filtered through the thin paper, illuminating the brown spice grains mixed with dried tangerine peel and star anise. The fragrance emanated a gentle, subtle aroma, not as overbearing as Sichuan peppers, but more like the spring rain of the south. He remembered last night, Su Jinli, despite her face flushing from eating, always silently offered him warm water when he was sweating from the spiciness. His fingertips touched the thin calluses on her palms—the result of years of holding a pen and carrying children. The redness at the base of his ears spread to his cheeks.
Su Jinli took the paper package, and her fingertips touched the remaining warmth in his palm, which was mixed with the faint fragrance of spices. She couldn't help but pinch his burning cheek: "You are thoughtful." Thinking of him sticking out his tongue last night because of the spiciness, and Nianli laughing at him like Guan Gong on the stage, with tears from the spiciness on his eyelashes, a smile spread to the corners of her eyes, and scattered light in the morning light. Shopkeeper Wang hurried out of the store, holding a string of bright red dried chilies tied with a thin hemp rope. The chilies swayed in the morning breeze, red like a string of small lanterns, making Nianli's eyes sparkle: "Miss, this is a good way to relieve your boredom! These are bullet-shaped chilies from Guizhou. Put two when stir-frying meat, and the fragrance is so good that it can make the dog next door cry with envy!"
Si Yan snapped her abacus shut and jumped up. The beads jingled against her waist, startling the swallows nesting under the eaves. "Mom, when we get back to the capital, let's open a hot pot restaurant! I'll be the accountant, responsible for collecting money and calculating costs, making sure every penny is accounted for!"
"What about Dad?" Nianli asked with her little face tilted up. The silver bells in her hair jingled with her movements, like a string of jumping notes.
Jiang Yan wailed, covering his face. Thinking of how he'd been sweating profusely in the spicy hot pot restaurant in Shu, he uttered through his fingers, "Dad should be responsible... responsible for eating the ready-made food..." Before he finished speaking, Si Yan was already counting the bills quickly on his fingers, his face full of seriousness, "We need to rent a shop for the hot pot restaurant, preferably one facing West Street, with a large flow of people. We need to hire three waiters, one to cut vegetables, one to make soup, and a waiter. We also need to buy ten copper stoves, each with two sets of colanders..."
The carriage rolled over the bluestone pavement, its wheels leaving two wet tracks in the morning mist. The creaking of the axle startled the sparrows along the roadside. The green hills of Shu gradually receded into a pale blue ink painting. Si Yan leaned against the carriage window, counting the passing tea stalls, muttering about shipping losses, his abacus clacking against his knees. Nian Li hung strings of dried chilies on the carriage curtains, and the wind rustled them softly, like a string of leaping notes, blending with the clatter of horse hooves to form a journey ballad. Su Jinli leaned against Jiang Yan's shoulder, inhaling the mild spice lingering from his sleeves—a gentle aroma of tangerine peel and star anise. She suddenly remembered her past life in the prime minister's residence. In the winter, if she tried to sneak a piece of spicy tofu leftover from the kitchen, her stepmother would punish her by making her kneel for half an hour, saying, "Spicy food disfigures women," and her fingertips would turn purple from the cold.
"What are you thinking about?" Jiang Yan held her hand, and his fingertips gently rubbed the thin calluses on her palm from years of holding a pen and doing accounts. The touch felt like stroking a piece of warm jade.
"I'm thinking," Su Jinli looked at the bamboo forest passing by outside the window. The sunlight filtered through the gaps between the leaves, casting mottled shadows on her face, like a handful of gold. "This life is so good." There is no stepmother's calculations, no oppression of being trapped in the boudoir. She has a husband who secretly buys non-spicy spices for her, and lively and lovely children. Even the air is filled with the smell of freedom, warmer than the hot pot in Shu and sweeter than the osmanthus flowers in Yangzhou.
As the carriage entered Yangzhou, canal vapor, wrapped in the sweet fragrance of September osmanthus, poured through the windows, a sweetness that tickled the tip of one's nose. Siyan suddenly jumped up, nearly hitting his forehead with the abacus, and the beads scattered to the floor. "Dad! I miscalculated the shipping cost for the hot pot base! I forgot to include the oil paper for moisture-proofing. I need to add two wen per package, so ten packages make twenty wen. The total should be five liang and five qian, not five liang and three qian!"
"I know, I know!" Jiang Yan sighed helplessly, but he reached out and rubbed his son's head, smoothing down his frizzy hair. His fingertips touched the child's warm scalp. "My little accountant, you're even more skilled than the bank's owner. If you keep up the math, you'll empty Dad's wallet."
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