After Fan Changyu went out carrying the basket of dirty clothes, she let out a sigh.

He must have seen it. Since he had already put it away, she might as well pretend nothing had happened.

Seeing that it was still early, she went out again—to the tile market to buy two plump fat pigs and a chicken.

Before this chicken was turned into a pot of nourishing soup, it still had a more important mission—she wanted to use it to catch that gyrfalcon.

Though her father was a butcher, he was also a skilled hunter. She had gone up the mountain with him before to hunt wild boars and catch hares, so naturally she knew how to set some traps.

Fan Changyu wanted to set one in the courtyard, but she was afraid Changning might accidentally touch it and get hurt. After thinking it over, she went up to the attic, climbed onto the roof, tied the old hen there, and then arranged the trapping tools her father had used. Only then did she go downstairs, satisfied.

Of the two pigs, one was to be slaughtered tomorrow, and the other today, to make preserved meat.

“Preserved meat,” as its name implied, was made in the twelfth lunar month. In winter, meat could be stored longer, but when the weather grew warm, it would still spoil. Turning it into preserved meat allowed it to last until the following year.

The tuition fee that the academy tutors received, aside from silver, was equivalent in value to preserved meat.

Many scholars, during New Year, even had to buy a strip of preserved meat to pay respects to their teachers, and again at springtime, to offer as tuition.

In the past, to pay Song Yan’s tuition, Song’s mother would take the money she earned from embroidery and washing clothes and buy preserved meat from her father.

Whether or not that woman had deliberately exaggerated her hardship before her parents, Fan Changyu now had her doubts.

At that time, Song’s mother’s hands were covered with chilblains as soon as winter began, and the patches on her clothes were even more numerous than the original fabric. Because she often did embroidery late at night but was unwilling to light the lamp fully, she would pick out a short wick from the lamp oil, producing only a faint, bean-sized light. After enduring this for years, her eyesight worsened—by night she could barely see anything at all.

A widow and her orphaned child, and neighbors at that—Song’s mother had said that Song’s father had spent his whole life taking the imperial examinations without ever passing, and that Song Yan had been clever since childhood, a promising seedling. She wished to fulfill her husband’s unfulfilled wish. Her parents, unable to bear it, had gifted preserved meat for Song Yan’s tuition.

Thinking of that mother and son now, Fan Changyu could only hope Heaven would open its eyes and make Song Yan fail the exam!

With resentment fueling her, she went to the backyard to boil water and prepare to slaughter the pig.

· ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

The sharp, ear-piercing squeals of the pig reached the southern room just as Xie Zheng’s wolf-hair brush left a streak of ink across the paper.

He crumpled the sheet in his hand, tossed it into the charcoal brazier at his feet, leaned back in his chair, and rubbed at his brow.

Just as his ears were aching from the noise, the door suddenly swung open. A little figure clung to the doorframe, poking half her head through as she coaxed, “Brother-in-law, do you want to watch the pig being killed?”

Her eyes, black as grapes, sparkled brightly. “My big sister is really good at killing pigs!”

In the past, Fan Changyu always slaughtered pigs before dawn. His kneecap injury from tumbling down the cliff while fleeing had not yet fully healed, and he seldom went out, so naturally, he had never seen her do it.

Today, though, the pig squeals from the backyard had gone on for quite a while—and there were two pigs howling together. The sound could practically lift the roof off the house.

After thinking for a moment, Xie Zheng nodded, propped himself up on his cane, and got up—not to watch the slaughter as Changning expected, but because if those swine kept squealing any longer, he’d rather end them himself for the sake of some peace and quiet.

Past the main hall was the kitchen. The kitchen had a small door connecting to the backyard, and right now that door was open. From there, Xie Zheng could see the woman with one foot pressing on the pig’s back, holding a thumb-thick rope, tying the pig—already bound at all four legs—onto a heavy stone bench.

Little Changning lifted her head proudly toward him. “My big sister’s amazing, right?”

Xie Zheng didn’t respond.

As he drew nearer, the pigs’ squeals grew even sharper, almost splitting the ears. Their struggles looked fierce and powerful.

He had seen pigs slaughtered in the army’s cook camp, and even then it took several sturdy men to hold down a single fat pig. The woman before him didn’t look delicate by any means, yet she was still just one person—how could she possibly compare to those brawny soldiers?

He furrowed his brows, just about to step forward to lend a hand—when he saw the woman slap the pig squarely on the head and bark,

“Behave yourself!”

The slap landed so loud and crisp that the pig’s squeals dropped sharply, and its struggling weakened noticeably.

The indolence in Xie Zheng’s eyes vanished, replaced by unmistakable astonishment.

Knocked it out?

Knocked it out???

Just how much strength did she have in those hands?

His impression of this woman was swinging violently—between the one who wept for a “phoenix man” and the one who just stunned a pig with a slap—leaving him unable to help frowning.

When Fan Changyu finished tying the pig securely to the stone bench and turned around, she saw Xie Zheng standing there—and her younger sister peeking from behind the doorframe with half her head sticking out.

She immediately said, “Ning-niang, how many times have I told you? Children mustn’t watch pig slaughtering.”

Changning, wronged and pitiful, drew her head back behind the door, leaving only the two tiny tufts of hair on her crown still visible.

Fan Changyu noticed Xie Zheng’s faint look of surprise. She was dressed in the short working clothes she used specifically for slaughtering, and after wrestling a pig, her loose strands of hair hung in messy wisps across her forehead. She looked disheveled, yet there was a sharp competence—almost a heroic air—about her.

She was busy now, and had no time to dwell on the earlier awkwardness. After a brief pause of surprise, she said to Xie Zheng, “If you’re not in a hurry to return to your room, help me watch the fire on the stove.”

The big pot on the stove held water that would be used to scald the pig’s hair later.

Xie Zheng cast a glance at the makeshift stove and, for once in good temper, went over as told.

Fan Changyu found the wooden basin for collecting blood, picked up the bleeding knife, and killed the pig cleanly with a single stroke. As the blood gushed out, fine drops splattered onto her clothes. Her gaze, fixed coldly on the bleeding wound, was sharp and predatory—like a tiger or leopard watching prey it had already torn apart.

It was a long moment before the killing aura around her finally receded.

When she lifted her head, she saw the man behind the stove watching her with an unreadable expression.

His eyes were always cold and distant, but now they carried an unfathomable depth—like a bottomless ancient well.

Fan Changyu sheathed her knife and gathered her composure. “Did I scare you?” she asked in puzzlement.

Xie Zheng tossed another stick of firewood into the stove. His refined features flickered between light and shadow in the fire’s glow. He seemed to find her question rather amusing—his lips curved lazily.

“Not quite.”

Fan Changyu dragged the slaughtered pig over and glanced at him. “You’d better go inside. Once the boiling water hits the hair, the smell is something fierce.”

Xie Zheng, still seated, didn’t move. “I’ve smelled worse.”

The stench of rotting bodies piled together.

Something about him was strange today.

Fan Changyu decided not to bother further. She poured the boiling water over the pig, soaking its bristles, then began scraping them off.

Xie Zheng sat on a small stool behind the stove, watching her work, his gaze lifting slightly at the corners.

He suddenly thought—she looked more pleasing like this, slaughtering pigs.

He asked, “Did your father teach you martial skills?”

Fan Changyu’s hand paused mid-scrape. After a brief moment, she resumed, replying, “Mm. My father traveled all over escorting caravans, apprenticed under many teachers, and learned a bit of every life-saving skill there was. I just followed along and picked up a few moves.”

Xie Zheng didn’t ask further. He continued watching her scrape the pig’s hair, a trace of languid weariness in his expression—yet his features were strikingly handsome. Even sitting amid the pile of firewood, he was a sight pleasing to the eye.

Before nightfall, Fan Changyu finished dividing up the pork. She set aside a small piece to braise that evening, then evenly rubbed coarse salt over the rest, arranging the pieces neatly—meat side down, skin side up—in a clean stone jar in the courtyard, covering it with a bamboo sieve.

To make cured meat, one must first salt it for seven or eight days before smoking it over cypress branches.

Salt was a precious commodity in most places, yet Qingping County produced fine green salt, so its price here was not expensive—barely over ten coins a catty.

Salt merchants, armed with government permits, transported salt elsewhere to sell it at several times the price. It was said that in some regions, merchants inflated prices so shamelessly that a catty could cost a hundred coins—the common folk there suffered bitterly.

Since the big pot on the stove was still hot and large enough, Fan Changyu took the opportunity to blanch the cleaned pork, bones, and offal.

The pork belly would be used for braised meat and rice that evening. The large bones would serve as the soup base. The offal and pig’s head meat would be sold at the butcher stall the next morning.

After blanching, she fished the meat out with two bamboo baskets, replaced the water with fresh, added spices and seasonings, brought it to a boil, then poured in some of her old master stock and placed the meat and bones back in to simmer.

As the broth boiled again, rich fragrance escaped from the gaps in the pot’s lid.

Fan Changyu had eaten only one baked flatbread at noon and had been working hard all afternoon. Now, just smelling that aroma made her stomach grumble audibly.

Changning sniffed the air and looked up at her pitifully. “Big Sister, I’m hungry…”

The only one who seemed completely unmoved by the scent was Xie Zheng, sitting behind the stove watching the fire with an indifferent face.

Fan Changyu pressed a hand to her stomach, embarrassed. She rose and said, “The meat’s not ready yet—I’ll go fetch a couple of sweet potatoes to roast.”

What she didn’t know was that after she went inside, the man behind the stove, though his face remained impassive, slowly swallowed, his Adam’s apple sliding slightly.

Xie Zheng cast an impatient glance at the steaming pot. Did this thing really need to cook for that long?

Little Changning covered her mouth and giggled. “Brother-in-law, you’re hungry too, aren’t you?”

He didn’t bother with the annoying child. “No,” he said curtly, closing his eyes.

When Fan Changyu returned, she placed two sweet potatoes into the stove ash. Xie Zheng sat on the small stool behind the stove; since his leg was still unhealed, she didn’t ask him to move. Instead, she crouched beside him, using tongs to push the coals over the sweet potatoes.

The stove mouth was square and rather narrow, blocking her view. She had to lean slightly toward him to check whether the sweet potatoes were buried properly.

She leaned in a little too close. Xie Zheng frowned and drew back, but the space was cramped; her hair brushed lightly against his jaw. She didn’t notice, but his face went taut.

She had changed out of her slaughtering clothes. Her garments and hair carried a faint, clean fragrance—likely the handmade scent her mother once concocted, as she had mentioned before.

Where her hair had grazed him, it left a faint coolness, tinged with a soft, ticklish sensation that made him want to scratch.

Xie Zheng frowned slightly, about to speak—but she had already finished burying the sweet potatoes and pulled away.

Seeing that he had leaned aside, Fan Changyu asked awkwardly, “Did I bump into you just now?”

His jaw still tingled faintly where her hair had touched.

Avoiding her gaze, Xie Zheng replied, “No.”

Outside, snow had begun to fall again. Fan Changyu sat on a stool, playing string figures with her younger sister. The sisters’ faces glowed in the firelight; when they laughed, their brows and eyes mirrored each other’s, soft enough to melt the chill of the winter night.

Xie Zheng watched her for a moment, then turned his eyes toward the drifting snow outside.

When a faint sweetness rose amid the rich aroma of meat, Fan Changyu leaned over to Xie Zheng again, using the tongs to dig out the two roasted sweet potatoes.

Their skins were charred gray, and when she gave one a gentle squeeze, it was soft and steaming hot.

She handed one to Xie Zheng, while she and her sister shared the other.

Fan Changyu was fierce by nature—she snapped the sweet potato cleanly in half with one hand, revealing its golden-orange flesh, fine strands of steam curling from the tip. The smell alone was sweet enough to make one’s mouth water.

She handed half to her little sister. The two of them took turns hissing softly as the heat burned their tongues, yet the moment they bit in, the sweetness bloomed even more richly. A smear of char from the roasted skin brushed the corner of Fan Changyu’s lips.

Xie Zheng peeled his sweet potato and took a bite. It was indeed far sweeter than the roasted ones he remembered.

The true highlight of the evening, of course, was the pot of braised meat that had been simmering for over an hour. The pork belly, steeped through with the fragrance of the marinade, was cut into cubes and stir-fried with diced shiitake mushrooms. When the mushrooms’ aroma filled the air, she ladled in a spoonful of the master stock, scooped it all out, and poured it over a bowl of white rice—then topped it with a halved marinated egg.

That night, Xie Zheng ate the fullest meal he’d had since his downfall, and his mood remained unusually good even as he went to bed.

Of course, if the piercing cries of the gyrfalcon hadn’t suddenly erupted from the rooftop, that good mood might have lasted a bit longer.