After stamping the claw print, Fan Changyu wiped the ink off the bird’s foot with a damp cloth and said to Changning, “Take it back.”

Delighted, Changning carried the gyrfalcon back to the main hall and returned it to the chicken cage.

Fan Changyu then went to the kitchen to fetch the leftover rice paste from lunch. She first pasted up the couplet that the three of them—and the bird—had completed together on the doorframe of the main hall, then took the rice paste outside to post the “Endure, and Spring is born” couplet.

When the elderly couple of the Zhao family heard that Xie Zheng had written a couplet for them too, they came out to see as Fan Changyu helped paste it up, their faces beaming with joy.

Other neighbors passing through the alley saw it and said curiously, “Changyu, your husband can write couplets too?”

Aunt Zhao had never wanted others to look down on Fan Changyu because of Song Yan’s affair, so upon hearing that, she immediately replied, “But of course! That young man’s a learned one—just look at his handwriting! It’s even better than the couplets sold at the market!”

In a small town like this, being able to read and write a few characters already made one a person of some talent. Even if one didn’t pass the provincial exams, just earning the rank of tongsheng meant having a far higher standing when it came to marriage.

The woman nodded repeatedly.

“It’s no worse than the ones Song Yan used to write for everyone in past years. Changyu surely knows how to choose a husband!”

She then turned to Fan Changyu with a grin.

“Let your husband write a pair for your auntie too, won’t you?”

In past New Years, Song Yan would set up a stall at the market to write couplets for extra money. When neighbors in the alley asked him to write theirs, he never charged them—so long as they brought their own red paper. Still, most people would bring him small gifts in return.

Now that Song Yan’s family had moved away, finding someone to write couplets cost over ten copper coins, and even store-bought ones weren’t cheap. Many households in the alley hadn’t prepared any couplets this year.

Fan Changyu thought of Xie Zheng’s notoriously bad temper and declined tactfully.

“Sorry, Auntie, but we don’t have any extra red paper at home.”

The woman said at once, “Auntie’s got some left from last year!”

At some point, Xie Zheng appeared at the doorway. The woman saw him and called out cheerfully,

“Changyu’s husband, could you spare a moment to write a pair of couplets for Auntie?”

Changyu’s husband? What kind of title is that?

Fan Changyu, afraid that his sharp tongue might produce something cutting, was about to refuse on his behalf—but then heard him say, “Bring the paper.”

Fan Changyu was caught off guard. The woman, however, was overjoyed, quickly saying, “Wait right here! Auntie will fetch it now!”

As though terrified that Xie Zheng might change his mind the next instant.

Fan Changyu, realizing he had agreed probably out of consideration for her, couldn’t help but say once she followed him back into the courtyard, “If you really don’t want to, you don’t have to force yourself.”

Xie Zheng looked up coolly.

“When did I say I didn’t want to?”

Fan Changyu: “…”

Wasn’t this the same man who said he wouldn’t paint anything that didn’t please him?

Fine then—painting was painting. Writing a few characters didn’t count. She had simply overthought it.

Before long, that auntie returned with her red paper—but not alone. Several other women and old ladies followed behind her, all carrying sheets of red paper as well.

When Fan Changyu’s visitors saw her, every one of them greeted her with cheerful smiles.

“We heard your husband is writing Spring Festival couplets, Changyu. None of us have ours written yet this year, so we came shamelessly together.”

They all knew that brush, ink, and paper were costly, so of course, they didn’t come empty-handed. One who had just made tofu brought a bowl of it; another who had made puffed rice candy wrapped a few pieces and handed them to Changning to snack on as soon as they entered.

Fan Changyu looked at the people bringing gifts—she couldn’t exactly refuse them, nor could she speak for Xie Zheng. She could only turn toward him.

He had already moved the inkstone and brushes from the south room to the main hall. Meeting her gaze, he said evenly, “Ladies, please have a seat first.”

That counted as an agreement. So Fan Changyu invited everyone to sit by the fire pit to warm themselves.

Xie Zheng didn’t write immediately. He would first ask each person what kind of message they wanted in their couplet, then begin writing.

In the tranquil flow of his brush, his bearing was calm and composed.

An old granny who lived at the end of the alley came for her couplet, but she couldn’t quite express what sort of blessing she wanted. Her dialect was thick, her speech halting and rambling.

Yet Xie Zheng showed no hint of impatience. To catch her words clearly, he even bent slightly, tilting his head to listen carefully.

Fan Changyu, sitting by the fire pit, was a little surprised by the sight. In her impression, his temper was always poor and his pride high—she hadn’t expected him to have such a gentle side.

After finishing the couplet, he read it aloud for the old woman and explained the meaning behind the words. The granny nodded again and again, smiling until all the wrinkles on her face unfolded.

Fan Changyu propped her chin on one hand, watching, and somehow found herself smiling too.

Just then, Xie Zheng looked up—and their eyes met.

Fan Changyu’s heart gave a sudden thump. Her smile froze, and she quickly turned her head toward the fire.

Word soon spread that Xie Zheng was helping to write couplets. One told ten, ten told a hundred, and soon nearly half the alley came knocking. By the time the crowd thinned, it was almost dusk. The snacks and homemade food the neighbors had brought as thanks now filled the entire table.

When Xie Zheng finally sat down beside the fire pit, Fan Changyu noticed him rubbing his wrist quietly and teased, “Your hand’s sore, isn’t it?”

Xie Zheng only said, “It’s fine.”

Fan Changyu gave a soft huff inwardly. So stubborn.

As the sky darkened, she lit the large red lanterns, intending to hang them in the courtyard.

In past years, her father had always done this task. She didn’t have much experience—she had found a bamboo pole, but it was too short, and she couldn’t reach.

“Ning-niang,” she called, “bring me a stool.”

Changning, sitting at the doorway with a piece of puffed rice candy, was breaking it into crumbs and scattering them at her feet so the gyrfalcon could peck at them. Hearing her sister’s voice, she turned and shouted toward the room, “Brother-in-law, help Big Sister move a stool and hang the lantern!”

Fan Changyu was just about to remark that this child was getting bossier by the day when she saw Xie Zheng already stepping out from the house.

He wasn’t carrying a stool. Instead, he came close and, quite naturally, took the bamboo pole from her hand—his palm brushing lightly across the back of hers. It was the same effortless motion as when he’d guided her through a move in the pine forest, except this time the clean, cool scent he carried had a faint note of dried tangerine candy.

“All done.”

He hung the lantern under the eaves, then stepped back, and that scent drifted away with him.

Fan Changyu felt a strange discomfort all over and managed a dry, “Thank you.”

Dinner consisted of the leftover stewed pork trotters from noon, along with several homemade New Year’s dishes the neighbors had brought. Fan Changyu reheated a few, then set a small pot above the fire pit, slicing fresh meat, tofu, and bamboo shoots, adding a plate of marinated offal. Into a bowl of thinly sliced pork liver, she cracked an egg, stirred it, and swished the mixture in the broth to cook it right at the table.

This was a hotpot dish Fan Changyu had learned about during the few days she’d helped prepare braised meats at the Yixiang Tower.

She had often seen diners there ordering this pot, and her curiosity got the better of her. When she asked what it was, Chef Li told her it was a specialty invented by Manager Yu himself. Other taverns served similar fare, but none could compare to the flavor of Yixiang Tower’s version.

Since the restaurant closed for New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day, Manager Yu had given her several blocks of the solidified red-oil base they used, so she could take them home for the holiday.

Fan Changyu had no idea how that red-oil base was made; inside were peppercorns, bay leaves, star anise, and all manner of spices. When boiled in water, it turned into a bright-red broth—better tasting than even the mao xue wang she’d cooked last time.

It was, however, quite spicy. Changning both craved and feared it; by the end, her lips were swollen from the heat.

Fan Changyu also found the flavor domineering—too spicy to bear—so she fetched a jar of sake and poured everyone a cup, only to remember that Xie Zheng was still recovering from his injury.

She took back the cup placed before him and set it in front of herself.

“I forgot—you’re wounded, you can’t drink.”

Catching the scent of the alcohol, Xie Zheng could tell it was mild.

“Sake won’t hurt.”

Fan Changyu ignored him and poured him a cup of warm tea instead.

“The doctor said no wine until you’re fully healed.”

Changning stared longingly at the cup in front of Fan Changyu.

“Ning-niang wants some too.”

Fan Changyu poured her a cup of warm tea.

“Children can’t drink. You drink tea with your brother-in-law.”

Xie Zheng: “…”

The hotpot was addictively spicy; the more they ate, the harder it was to stop. By the end, Fan Changyu was drinking sake almost like water.

Her lips burned; when she reached for more, she realized, to her shock, that half the jar was gone.

“How did I drink this much…” she murmured, then comforted herself, “It’s fine—this kind of wine doesn’t get people drunk.”

Her face was already tinged pink, but Xie Zheng and Changning were flushed from the spiciness too.

Not knowing her tolerance, Xie Zheng assumed she could hold her liquor—after all, she drank so boldly—and couldn’t tell whether the red in her cheeks came from the spice, the alcohol, or both.

He pushed the teapot toward her.

“Drink some tea to sober up.”

Fan Changyu’s thoughts had gone sluggish; after mulling it over for a while, she came to the conclusion that—was he teasing her for having a low tolerance?

Stubbornly, she poured herself another cup of sake and said with a frown, “My alcohol tolerance is great! My father can drink a whole jar of burning-knife liquor, and I can handle half. This little sake is nothing!”

Xie Zheng watched as she tipped the cup back and drained it, her apricot eyes growing drowsier until finally her head drooped and she fell asleep on the low table.

Xie Zheng: “…”

The little one had also dozed off, clutching the red envelope her sister had given her, her breathing soft and even.

On New Year’s Eve, of all the household, only Xie Zheng remained awake.

The lantern under the eaves cast a warm glow over the drifting snow; from distant lanes came the crackling of someone’s firecrackers.

He turned his gaze toward the woman sleeping soundly on the low table. Her face, lit by the firelight, was rosy and tender; just looking at her, one could almost feel how warm and soft she must be to the touch.

He watched in silence for a while, then averted his eyes, picked up the wine jar, poured himself a cup, bent one leg, rested an arm on his knee, and drank slowly—his posture unhurried—as he looked out at the snowy scene beyond the door.

Perhaps it was because of the fire’s warmth, or perhaps the soft glow of the lantern beneath the eaves—but at that moment, an unfamiliar tranquility settled in his heart.

Sixteen years after the Battle of Jinzhou, he finally remembered—So this is what it means to spend the New Year.

Half a jar of wine went down his throat, one sip after another, yet there was not the slightest trace of drunkenness in his eyes.

At midnight, fireworks bloomed over the town. He turned toward the woman sleeping at the other end of the low table—she stirred faintly at the sound, murmured something in her sleep, and drifted off again.

In a quiet voice, he said, “Happy New Year.”