Shen Miao walked along, observing her surroundings. This version of the Great Song Dynasty had not yet been steeped in the rigid doctrines of Cheng-Zhu Neo-Confucianism, nor was it burdened by the humiliations of national defeat and familial grudges. The status of women remained much the same as during the Tang Dynasty, and married women like her, who made a living in the bustling markets, could freely go out alone without even needing a veil.
The night market near Shen Miao’s home at Jinliang Bridge wasn’t as lively as the one on Maxing Street, but it had everything one could need. She first sought out Old Man Yang, the carpenter Gu Tusu had mentioned, who specialized in doors, windows, tables, and chairs. After stating her purpose, she followed him to his home.
Old Man Yang had been a carpenter for decades, with only a few apprentices to assist him. His courtyard was piled high with various types of wood, while his house was crammed with finished wooden furniture.
Holding a candlestick, Shen Miao pretended to browse his wares, first inquiring about the materials and then the prices. After gauging Old Man Yang’s temperament, she discreetly brushed her fingers over the thick layer of dust coating the furniture.
It seemed the old man hadn’t made a sale in quite some time—hence the backlog of stock.
Once she had picked out the furniture she wanted, Shen Miao immediately began haggling fiercely, driving the price down from 580 coins to just 400, along with three stools, two wooden basins, and a set of wooden bowls thrown in for free.
She ordered three inexpensive poplar wood beds, a walnut wood square table with four matching benches, a double-door two-tiered wardrobe, and a waisted writing desk—all sturdy and practical, with no carvings and only a coat of clear or black lacquer.
She found a mediator, drew up a contract, and paid half upfront, making sure to specify that the furniture would be delivered and assembled the next morning, with a one-year warranty for free repairs.
Old Man Yang’s heart bled at the loss of profit, but he had borrowed money for the wood, and if he didn’t sell soon, the loan-sharking monks from Xingguo Temple would come knocking. Resigned, he reasoned that Shen Miao had bought in bulk and promised future business—so a smaller profit was better than none. Still, as he stamped the contract, he couldn’t help shaking his head in amazement. "Madam, your tongue is sharper than a blade! You could probably talk a dead man back to life!"
Even the mediator chuckled, pointing at the contract. "First time I’ve seen you, you stingy old man, throw in so many freebies and agree to a year’s worth of repairs!" He turned to Old Man Yang. "But it’s a smart move. This lady’s got a sharp mind—you should add this clause to all your sales from now on. You’ll never lack customers again."
Shen Miao grinned. "Exactly! For such a brilliant idea, you ought to knock another twenty coins off."
Old Man Yang nearly jumped out of his skin, waving his hands frantically. "No, no! Any cheaper, and my whole family—me, my three apprentices, even the dog—will be eating nothing but the northwest wind!"
Shen Miao and the mediator burst out laughing.
With beds, dining tables, chairs, a wardrobe, and a desk for Ji Brother’s studies all settled in one go—and at such a bargain—Shen Miao left satisfied.
Next, she strolled across Jinliang Bridge and struck up a conversation with a plump woman selling "fragrant drinks," buying a bowl of tea for two coins while discreetly asking about the market’s regulations.
As expected, stalls here weren’t first-come-first-served. Vendors had to pay rent to the "Street Administration" officers—essentially the city’s enforcers. Unauthorized street vending was punishable by seventy strokes of the cane under the Song Penal Code.
"See those four boundary markers? Stalls and shops can only be set up within their limits. The bridge has its own zones and numbered spots—break the rules, and it’s seventy lashes!" The plump woman shuddered. "And if you leave any waste behind, that’s another sixty lashes!"
She then mentioned the monthly rent—surprisingly cheap. A small stall with just a wheelbarrow or a few baskets cost only ten coins a month, while a larger setup with a thatched awning and poles ran to thirty.
It might sound steep, but commerce thrived in the Song Dynasty. Once rent was paid, no additional taxes were levied on small vendors. Shopkeepers enjoyed lenient rates too—just 2% "transit tax" and 3% "trade tax," totaling around 5%. During famines, grain, iron farm tools, and livestock were tax-exempt.
Of course, salt and iron were state monopolies—ordinary folks couldn’t trade those.
Shen Miao vaguely recalled reading somewhere that during Emperor Renzong’s reign, commercial taxes made up only 12% of the Song Dynasty’s revenue—yet still exceeded 19 million strings of cash. That single tax category alone surpassed the total revenue of the Ming and Qing Dynasties at their peaks.
And that was the same Song Dynasty that paid massive tributes, win or lose, to its enemies.
But the Song Dynasty Shen Miao had transmigrated into was peaceful, prosperous, and free of such humiliating payouts—its people far wealthier!
Armed with this knowledge, Shen Miao thanked the woman and crossed the bridge.
On the other side, she bought three cotton quilts and three sets of coarse cotton bedding from a cotton shop, arranging to pick them up after they were fluffed the next day. She planned to wash and return the bedding Second Brother Gu had lent her—it wouldn’t do to take advantage of his kindness indefinitely.
At the fabric store, she bought two bolts of coarse cloth—one blue with a flowing water pattern, the other yellow with woven flowers—along with some thread and needles to make clothes for Ji Brother and Sister Xiang.
The original owner of her body had been a cherished daughter who’d never done heavy labor, spending most of her time on embroidery when not helping in the shop. Shen Miao wasn’t sure if she could replicate those skills, but the memories of stitching flowers, sewing robes, jackets, shoes, and hats lingered in her mind. She’d give it a try.
Most urgently, after a full day at the Shen household, she’d yet to see any spare clothes for Ji Brother and Sister Xiang. The children hadn’t changed, and their odor was becoming noticeable.
They’d probably been kicked out with nothing but the clothes on their backs.
The thought made Shen Miao furious.
Once the house was settled tomorrow, she’d take a carriage to the outer city and give Uncle Shen a piece of her mind!
With that in mind, she stopped at a pottery shop to order two large water vats, two small clay stoves, two griddles, a round-bellied earthen oven, and stacks of cheap earthenware bowls.
Lastly—and most importantly—she needed a "earth cart." Second Brother Gu had used a single-wheeled version to haul her belongings today. It could be pushed by hand or hitched to livestock, carrying goods or passengers over mountain paths, alleys, and fields with ease.
But Shen Miao wanted to modify one with wheels, a sail, and a sunshade. Single-wheeled carts required too much strength, while double wheels offered better balance. However, after visiting several cartwrights, the quotes were all too steep.
Circling back, she found herself outside Old Man Yang’s house again.
The old man was squatting by his door, planing a fresh piece of wood, shavings scattered all around. When he looked up, the sharp-tongued young woman stood beneath the lantern, grinning at him.
The dim lamplight cast a soft glow on Madam Shen’s face, making her appear as gentle as a lotus standing gracefully in the night breeze.
Yet, for some reason, the plane in his hand made him shiver involuntarily.
After a night of "squandering money like dirt," Shen Miao returned to the Shen household, where the two little ones were already nodding off like pecking chicks. Too frugal to light a lamp, they waited silently in the darkness for her return.
As soon as Shen Miao reached the door, Sister Xiang perked up at the sound of footsteps and cried out joyfully, "This time, it must be Eldest Sister!" Her words drew an unconscious smile to Shen Miao’s lips.
That night, she squeezed onto the makeshift bed formed by several long benches with Ji Brother and Sister Xiang, the three of them sleeping sideways. Shen Miao’s legs dangled in the air, making for an extremely uncomfortable night’s rest.
But after a full day of exhausting work, she still overslept the next morning, only rousing when the sun was already high in the sky—woken by the aroma of steamed buns wafting from the kitchen.
Rubbing her eyes, she sat up. Sister Xiang was still curled against her arm, fast asleep, while Ji Brother crouched by the stove, poking at the firewood with a pair of tongs. Clearly, he had quietly risen earlier to reheat the leftover buns from the night before.
After a hasty breakfast, Old Man Yang arrived surprisingly early with his apprentices, delivering the goods by cart.
Traditionally, setting up beds required an auspicious date, but Shen Miao’s destitute household couldn’t afford to wait.
Just how dilapidated was the Shen residence? When Old Man Yang followed the address she had given, the sight of the charred, collapsed ruins left him too stunned to enter. He lingered at the doorway for a long while before cautiously poking his head in to ask, "Is… is this Madam Shen’s home?"
Shen Miao stepped out to greet him, and both Old Man Yang and his apprentices regarded her with unmistakable pity.
Pretending not to notice, she calmly directed them to place the three beds in the front shop where the roof was still intact, each bed flush against the wall. Ji Brother would sleep on the innermost bed, Sister Xiang on the middle one, and she would take the outermost, with a curtain hung to separate Ji Brother’s space.
The writing desk was placed beside Ji Brother’s bed for his future studies.
The dining table, benches, and cupboard were arranged in the kitchen.
For now, they would make do. Once she earned enough to rebuild the burned-down rooms at the back, they could sleep separately and no longer live in such cramped conditions.
Fortunately, Ji Brother was still young. In her past life, Shen Miao had many cousins, and during holidays back in their hometown, when space was tight, her grandfather would often push beds together to create a large communal sleeping area—though, of course, the siblings would never settle down quietly, sneaking downstairs to steal Grandma’s marinated duck feet or staying up all night playing card games like Fight the Landlord or Werewolf under the covers.
After inspecting the delivered beds, tables, and chairs, Shen Miao promptly settled the bill with Old Man Yang. As she saw them off, she smiled and asked, "About the cart we discussed yesterday—have you given it any thought? Can it be done?"
Old Man Yang smacked his lips. "Three hundred coppers, and I’ll make it for you!"
Shen Miao narrowed her eyes. "Two hundred! I’ll buy the canopy myself!"
Old Man Yang held up five fingers. "Two hundred eighty, with the canopy included! Not a coin less!"
"Let’s meet halfway—two hundred thirty!"
