Xie Qi shook his head: "It would be improper to inquire about a lady's whereabouts when we've never even met."
Yan Shu tilted his head, then suddenly pointed at Xie Qi's shoe—still bearing the imprint of a footprint—and laughed. "Ninth Brother, how can you say you've never met? That lady stepped on you just this morning!"
Xie Qi froze. Was she the young woman at the boiler room when they fetched water?
Earlier that morning, he had taken Yan Shu to the boiler room. The place was crowded, and since Yan Shu was small and young, Xie Qi had told him to wait aside while he went to fetch the water himself, lest the boy get jostled and fall into the boiling vat. That was when the woman behind him had accidentally stepped on his foot.
Now Xie Qi recalled her appearance. She was dressed as a married woman, her attire simple and unadorned, her face slightly pale with fatigue. Yet she had a pair of peach-blossom eyes—clear, shimmering like autumn water—so striking that even her plain clothes couldn’t dull their charm.
He had glanced at her only once before looking away. What kind of man would stare at a woman in public?
A woman’s reputation was paramount, and besides, he himself was soon to be wed. For both their sakes, he had to be mindful of propriety. The thought of indulging his curiosity at the risk of impropriety made him uneasy, so he sternly instructed Yan Shu: "Men and women must maintain proper boundaries. Don’t ask anything more. Just return the items and express your thanks—that’s all."
Yan Shu could only pout in reluctant agreement.
The thought of never tasting such delicious food again made Yan Shu’s heart ache as if squeezed by an invisible hand. When Xie Qi went out later to fetch hot water for their evening wash, the boy’s eyes and nose turned red with sorrow. After cleaning the earthenware pot, bowls, and chopsticks, and wiping down the table and stools, he clutched the pot and knocked on Shen Miao’s door, nearly in tears.
Shen Miao couldn’t help but laugh at the child’s dramatic, grief-stricken expression, as though they were parting forever. After asking a few questions, she finally understood the reason and found it both amusing and touching.
"Ninth Brother says women must be careful outside, that reputation is no small matter—gossip can drown a person. He forbids me from asking more, but… but I really want to eat your hand-pulled noodles again! And that eggplant rice—I only smelled it and never even got to taste it… Waaah…!"
The tears finally spilled over.
Suppressing a smile, Shen Miao crouched down and wiped Yan Shu’s tears with her handkerchief. "Your Ninth Brother is a gentleman, so he has such concerns. But I wasn’t raised in a noble household and don’t abide by those rules. If you’d like to eat my cooking, just come to Shen’s Noodle Shop on Willow East Lane by the Golden Beam Bridge. I run a food stall—my doors are open for business, so there’s nothing improper about asking."
Yan Shu’s tears stopped instantly, his eyes gleaming. "Really?"
"Of course. But my shop suffered a fire recently and isn’t fully repaired yet. Hmm… I might set up a temporary stall on the bridge first. If you and your Ninth Brother don’t mind my humble cooking, you’re welcome to visit." Shen Miao smiled warmly, her earlier wariness gone as she freely shared her plans and address.
She was going into business, after all—why hide it? Securing a couple of customers before opening, especially ones who might spread the word, was a stroke of luck.
Besides, after this encounter, Shen Miao was eighty percent certain this "Ninth Brother" sounded no different from those earnest, bright-eyed college students from her time—a prime customer. No harm done.
The canal boat slowed further by midnight, the clamor outside growing louder. With little else to do onboard and no desire to wander, Shen Miao went to bed early and slept soundly.
When she awoke, bundled in blankets, she noticed through the cabin’s small window that the endless river had given way to a bustling dock.
They must have reached Chenzhou, a major canal hub not far from the capital.
After Chenzhou, five or six more days on the boat would bring them to Caizhou, where they’d switch to a carriage. Another two days’ travel, and the towering southern gates of Kaifeng would come into view.
The ship had just docked. Half-submerged in water, teams of trackers hauled the vessel with loud, rhythmic shouts. Watching them, Shen Miao couldn’t fall back asleep, so she got up.
In a busy port town like Chenzhou, the bustle never ceased. Even before dawn, countless lanterns hung high over the dock, illuminating a ceaseless flow of boats and people.
As she pinned up her hair, she studied the crowd outside—porters hauling sacks, peddlers hawking goods, donkey carts loaded with charcoal and firewood. The charcoal sellers formed long queues before each ship’s captain, hoping to sell their wares to vessels restocking at the dock.
Watching them, the lingering gloom in Shen Miao’s heart dissipated. How could she not feel longing, fear, or resentment after crossing into an era far less advanced than her own? But like these laborers, she simply wanted to live—to survive, no matter what.
She rummaged through her trunk for her boar-bristle toothbrush and bamboo-salt tooth powder, ready to wash up.
When she first arrived in the Song Dynasty, she’d been surprised to learn that TV dramas had lied—people here didn’t just chew on twigs or rub their teeth with wood. Toothbrush shops and tooth-powder vendors were everywhere, and the brushes looked remarkably modern: wooden handles with two rows of bristles, though these were coarser.
Of course, fancier versions existed—handles carved from jade or ivory, inlaid with gems, their bristles finer. But the design was nearly identical; only the materials differed.
It made sense. These people weren’t primitive. If they could craft intricate artifacts, why not a simple toothbrush? It wasn’t expensive.
Shen Miao scooped a spoonful of tooth powder onto her teeth before brushing. Hers was the cheapest kind—bamboo salt, pine resin, and poria cocos dried, ground, and sifted into a fine powder.
She’d heard the wealthy used tooth paste made from ambergris, frankincense, sandalwood, and spikenard, mixed with honey into a paste and stored in porcelain jars—convenient, like modern toothpaste, but exorbitantly priced.
Shen Miao wasn’t picky. The cheap powder worked fine. She brushed thoroughly, inside and out, twice over. In ancient times, teeth and eyes were treasures—if she grew nearsighted, she’d never afford hand-polished crystal spectacles, and a cavity would be worse. Root canals under pre-modern medicine? No, thank you.
After washing up, she stepped out to toss the dirty water—only to find a cloth pouch on the ground. Inside were several half-ripe crabapples and a slip of paper with elegant, flowing calligraphy in the style of Zhong Yao.
The handwriting was exquisite!
The original owner of this body had been illiterate, but Shen Miao wasn’t. Though the text was vertical and in traditional characters, she’d studied calligraphy as a child under her grandfather. Zhong Yao and Zhao Mengfu were her favorites—though her own skills were mediocre at best.
Yet at this moment, identifying it proved no great difficulty.
The words written upon it were gentle and considerate:
"To Lady Shen,
Last evening’s meal was indescribably delightful—each taste upon the tongue a marvel. Yet to my shame, childish words escaped me, causing offense. In apology, I offer these crabapples as a humble token. Though small, I hope you will accept them to ease my regret.
—Respectfully, Xie Qi
Written aboard the boat, the ninth day of the fourth month, Baoyuan Year Three"
The corridor outside the cabin was pitch black, the faint outlines of servants sleeping in their clothes before their doors barely visible. The sound of snoring rose and fell in waves, and for now, no one stirred for a nighttime relief. Only the door to the room next door, where Yan Shu had stayed, stood ajar. Shen Miao peeked inside—the space had been tidied thoroughly, with no trace of its former occupant.
No doubt, to hasten their journey, Yan Shu and his servant had already disembarked.
The wooden planks beneath her feet swayed slightly with the river’s current, the surroundings hushed. Fortunately, Shen Miao had risen early; had she not, this bag of crabapples left outside her door might well have been pilfered by now.
Drawing back, she leaned against the doorframe and read the note once more by the flickering, indistinct light of the dockside lanterns. The words were refined and courteous, filling her with quiet amusement. Smiling to herself, she picked up the bag of fruit and retreated into her room, closing the door behind her.
