Pei Ruozhu stood with her large belly, her voice soft and her manner composed, yet there was a boldness and resolve unmistakable in her words.

Once, those who had entered the palace to serve the noble ladies had to read their mistresses’ moods and follow their every whim — and that was one thing. But to endure a thousand hardships only to emerge still diminished — who could accept that?

Unlike within the palace walls, where cold pillows made for sleepless nights, where clothing and food were lacking in comfort, and where one dragged out the remainder of one’s years in quiet survival.

With no one to rely on in old age after leaving the palace, that was why they had retreated step by step, forgetting their own skills and pride.

Two more female officials walked slowly to Pei Ruozhu’s side — the two oldest among them, both past fifty. Before leaving the palace, these two had donated incense money to a nunnery for over a decade in exchange for a single meditation room. Their circumstances were somewhat better than the others, yet who could say what things would look like five or eight years hence?

It was better to make plans early.

The remaining women wavered, still weighing their options.

Seeing this, Pei Ruozhu continued: “Sisters, rest assured — we all came from the palace, and I sought each of you out deliberately, out of respect for the skills you carry. To cast them aside would be a true waste. I give you my word: no bondage, no contracts of servitude. Only an employment agreement, the same as any tavern or shop hiring a head steward or bookkeeper. I will never let any of you lose face or reputation.”

To pay people for their work, and let them receive what they earn.

A few more glimmers of hope appeared in the women’s eyes, and two or three began quietly discussing among themselves.

Every unpleasant memory from after leaving the palace now urged them toward a decision — on ordinary days, when one had carefully poured one’s heart into preparing a fine delicacy, only to be scolded by a husband for wasting flour and grain, for not understanding the hardships of farming life; or when one had remarried as a second wife to an aging husband, and every winter brought the dread that after his passing, his sons might drive one out the door; or when the urge to compose a small poem came, and after much effort a brush was found, only to discover there was not a scrap of paper or a drop of ink to be found in the whole house…

Little by little, all of it wore them down.

“Madam, if you hire us, what would you have us do?” someone asked.

“Many things.” Pei Ruozhu listed them one by one. “The Six Departments and Twenty-Four Offices — no matter what post any of you once held in the palace, you may put your strengths to use here. Those skilled in garden cultivation will study the growing of cotton plants, recording when to pinch off the shoots, when to fertilize, and when to harvest the bolls, and then teach those methods to the cotton-farming households. Those skilled in clothing and jewelry will study spinning and weaving — calculating how many jin of cotton yield how many chi of cloth, or designing patterns for woven brocade. Those skilled in keeping records and documents will naturally handle the writing and accounting, from cotton collection to finished cloth to sales at the textile shop — bookkeepers are indispensable at every step. Those skilled in managing provisions and wages will serve as the accountants, disbursing monthly pay to everyone… In short, all of you are literate, and there is a place for every one of you in this workshop.”

Garden cultivation, clothing and jewelry, record-keeping… The terms Pei Ruozhu used were all drawn from former palace duties, which made them feel a little more familiar to everyone present.

“I am willing to sign an agreement with Madam.” Someone hesitated no longer, and made her decision.

The others followed, one after another walking to Pei Ruozhu’s side, until only a few timid women remained, heads bowed and silent. Perhaps they had been so harshly disciplined at home that fear gripped them tightly, and they dared not make a decision on their own.

Pei Ruozhu did not press them. Instead she said gently: “Sisters, you may go home and think it over. Whether or not you ultimately come to work at the cotton textile workshop makes no difference. I only ask that you remember one thing: the Earl’s residence has several advisors well-versed in legal matters. Whenever you find yourself in need, come and find me.”

In the end, eighteen women agreed to join Pei Ruozhu — already more than she had anticipated. She said to them: “I ask that you all go home and make your arrangements. In three days we will sign the agreements. I will bring everyone out to the estate first to become familiar with cotton and cotton cloth. Once spring arrives next year, the busy season begins.”

“We will follow Madam’s instructions.”

Someone said: “Since we are working for Madam, Madam need not call us ‘sister’ anymore — just call us by our surname, Xu Niang or Meng Niang.”

Pei Ruozhu smiled and replied: “Very well. Once the cotton textile workshop is established, we shall use titles of position.” Surname paired with position — it would be more formal and proper.

This gave everyone a few moments of pleasant imagination and anticipation.

After everyone departed, Qiao Yunsheng entered through the front gate and slowly helped Zhu Jie’er sit down, asking with concern whether she had tired herself out.

Pei Ruozhu shook her head. Her expression was grave, tinged with a trace of apology, and she said: “Yunsheng, hiring women to work in the textile workshop may well bring a good deal of impeachment and criticism upon the Nanping Earl’s residence.”

“Madam, proceed boldly and do not worry about that.” Qiao Yunsheng was entirely unconcerned, and added with a smile: “No matter how much they impeach or criticize — what of it? The Earl’s residence still has an iron-scrolled edict of hereditary privilege.” The Iron Scroll Edict could protect their lives, so their lives were always secure.

Pei Ruozhu’s belly gave two small movements, and she let out a soft sound — the child had kicked her twice from within.

“You see, even the child agrees with what I said.” Qiao Yunsheng remarked, his eyes holding nothing but Zhu Jie’er and the child.

Those who lose both parents early may grow cold and gloomy, or they may come to cherish their family, wife, and children all the more deeply. Qiao Yunsheng was very much the latter.

The year’s first snow came late, and on the tips of the plum branches, fragrance had already begun to bloom.

In the early days of winter, Pei Ruozhu went into labor. Because the midwife had felt, earlier on, that the baby’s position was slightly off, the entire Pei household was exceedingly anxious, worried for Zhu Jie’er.

Fortunately, the midwife was experienced enough, Zhu Jie’er was steady and calm by nature, and all preparations had been made thoroughly. Two hours after Zhu Jie’er entered the delivery room, a loud infant’s cry rang out — she had given birth to an heir for the Nanping Earl’s residence, weighing six jin and eight liang.

Though she had endured much hardship throughout, the outcome was ultimately a fright with a fortunate end, and all went smoothly. The midwife praised the heir’s robust cry, and then praised Pei Ruozhu for her steady composure and strength during the delivery.

Once everything was cleaned and settled, Qiao Yunsheng came hurrying through the door to the bedside. His eyes were a little red. He smoothed the damp hair from Zhu Jie’er’s forehead, and for a long while could not find the words to speak.

Zhu Jie’er said weakly: “I am fine — I have only used up all my strength and am a little tired.” She added: “Quickly send word to Younger Brother and the others, so they need not go on worrying.”

“I understand.” Qiao Yunsheng replied.

When the Pei family received the news, the hearts that had been suspended in worry finally settled to rest.

By year’s end, the government offices were weighted down with accumulated affairs. Pei Shaohuai rushed back and forth between the Hanlin Academy and the Six Offices, busier than most, and it was not until the sky had gone fully dark that he would finally emerge from the offices and ride his carriage home.

After more than a month of such busyness — during which the Six Ministries and Nine Offices had all reported their year’s major affairs to the Emperor — things at last grew somewhat easier.

On this day, Pei Shaohuai had a day off, and only then did he notice that while he had been occupied all this time, Yang Shiyue had not been idle either. The small courtyard in the northwest corner of the Earl’s residence, which had previously sat unused, had been swept and tidied spotlessly clean. Inside the rooms stood looms and weaving instruments collected from various places — large and small, simple and elaborate.

The largest loom stood as tall as a building; the smallest was compact enough to hang at the waist and be carried on one’s person. The former was a grand flower-loom for Yunjin brocade; the latter was the farmer’s backstrap loom.

In addition to the looms, Yang Shiyue had also gathered numerous spinning instruments: there was the large spinning wheel used for silk in Jiangnan, large in size and fast in output; and a foot-pedal five-spindle hemp spinning wheel, which, with five spindles turning simultaneously, could spin five strands of hemp thread at once. Both of these spinning technologies were already highly refined in the Da Qing dynasty.

The wooden instruments gave off a faint smell of dust, lending them a rustic, antique quality, and Pei Shaohuai felt as though he had walked into a textile museum.

It seemed that Yang Shiyue had truly taken her husband’s words to heart, and acted on them, intending to study seriously the art of weaving — warp and weft, vertical and horizontal.

During this period, Yang Shiyue had consulted many weavers and already learned the purpose and method of each instrument. When she introduced them to Pei Shaohuai, her words came in an unbroken stream. Pointing to the largest of the machines, she said: “Among all these, the grandest and most complex is the grand flower-loom for Yunjin brocade. To weave patterns onto the silk, two people must work in coordination — one sits up in the flower-loft to lift and arrange the heddles, while the other sits before the loft to pass the weft thread through. The more intricate the pattern, the more times the heddles must be lifted; after every two or three passes of the shuttle, the arrangement of the warp threads must be changed, making the whole process enormously time-consuming and laborious.”

She went on: “It takes two people a full month just to produce a single bolt of cloud-patterned brocade cloth. This loom may still be profitable for weaving silk brocade, but for cotton cloth, it would hardly be worthwhile.”

Pei Shaohuai raised his head and looked up at the grand flower-loom, grasping roughly how it operated — by altering the positions of warp threads of different colors and weaving section by section, patterns would gradually appear on the cloth.

Inwardly, he felt a quiet admiration: this instrument had first appeared during the Han dynasty and flourished in the Tang, and yet a thousand years later, this simple yet ingenious method — continually refined — was still in use in later generations and in the modern world. Descendants had only improved upon it, while upholding its original principle.

This was wisdom that had endured through the ages.

If the goal was to weave faster, this loom was indeed unsuitable — but if the goal was to preserve a craft, with all its technique and artistry, it held an inexpressible value.

Pei Shaohuai said: “It is indeed too slow. Yet since the world has both those who seek speed and those who seek beauty, why not simply keep it for now? In idle moments hereafter, one may still continue studying it.”

The two moved on to look at the other instruments.

By comparison, the backstrap loom seemed far too simple — one merely strapped it to one’s waist, sat down, and began weaving. But because the loom lacked sufficient tension, the cloth it produced was often loose and sparse, fit only to be sold as lower-grade fabric.

For all its shortcomings, the backstrap loom was by far the most widely used. The reason was simple: farming women had to go out to work in the fields and toil over the whole family’s daily needs, and could rarely remain indoors at all hours. If they wished to weave cloth to earn a little extra, they had no choice but to find something portable — something that could be set up and used anywhere, whenever a moment was found to sit down.

Thinking of it in this way, it was truly a hard life.

Setting aside the grand flower-loom and the backstrap loom, what remained were the tabletop looms, which varied somewhat in style from region to region but all shared the same basic principle. By pressing a foot pedal, the warp threads were interlaced alternately up and down; the weaver sat at the loom and passed the weft thread from side to side by hand, then beat it firm with a batten — repeating this action over and over.

Plain cloth produced in this way was more compact and sturdy.

Yang Shiyue said: “If we are to improve the loom, this tabletop loom is where we should begin… And yet, I have studied it for quite some time now, and I always feel at a loss for where to start. One press of the pedal, one pass of the shuttle, one beat of the batten — each step follows the last in fixed order, and then one simply repeats the same sequence.”

Unable to identify the key, Yang Shiyue wore a look of mild frustration. As she spoke, she sat down and began pressing the pedal, passing the shuttle, weaving — wanting to try again.

Pei Shaohuai, in truth, already had a plan in mind, but seeing how earnestly his wife was engaged with this, he felt it would not do to simply state it outright — doing so might dampen her enthusiasm and erase the effort she had put in during all this time.

He thought for a moment, then decided to offer a gentle hint. He said: “Rather than approaching it that way, what if you think of it like this: since the goal is to weave faster, the first step is naturally to identify which step in the process takes up the most time. If that step could be shortened, the weaving would naturally become faster as a whole.” He paused, then added: “And if the step that takes the most time could somehow be completed as swiftly as the step that takes the least — with just one press and one lift — the speed of weaving could increase several times over.”

“The most time-consuming, the least time-consuming…” Yang Shiyue muttered as she worked, repeating the words to herself several times. Then, as if struck by sudden clarity, she noticed what mattered, and said with delight: “The warp threads are strung through the heddles, and their interlacing up and down is the quickest step. The wooden shuttle passed from side to side through the weft thread, hands alternating left and right — that is the most time-consuming step. So… I should study carefully how to pass the shuttle as quickly as possible.”