Winter nights were long and cold. At the fourth watch, the nanny outside gave a few soft knocks on the door and lit the lantern hanging under the eaves.

From the direction of the kitchen, a faint bustle of sound could be heard.

Pei Shaohuai woke at his usual time. Moving quietly, he lifted the bed curtain and, by the faint light, saw that his wife was still sleeping soundly. He let the curtain fall back into place, then lit the candle inside the room.

He stretched his limbs a little. A trace of drowsiness still lingered — the night before had gone on rather late.

The nanny brought hot water for washing up. Pei Shaohuai said in a low voice: “Bring it to the side room.” So as not to wake his wife.

The reigning Emperor was diligent in governance and held court every three days. Today was a court day. Pei Shaohuai, as a speech official of the Six Offices, had to be waiting outside the palace gate before the hour of Mao. A censor on duty would be recording attendance — being late was not permitted — which was why he rose so early.

Half an hour later, Yang Shiyue felt the warm presence beside her disappear and, rubbing her eyes, she woke to find her husband already fully dressed in his official robes, needing only to don his black gauze hat.

“You have overslept. Why did you not call for me?” she said.

Pei Shaohuai heard her and turned around. He walked to the bedside, tucked the blankets back around her, and did not let her get up or get out of bed. He said: “It is still early, and it is cold outside. Sleep a little longer, my wife.”

Yang Shiyue leaned against her husband’s shoulder, and the young couple stayed a little while together before parting.

Before the Hall of Supreme Harmony, civil and military officials assembled for the morning court.

There was nothing of great consequence at court that day — mostly the principal officials of the Six Ministries and Nine Offices reporting on the progress of administrative affairs. In less than half an hour the session concluded, and the officials returned to their respective offices to attend to public business.

While reviewing documents at the Office of Works, Pei Shaohuai noticed a Ministry of Revenue document stating that the Supervising Office of Ship Taxes at the Taicang commercial shipping dock had finished calculating this year’s maritime duties, and that after the spring the Zhenhae Guard would escort the funds back to the capital to be deposited into the national treasury.

Because of its confidential nature, the document did not state the total amount of ship taxes collected for the year.

Pei Shaohuai estimated in his own mind: when he had left Taicang two years ago, over a thousand merchant vessels had been entering Taicang harbor to unload cargo in the summer months alone. Two years on — with merchants passing word from ten to a hundred — the number of ships choosing to dock at Taicang this year had likely doubled, or more.

Setting aside whatever cargo the ships carried, calculating the water tax on the vessels alone, each ship paid between thirty and fifty taels.

By this reckoning, Taicang’s ship tax revenues for this year were no small sum — nearly comparable to the annual silk and cloth tax of the entire Taihu region.

Thinking on this, Pei Shaohuai felt considerably more confidence about submitting his memorial to accelerate the pilot program and abolish the maritime ban.

It had to be done.

From the twelfth month through the days before the New Year, Pei Shaohuai spent his time quietly preparing his memorial. First, he had to think through his arguments carefully so he could hold his own against the objections of other officials; second, he inevitably needed to find certain allies and supporters to stand behind him — for it was always difficult for a single voice to prevail against many.

During this period, Pei Shaohuai also visited the Nanping Earl’s residence twice. His third elder sister had recently given birth and was gradually recovering — she could not overexert herself — but the skilled craftspeople and artisans she had hired were far from idle.

They had converted the old outbuildings of the estate into a cotton textile workshop, and during the winter agricultural off-season, they split up and traveled to the various counties surrounding the capital, negotiating with village headmen and local officials to encourage farming households to plant cotton on their hillside plots.

The matter was not proceeding very smoothly.

Although the textile workshop was willing to sign contracts promising to purchase the full cotton harvest in the autumn at favorable prices, the farming households had never encountered such a crop before and harbored doubts, fearing they might toil all year and end up with nothing to show for it. As a result, very few were willing to put their mark on a contract.

After all, a hillside mu that could not easily be irrigated might not yield grain, but planting sorghum or cowpeas at least kept food on the table.

Not a cun of earth could be wasted.

When Pei Shaohuai learned of this, he said: “The more people live by a single ration of grain, the more cautiously they act — afraid of losing the smallest thing. It is only natural that the farming families are unwilling to sign. Every beginning is difficult. If Third Sister and Brother-in-law wish to make this work, it will be necessary first to reach an understanding with the local county offices, and then to make some concessions to the farming households.”

Once the first year succeeded and the farming families saw the benefit, the second and third years would go more smoothly.

Zhu Jie’er understood at once and immediately changed her approach.

She first used the voice of gentry, headmen, and village officials to let farming households know what cotton was — what the minimum yield per mu on hillside land might be — and then prepaid a small sum of copper coins per mu so that no one need worry about walking away with nothing at year’s end.

To make the cotton textile workshop succeed, Zhu Jie’er was willing to forgo short-term gains for now.

As expected, bold farming households gradually came forward to put their marks on contracts — some to plant three or five mu of cotton on their own hillside plots, others to break new ground and try, neither disrupting the household’s main annual harvest nor closing off another potential source of income.

At the same time, Qiao Yunsheng sent people south to purchase cotton, which was then transported back with merchant caravans for use in experimenting with spinning and weaving. Good craftsmanship is built through practice — the more one practices, the more skilled one becomes — and the cotton textile workshop could not afford to let its supply of cotton bolls run dry.

On another front, after several rounds of refinements, Yang Shiyue’s new-style loom had grown ever more complete. She fitted iron spring clips to both ends of the rails, making the flying shuttle’s left-and-right passage still faster.

The cloth it produced was no longer limited to two chi in width; it could now be woven at five chi, or even ten chi wide, according to need.

Of course, weaving too wide a width would also slow the pace of production.

Yang Shiyue had Steward Zhang select several carpentry workshops and ironworks within the capital city, then broke down the key components of the new-style loom and distributed them among the workshops to produce separately. All the parts were transported back to the textile workshop and assembled together there.

As Pei Shaohuai had said — the new-style loom would inevitably spread and be adopted more widely in the future, but not yet. The cotton textile workshop needed first to establish its name and reputation. Only by becoming a “frontrunner” could it help cotton cultivation take root and spread quickly in the north.

It was precisely because all of these things were proceeding in good order, with success within sight — and because both his third sister and his wife were brimming with enthusiasm and passion — that Pei Shaohuai had made up his mind: to help push the court toward opening all sea routes as quickly as possible, and to allow the people of Da Qing to trade abroad.

First comes the opening of the sea, then comes the cotton trade.

He understood that once the cotton textile workshop was established, and the court as well as the common people came to appreciate the value of cotton and cotton cloth, more and more would follow in planting cotton — an irreversible tide. With the new looms and water-powered spinning wheels producing cloth in a continuous stream, a single workshop could outproduce tens of thousands of individual households. If things reached that point and the market remained confined within Da Qing alone, there would inevitably be a conflict with the livelihoods of ordinary people — with people losing their subsistence and their daily bread, unrest would follow.

The court would never allow unrest. The cotton textile workshop would become a target of collective blame.

At that point, no matter how ingenious and advanced the looms, no matter how fast the spinning machines, no matter how labor-saving and time-saving the ideas — they would all be destroyed and banned, just as the water-powered large spinning wheel had been in its time.

Everything would return to where it had begun: weaving would go back into the rear courtyards of individual households, slow and unhurried, women weaving through the night to trade for a bushel of mixed grain.

Only by opening the sea — by getting the people of Da Qing to use the new looms and spinning wheels, and by sending the surplus cotton cloth ceaselessly out to overseas markets to benefit the people — only then would the wooden wheels and teeth of the looms spin faster and faster.

And carry other things along with them.

Pei Shaohuai wanted more than just cotton cloth.

The night had grown late, yet Pei Shaohuai still sat at his writing desk, eyes closed in thought.

The Emperor already knew that opening the sea could enrich the national treasury, and was inclined toward it — yet had been unable to push it forward for a long time. This could only mean that the resistance was no small thing.

The matter would not be easy.

The closer the year’s end came, the faster the days seemed to pass. In the blink of an eye, the New Year was almost upon them.

This had been a year of abundance — no disasters had struck any region of Da Qing — and the festive atmosphere in the capital was more lively than usual, the streets bright and full of noise.

Pei Bingyuan, Lin Shi, and Pei Shaojin were still far away in Jiangnan and could not return to the capital for the New Year — a family not yet fully reunited — which left the Earl’s residence somewhat quieter than it might have been.

On the day before New Year’s Eve, the Emperor issued a decree suspending court for the holiday, and officials returned joyfully to their homes.

When Pei Shaohuai arrived home, the sky was still bright — the evening meal had not yet come. He went directly back to the inner courtyard.

The room door stood open, but inside it was quiet and still.

“My wife?” Pei Shaohuai called. No one answered.

He stepped into the inner room and found Yang Shiyue half-reclined on the low couch, leaning against a soft pillow, fast asleep. On the low table lay a needlework basket and an unfinished embroidery piece.

Pei Shaohuai moved the table aside and spread a fleece blanket over Yang Shiyue.

He sat beside the low couch and watched her quietly for a long while, then found a scroll of books and began reading in silence. The steady calm of it eased the pace of his whole being.

Half an hour later, Yang Shiyue woke to find a fleece blanket draped over her, and her husband sitting beside her reading. She sat up and said: “When did you come home, husband?”

“Just came in, not quite a quarter of an hour ago.” Pei Shaohuai said, bending the truth a little. “I saw you were sleeping so soundly, so I did not want to disturb you.”

He added: “My wife, do not sleep here next time — you will catch a chill.”

Yang Shiyue had just woken and still wore a drowsy look. She replied: “I don’t know why, but I have been so easily tired lately, always wanting to sleep. I was just embroidering the cloud pattern and had barely done a few stitches when I started to drowse off… Oh, where has my needlework basket gone?”

Pei Shaohuai pointed to the cabinet. “I put it away for you.” He also asked: “Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve — what is so important that you are still embroidering today?”

“You will be twenty when spring passes, husband.” Yang Shiyue reminded him.

A man of twenty holds his coming-of-age ceremony and receives his courtesy name from a teacher.

Pei Shaohuai had already entered court service and was already married, so naturally he had long since bound his hair and worn the cap. His coming-of-age ceremony would not be a grand affair, but the rites could not be neglected — a teacher must be invited to bestow his courtesy name, and ceremonial dress had to be prepared in advance.

Pei Shaohuai had nearly forgotten this matter. He said: “Thank you for keeping track of it, my wife.”

He was distracted, lost in thought — the words “you will be twenty when spring passes” kept repeating in his mind. In his previous life, he had fallen ill at the age of twenty, in his second year of university.

With the Pei family name, every year he had lived before twenty was a second experience — reliving everything from childhood onward.

From twenty onward, each year, each age, would be something he had never experienced before — experiencing for the first time what it meant to grow old together with someone. It was profoundly meaningful.

In his previous life, at twenty he had already been confined to a sickbed. In this life, at twenty, he had fallen in love, taken a wife, and made a home.

Yang Shiyue saw him fall into a daze and asked: “What are you thinking about, husband?”

Pei Shaohuai came back to himself, smiled, and said: “I was thinking that from now on, every birthday will have you beside me — and I was so happy that I fell into a stupor.”

A flush of warmth rose on Yang Shiyue’s face. She laughed softly and said: “Who ever heard of someone falling into a stupor from happiness… You are just trying to flatter me.”

“It is true.”

The young couple bickered and laughed.

On the second day of the New Year, several sisters who had married out returned with their husbands to the family home, and together with the younger generation, the Earl’s residence all at once became a great deal livelier.

The whole family gathered together, talking and laughing.

Among the women, they chatted about amusing things happening around the capital, and then talked about what had been happening at home.

Lian Jie’er brought up the matter of the Pei family’s second branch, saying that the Minister’s residence had actually sent a calling card to the Xu family, proposing that the women of both households visit each other more frequently. With barely concealed anger and disdain, she said: “To actually set their sights on Yan Gui — never mind that I would never agree, even Father-in-law and Mother-in-law would never nod their heads to such a thing.”

Pei Ruotan was hoping to use the bond of clan and bloodline, and have the Minister’s residence act as intermediary, to arrange a marriage between her eldest daughter and Yan Gui as his primary wife.