In the south of the Yangtze, winter had only just begun, and the greens of the grass and trees still held a spring-like quality.

The north wind howled as it swept southward, lending its force to the sails of merchant vessels heading out to sea — it was the busiest month at Taicang Wharf. Yet on this particular afternoon, with still more than half a day’s worth of work and wages to be had, the common folk had packed up their things early and were heading home, and more than half the shops along the wharf had shuttered their doors.

Foreign sea merchants, unable to make sense of it, inquired around until they learned that today was the day the Prefect was leaving his post, and the townspeople were rushing to the government offices to bid him farewell.

By mid-afternoon, the area outside the prefecture yamen was packed so densely that not even water could pass through. The townspeople had come carrying bamboo baskets and food boxes, filled with crisp fruits, homemade pastries, and all manner of things.

Pei Bingyuan was dressed in plain clothes, standing in the rear courtyard of the yamen, his gaze sweeping over every tile and stone. Years of memories welled up within him. He felt little in the way of sorrow — the resignation had been a deeply considered decision, and everything that needed to be made peace with had been made peace with.

Yet hearing the calls of the townspeople outside the yamen gates, he could not help but feel a pang of reluctance.

“My lord, your fellow villagers are all waiting outside. Do come out and say farewell to them.” The Assistant Prefect said.

Pei Bingyuan nodded.

The great gates of the yamen swung open, and a chorus of voices urging him to stay rose at once. The faces of the townspeople filled Pei Bingyuan’s eyes — faces whose names he could not always recall, yet were deeply familiar: there were the militia men who had stood with him to hold the city gates and drive off the river pirates; there were the young men who had braved the cold of winter to wade into the sea and carry sandbags to shore up the embankments; there were the craftsmen from the shipyard who had wielded chisels and planes to build great ships…

The townspeople called out to him again and again to stay, and many of the elderly men were wiping away tears. When they saw that the Prefect was about to speak, they gradually fell quiet.

Pei Bingyuan swallowed the catch in his throat and spoke warmly, as one might in ordinary conversation: “Old Uncle Xu — I heard your family has welcomed a fine, plump baby boy?”

Old Uncle Xu, who stood near the front of the crowd, nodded repeatedly with a great smile. “In a few more months he’ll be old enough to be walked up and down the street.”

Pei Bingyuan picked up the thread, and at last raised his voice to address the townspeople: “I am the same as Old Uncle Xu — my family has also welcomed new grandchildren. It is time for me to go home and hold them.”

From the crowd, someone immediately called out: “Is it Lord Pei’s eldest son who has married and had children?”

Pei Shaohuai’s stratagem of leaving a gap in the encirclement to annihilate the remaining bandits had been turned into storytelling scripts and had once been widely performed in the teahouses of Taicang Prefecture.

Pei Bingyuan called back with evident pride: “Indeed it is.”

The lingering sorrow of parting was still there, but now it was tinged with a measure of gladness.

Old Uncle Xu murmured, “By Taicang custom, the birth of the eldest grandchild and son is a great occasion. We should really offer the Prefect a gift to wish the child good fortune and auspicious blessings…” He spoke while rummaging in his waist pouch, and finally produced a small string of copper coins, which he pressed forward insistently, trying to give them to Pei Bingyuan.

Others followed suit, saying they wanted to add a measure of good fortune to the two children.

Pei Bingyuan could not possibly accept, and kept refusing — but just then he noticed Shipyard Foreman Wang holding a small carved wooden ship high above his head, and he reached out to take it. Turning to face everyone, he said, “I accept all of your kind intentions at heart. I will take Taicang’s little ship back to the capital with me, and hope that they will one day sail through the winds and waves just as the ships of Taicang do.”

Pei Bingyuan offered his final words of counsel: “Fellow townspeople, it has not been easy for Taicang Prefecture to reach where it is today — you must never become complacent in water management simply because the embankments have been raised higher. The embankments must be inspected in all four seasons for any signs of weakness… Taicang Wharf has opened its commerce with the outside world, and with ships coming and going in great numbers, you must hold fast to your principles, guard against corrupting influences seeping in, and must not chase short-term profit or momentary pleasure… A thousand strings of copper coins are worth less than a skill to call your own — the shipbuilding craft passed down by the ancestors must not be abandoned. Only by handing it down generation to generation can you build ever-larger sailing ships and travel ever farther…”

He listed one matter after another, without deliberate elegance of phrasing, and every townsperson could understand him, for every point was bound up intimately with the life of Taicang Prefecture.

The village gentry, ward heads, and clan elders were deeply moved. “We will heed your lordship’s counsel carefully,” they said, “and will make certain to write all of this into the rules of our respective clans, so that future generations will not forget the hardships endured by those who came before.”

After years of living alongside one another, the parting had finally come, and words could never be enough — the more was said, the more difficult the leaving became. Pei Bingyuan steeled himself, clasped his hands and bowed deeply to the townspeople one last time, and said: “Fellow townspeople — until we meet again.”

He had meant to say “until we meet again in due time,” but not knowing when that time would be, he left off the last part.

Pei Bingyuan boarded the carriage, and the townspeople did not bar his way, but followed close behind to see him off — out through the city gates and all the way to the outside of the relay station.

Along the road, every household had set up a table of the Eight Immortals before their door, on which rested two objects — a bowl of clear water, and a polished mirror.

An official whose person is as clear as water and whose heart is as bright as a mirror — how could such a man not be beloved by the people?

First by waterway, then by carriage, Pei Bingyuan returned to the capital before the twelfth lunar month, and the family of the Earl’s residence was at last reunited.

Shortly after, the Son of Heaven issued an imperial decree: Pei Bingyuan had rendered meritorious service and possessed the talent for governing water conservancy and agricultural affairs, and was specially appointed to the position of Academician of the Imperial Academy — not to lecture on classical poetry and scripture, but to teach the Academy students practical experience gained through serving in actual posts.

Whatever trace of melancholy Pei Bingyuan had still harbored was gradually washed away after he laid eyes on Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng. “Grandparents are closer to their grandchildren” — these words were not false, or perhaps it was simply that a change had come over Pei Bingyuan’s inner state.

On the ninth day of the eleventh lunar month, heavy snow covered the land. Today, Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng turned three months old, and their grandfather had returned — it was time to give them their formal names.

According to the genealogy, the boys of the eighth generation of the Pei family were to be given names with the character “zheng,” and the girls with the character “yun.”

After breakfast, Pei Shaohuai went to his father’s study, laid out the xuan paper, and ground the ink with a light heart. “Father, please bestow formal names upon Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng,” he said.

Pei Bingyuan had long since planned this out. After washing his hands and burning incense, he accepted the writing brush with a smile, and with purpose, first wrote down the two characters: “Zheng Guan.”

Pei Zhengguan — Pei Shaohuai understood at once. His son’s formal name was taken from the phrase in the Book of Changes, “to observe the world with perfect centrality and rectitude,” meaning that a gentleman approaches people and affairs with an attitude of utmost balance and uprightness, perceiving even the finest details while also comprehending the whole.

What deep hope a grandfather held for his grandson.

Moreover, since the world considers “facing south from the north” to be the position of proper orientation, the name “Zheng Guan” happened to correspond perfectly with the nickname Xiao Nan.

The verses of the Book of Songs are graceful and winding, and it is customary to draw girls’ names from them — yet Pei Bingyuan said instead: “The wind stirs the clouds and carries them a thousand miles in an instant. Little Feng has a lively, active nature — a name that is too gentle and delicate would not suit her. Let her be called ‘Yun Ci.'”

Pei Yunci — “In the morning I took leave of Baidi amid colorful clouds; a thousand li to Jiangling, one day’s journey back.”

If the character “ci” were interpreted as “literary expression,” the name could also carry the meaning of scholarship and words as magnificent as brocade clouds — brilliance overflowing.

Elder Brother Zhengguan, meticulous in perceiving the smallest details; Little Sister Yunci, unrestrained and unfettered — Pei Shaohuai was very pleased with both names his father had chosen. “Father has put great thought into this,” he said with a smile.

Father and son then went together to the ancestral hall and entered the names Pei Zhengguan and Pei Yunci into the genealogy.

Since everyone in the household had long grown accustomed to calling the children Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng, the two little ones may have had their formal names, but the family continued to call them Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng as before.

A few days later, the winter sun came out bright and warm, taking off a slight chill, and Pei Shaohuai took advantage of a day of rest to visit their teacher at the Xu residence, along with Pei Shaojin.

When they arrived at the Xu residence, Pei Shaohuai noticed that everyone in the Xu household — including their teacher — was radiantly spirited, as though some joyful occasion had recently come their way.

Pei Shaohuai grabbed hold of little Yan Gui and asked, “Your household seems so jubilant — surely it must be that you’ve arranged a betrothal?”

Yan Gui was by now a young man of fourteen or fifteen, barely half a head shorter than Pei Shaohuai. He was cheerful by nature, and rather than blushing at the mention of a match, he teased back: “If I were to get betrothed, how could I hide it from my two little uncles? With Mother around, I would likely be the last to know — even later than the two of you.”

Before Pei Shaohuai could continue asking, Xu Yancheng came striding over with a face full of joy, his steps so light and quick he seemed to be floating, unable to contain his delight.

Pei Shaohuai had no need to ask further — he already knew the joyful news must belong to Xu Yancheng.

When the former classmates gathered to talk once more, Xu Yancheng “ignored” Pei Shaohuai entirely and went straight to drape his arm around Pei Shaojin’s shoulders. Half-stifling his laughter, he said: “Zhongyai, as for the top position at this spring’s examination and palace examination — I won’t be competing with you anymore, you can have it all… have it all…” He could barely hold back as he said it, and finally let out a snort of laughter. “After all, you are my little uncle and therefore one generation above me — but in certain respects, you are already one step behind by fate.”

His entire manner and tone was that of someone offering a consolation prize.

Pei Shaojin had already guessed roughly what the news was. He “disdainfully” shoved Xu Yancheng away and put on a tone of contempt: “Come and compete as boldly as you like. If you can beat me, it’s yours. After all, I’ve already lost in one respect — losing in another makes no difference.”

Then he added: “Ziheng, why not compare yourself against my elder brother instead?”

“That one I concede.” Xu Yancheng said plainly.

The three former classmates carried on in banter and laughter for a good while — older in years, yet no less playful at heart.

As it turned out, Madam Su was with child, and had just passed her third month. Given the depth of their friendship, Xu Yancheng quietly shared the news with Pei Shaohuai and Pei Shaojin, simply to share in the joy.

After that brief stretch of clear weather, as the year drew toward its close, several more heavy snowfalls hit the capital, and the cold became biting.

Every spring had frozen over without a trickle; the whole city lay buried under a seamless white.

On this day, Pei Ruoying and Chen Xingchen came hurrying to the Earl’s residence, their expressions urgent. Pei Ruoying was still untying her cape and shaking off the snow as she rushed toward Zhaolu Courtyard, not even pausing to warm herself first.

“Mother, are there still any of the aged ginseng roots that Second Sister sent back?” Pei Ruoying asked Lin Shi.

The Marquis Jingying residence was not short of ginseng, but the aged ginseng that the Situ couple had sent back from Shanhai Pass was of a considerably more advanced vintage.

If something were not unusually wrong, Pei Ruoying would not have come rushing back in such a fluster. Lin Shi had already guessed the gist of it. She sent Nanny Shen’s wife to fetch the ginseng, and at the same time pressed a warming pouch into her daughter’s hands. “What has happened?” she asked.

Pei Ruoying’s eyes were red, her lashes wet with tears barely held back, and her voice caught as she said: “The old grandmother of the Marquis residence…” — the old Marchioness was fading, and she could not get the rest of the words out.

Lin Shi held her daughter close. When Nanny Shen’s wife returned with the ginseng, she passed it to Pei Ruoying and offered her comfort: “Go back quickly now. Do what can be done and leave the rest to heaven. You must take care of yourself.”

In the Marquis Jingying residence, the Marchioness knew her remaining hours were few. She suddenly felt a little extra strength come into her body, and called out for her daughter-in-law to help her sit up, with two soft pillows propped behind her back.

“Roll up the curtains,” she instructed, “and let some light into the room.” Her expression carried none of the desolation one might have expected — she was as composed as she had always been.

In the end, she kept only the old Marquis in the room with her for a final conversation.

The Marchioness looked at her husband, equally gray now, and smiled as she asked, “This lifetime I have managed the household — does my lord think I have done it well?”

The old Marquis’ tears began to fall. “You have done splendidly,” he said. “That our children and grandchildren are accomplished, and that the sisters-in-law live in harmony — all of that is to your credit.”

It was no easy thing to uphold a reputation of distinguished virtue. It had not been accomplished merely by the old Marquis laboring in the world outside — it had also required the Marchioness laboring within, raising the children with care and choosing their matches wisely.

Every daughter-in-law and granddaughter-in-law in the household had been evaluated in person by the old Marchioness.

The old Marquis continued: “Without my lady’s devotion to supporting her husband and nurturing the children, how could the Marquis residence have attained its upright name?”

“But I have a regret…” the Marchioness said.

The old Marquis startled, not pausing to think, and said directly, “Whatever my lady’s unfinished wishes may be, I will promise them all.”

The Marchioness’ gaze had grown somewhat unfocused, as though she were seeing the Marquis as the young man he had been. She smiled softly and said: “Before I was wed to you, I had not wished for a life that was merely supporting a husband and raising children.”

She then spoke of her third granddaughter-in-law, murmuring, “From the very first time I laid eyes on that girl Ying, I liked her. When she took interest in something, she truly dared to learn it — how wonderful that was…”

The old Marchioness’ thoughts had begun to wander, and her words were no longer quite in order. She continued: “The imperial physicians all said I would not survive a year, yet that little girl helped me live three years longer. She knows so much — all learned by herself. Such a difficult thing, yet she had the will to master it…”

“Xingchen has entered officialdom, yet his heart is not in the pursuit of office. Do not press him toward advancement…”

A moment later she was speaking of her eldest and second grandsons, in no particular sequence.

The old Marquis held the Marchioness in his arms and listened attentively to each of her murmured, half-coherent words. The Marchioness rested against his shoulder and slowly closed her eyes. Her last murmured words were: “Little Ying still needs more courage…”

“I understand. I promise you.” The old Marquis replied, as his tears fell drop by drop. “You have worked so hard. You are tired now.”

Elsewhere, hooves flew through the air, sending snow scattering in all directions. Pei Ruoying held the ginseng tightly in her arms. She knew some things could no longer be forestalled, yet she pressed on with all her heart regardless.