The spring rain had soaked half of Pei Shaohuai’s official robes by the time he returned to the small courtyard, and he arrived just in time to find his wife stepping out with an umbrella in hand.

At the sight of her husband in such a sorry state, Yang Shiyue’s heart ached for him. She quickly ushered him inside and helped him out of his wet robes, all the while feigning indignant reproach: “Spring rain is cold and damp — with rain this fine and relentless, how could you manage the whole way back with just one umbrella?”

Then she added, “And if you go and catch a chill, you are absolutely not allowed anywhere near Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng.”

Pei Shaohuai let his wife scold him without protest, answering only with a smile.

Once he had changed into a fresh set of clothes, Pei Shaohuai suddenly turned and drew his wife into his arms. He pressed his cheek against hers and held her quietly for a long while before finally speaking. “Shiyue,” he said, “I am to leave the capital for an outside post.”

He felt Yang Shiyue’s body give the faintest pause. After a moment, she asked, “Where is it that the official is being assigned?” Her voice carried neither shock nor reproach nor confusion.

“The area of Tong’an County and Nan’an County, in Quanzhou Prefecture.”

Yang Shiyue did not know where that was. “Is it far?” she asked.

“Very far.” Pei Shaohuai answered her plainly. “South of Taicang Prefecture and Songjiang Prefecture.”

Yang Shiyue ventured cautiously, “Can the children and I go south with you?”

His arms tightened around her, and he shook his head. He was a civil official heading south to take up post — he had no idea what circumstances awaited him. How could he dare bring his wife and children along to share in that risk?

Only then did Yang Shiyue’s composure begin to crack. Her throat constricted with emotion as she asked, “When do you depart?”

“I don’t know yet.” Pei Shaohuai said. “It shouldn’t be too soon — there will certainly be a year or so of preparations before we can set off.” The court would need time to promulgate the new policies, draft the maritime trade strategy, gather supplies and assemble personnel for the southern expedition, and if winter snowfall blocked the rivers, it would likely be around this same time next year before they could move.

Though the departure was still far off, Pei Shaohuai had decided to tell Yang Shiyue now. Those of the same voice answer each other; those of the same heart know each other.

He offered his wife what reassurance he could. “I will make proper arrangements — I won’t rush into danger. Once everything is settled, I will bring you and the children down to join me.”

“Mm, mm.”

Pei Shaohuai wiped away her tears and said, “Let us go back to the main room and keep Xiao Nan and Xiao Feng company.”

Husband and wife left the side room and returned to the main chamber, putting on bright faces to play with the children — just as they always had.

The matter of Pei Shaohuai’s petition for an outside post had likewise left the Emperor somewhat unsettled in his mind, all the more so after hearing Pei Jue’s assessment, which had given him much to weigh and reconsider.

Jiahе Island lay, after all, within the jurisdiction of Fujian’s Provincial Administration, situated between Quanzhou and Zhangzhou. Though Boyuan had chosen a desolate location and deliberately avoided the most volatile areas, there was no escaping a degree of entanglement. Even that small degree was enough to make the situation dangerously unpredictable.

What was more, without quelling the turmoil within, it would be impossible to address the threats from without — and the Emperor had his mind set on a thorough investigation into the shadow network buried beneath Fujian’s Provincial Administration.

The night had grown late. The Emperor did not return to the inner palace to rest — he had not even changed out of his court robes. Instead, he remained in the Imperial Study, pacing back and forth in deep thought. Spread across the writing table before him was a large map of Da Qing’s territories. Jiahe Island had not originally been marked upon it, but the Emperor swept his vermilion brush in a bold circle below Quanzhou, making that small island — garrisoned by no more than a thousand households — conspicuously prominent on the map.

A single garrison of a thousand was far, far too little to keep Boyuan safe.

His mind made up, the Emperor ceased his pacing and sat down. He turned to the head eunuch Xiao and said, “Summon the Commander of the Brocade Guard for an audience.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

In less than half an hour, Yan Chengzhao arrived at a swift pace, his expression composed and grave. After completing the formal obeisance, he stood at attention awaiting his orders. He assumed that the Emperor summoning him to the palace at this hour must mean there was a confidential matter to be investigated.

The Emperor said, “Chengzhao, there is a matter that only you can handle.”

“Your servant awaits your command.”

The Emperor pointed to the small island of Jiahe on the map and laid out his intentions for Yan Chengzhao to hear. “What Boyuan wishes to accomplish at this place — opening the seas — is by no means as simple as building a harbor along the coastline. Winning the hearts of the people, quelling local unrest, suppressing the pirates, confronting corrupt officials — none of it can be done without military force. Furthermore, I wish to know what secrets are buried beneath the surface of Fujian’s Provincial Administration.”

With those words, the Emperor had assigned Yan Chengzhao two separate tasks in one breath.

When Pei Jue had gone south on an inspection tour, the Emperor had still dispatched a deputy from the Southern Brocade Guard to accompany him. Now that Pei Shaohuai was going south to open the seas, the Emperor would hardly send him alone and unaided.

The Emperor knew that Yan Chengzhao had a certain proud temperament, and that he was both older and of higher rank than Pei Shaohuai — so he softened his tone slightly, wary that the man might feel unwilling or chafe at being placed beneath another. “This matter is of the gravest importance,” he said. “You and Boyuan complement each other — civil and military working in concert — and only by joining forces can the task be accomplished.”

Unexpectedly, Yan Chengzhao’s response was entirely composed. “Your servant obeys,” he said. “I will devote my full strength to assisting Chief Supervising Secretary Pei.” His expression remained cool as ever, yet there was not the faintest trace of resistance in it.

“Very well.” The Emperor continued, “From the Northern and Southern Brocade Guards and the Divine Strategy Battalion Imperial Guard, you may select some elite forces to accompany you.”

After Yan Chengzhao departed, the Emperor sat at his writing table, still with no intention of retiring to his chambers for the night. He dipped his vermilion brush once more and, beside Jiahe Island, struck through the names of the two neighboring counties — Tong’an and Nan’an. He drew a circle encompassing both counties and the island together, then beside it wrote the words: Zhili Shuang’an Prefecture.

He then struck through the name of the Zhongleft Garrison on Jiahe Island and replaced it with: Jiahe Guard.

Within a few days, word “leaked” that Pei Shaohuai was to leave the capital for an outside post, and the court’s civil and military officials buzzed with discussion. Many officials who thought highly of Pei Shaohuai lamented and sighed on his behalf; some even submitted memorials urging the Emperor to reconsider and retain this man of talent.

After all, in the eyes of most officials, sending such a young man as Pei Shaohuai away to the provinces carried the unmistakable flavor of cutting him down to size — of the Emperor administering a quiet rebuke.

Even if he were recalled to the capital upon the completion of his term, that would be years away.

Once the news had “leaked,” naturally no one saw any further point in impeaching or attacking the Pei, Xu, and Yang families, and the court grew considerably more peaceful.

When Pei Shaohuai learned that Yan Chengzhao would be accompanying him south, he felt a wave of genuine gratitude. He had assumed the court would certainly assign a capable general to accompany him on his posting, but he had not expected the Emperor to be so generous in this “sacrifice,” dispatching Commander Yan himself.

He was also quietly delighted. With a military talent of Yan Chengzhao’s caliber lending his strength, Pei Shaohuai’s confidence in the task of opening the seas grew considerably.

He made a special trip to the Brocade Guard’s offices to find Yan Chengzhao.

“Has Sir Pei come today in a hurry to discuss our southern journey with me?” Yan Chengzhao said, pouring tea as he spoke. “The tea at a military yamen is rough — please don’t take offense, Sir Pei.”

“Not at all.” Pei Shaohuai said with an easy laugh. “I merely wished to express my wonder that the Emperor would make such a ‘sacrifice’ — dispatching his most valued general away.”

Yan Chengzhao replied, “Surely the Emperor’s greatest ‘sacrifice’ is sending Sir Pei himself away?” He cast a sidelong glance at Pei Shaohuai as he said it.

Pei Shaohuai was briefly taken aback, then laughed wryly. “Enough of that — let us spare each other the mutual flattery.” He then stated his purpose. “My visit today is to offer Commander Yan an apology.”

“An apology — for what?”

“Because the matter of opening the seas has drawn Commander Yan into it, separating him from his wife and daughter.”

Yan Chengzhao had just raised his teacup when these words reached him, and he paused mid-motion. He turned his face aside and asked, “Sir Pei intends to go south alone?” Without waiting for an answer, Yan Chengzhao took a sip of his tea and said, almost to himself, “For my part, I intend to bring my whole family along.”

A trace of something uncharacteristically domestic crossed his face.

This time it was Pei Shaohuai’s turn to be struck dumb. He had originally decided not to bring Shiyue and the little ones along out of concern for their safety — but now, with Yan Chengzhao commanding a full escort the entire way, perhaps the matter was worth reconsidering.

Seeing Pei Shaohuai lost in thought, Yan Chengzhao teased him, “Sir Pei’s heart is clearly no longer here — you had best go home and think it over with your wife.”

“Indeed, indeed.” Pei Shaohuai collected himself and agreed.

At the outset, the prospect of a few years’ separation had not seemed unbearable — but every day, the moment he took his children in his arms, reluctance welled up within him, and that reluctance grew heavier with each passing day. Pei Shaohuai could not bring himself to picture the day they would truly say goodbye.

If he felt this way, how could Shiyue feel otherwise?

In the latter part of the fourth month, on a day of gentle breeze and bright sunshine, the Ministry of Rites had completed the ceremonial plaque for the new Zhuangyuan. By imperial edict, the Jingying Earl’s residence was additionally bestowed a plaque bearing the words: Honored in Three Successive Examinations.

Ministry of Rites officials carried the plaque out from the Imperial Avenue, made a full circuit of the city, and delivered it to the Earl’s residence — all along the way to the resounding clamor of gongs and drums, drawing every eye.

The scholars had assumed the Pei family had merely produced two Zhuangyuan in a single generation — little did they know that both brothers had each achieved the triple honor. The tea houses and taverns, which had barely quieted down for a few days, were once again filled with talk of the Pei brothers.

Since the founding of Da Qing, the entire dynasty had produced only four men honored across all three successive examinations — and the Jingying Earl’s residence alone had given two of them. One had only to picture it: two plaques bearing the words Honored in Three Successive Examinations hanging side by side within the ancestral hall — what glory that was.

Curious and devoted readers gathered the examination essays the two brothers had written along their way, and after studying them carefully, could not help but admire what they found. From the three-tiered childhood examinations all the way to the Autumn Provincial Examinations and Spring Metropolitan Examinations — across more than ten essays — one could see that they had advanced step by careful step, with nothing given and nothing rushed.

The essays from the preliminary exams showed insufficient stylistic force — and that was corrected by the Autumn Examinations. The Autumn Examination essays lacked sufficiently distinctive perspective — and that was corrected by the Spring Examinations. Bookshops printed collected volumes of both brothers’ essays, bound them into sets, and they sold handsomely.

Even a Zhuangyuan’s essays, it turned out, had not been perfect from birth — and scholars everywhere felt greatly encouraged.

Small anecdotes from the brothers’ years of study in their youth were unearthed and passed around with relish. One tea house, scenting an opportunity for business, wanted to use the two brothers as the basis for a storytelling performance — embellishing the tale for dramatic effect and turning it into a serialized story.

The name they had in mind was Two Heroes of a Single House.

But when the tea house proprietor offered a handsome sum to engage a number of writers to spin the tale into something vivid and compelling, days passed without a single one of them managing to write anything worthy of the subject. The characters on the page always seemed to lack that particular quality of scholarly spirit.

One day, a writer working on the story found himself completely unable to put brush to paper. In a fit of frustration, he flung his manuscript down from the upper floor of the tea house, leaned out the window, and cried out with something bordering on madness: “One house producing two heroes, two brothers each earning the triple honor — even a storyteller wouldn’t dare write something this outrageous!”

The tea house, as usual, was full of scholars, and they came crowding over at once to watch the spectacle.

Someone teased the writer: “You’re a man who makes things up for a living, and even you can’t make something better than what actually happened — your audience won’t stand for it.”

Another person said: “If someone truly knew how these brothers studied and wrote — day in and day out — I wouldn’t need it dressed up as a story. I’d gladly pay for that alone.”

“And that just goes to show,” said yet another, “that a story can be invented, but true learning cannot. We’d all do well to put our heads down and study in earnest.”

A chorus of agreement rose up.

The writer on the upper floor fired back in his irritation: “If anyone thinks they can write it, they’re welcome to try. I, for one, am done with it.” He shut the window and went off to nurse his temper alone.

The tea house’s business venture came to nothing — but it made for a fine story in its own right.

With both brothers having claimed the triple honor, the Earl’s residence had no time for grand celebrations, for Shaojin’s wedding day was now close at hand and every hand in the household was busy with the preparations.

Before the wedding, Shaojin set aside a full day and went to the residence of Minister Xu, saying he wanted to take Master Duan to a certain place.

The master was happy to agree.

Together they climbed once more to the summit of Mang Hill on the outskirts of the capital, where a grove of peach trees had been planted.

“When spring blooms have faded from the world below, the mountain monastery’s peach trees burst into bloom” — at the foot of the hill the peach trees had already set their fruit, while at the summit the blossoms still hung in their most tender glory.

Shaojin pushed the master’s chair along the narrow path winding through the peach grove. Fallen petals, still carrying traces of dew, brushed their clothes and dampened their lapels. Shaojin said, “Master — the peach trees at the top of the mountain have finally come into bloom.”

The master replied, “They have bloomed beautifully.”