At the household of Minister Xu.

A long, steady spring rain fell in fine threads. In the corner of the courtyard, a porcelain inkstone-washing jar, white as fresh snow, had filled to the brim with clear water.

Shortly past the noon hour, the schoolroom was dismissed, and only young Yan Gui remained behind to push Master Duan’s wheelchair outside to wash the inkstones at the jar.

Yan Gui was past ten years old now, already taking on the look of a young man; the round, chubby cheeks of early childhood had given way to features that bore a fair resemblance to his father, Xu Zhan.

In the courtyard, the spring rain had left the blue paving stones slick underfoot. Yan Gui pushed the wheelchair with care, and when they reached the jar, the locking mechanism on the wheels clicked softly into place on its own, and the chair held steady.

“Little Uncle Huai’s mind is really something,” Yan Gui said. “Teacher’s steed here is both solid and practical.”

A smile spread through the creases in Master Duan’s brow.

He dipped the writing brush into the white porcelain jar. The ink bloomed through the cold, clear water in dark wisps and trailing threads, more wild and unharnessed than any mountain-and-mist brushwork. Young Yan Gui was loath to stir the brush handle and break apart the ink patterns drifting beneath the surface.

The late spring breeze rose. Beyond the wall, willow catkins lifted on the wind; when the wind stilled, the soft downy poplar flowers drifted down into the white porcelain jar. Young Yan Gui watched them fall, lost in thought.

After a while, Yan Gui turned to look at his teacher and found Master Duan equally lost in the late spring air — head tilted up, watching the sparrows perched among the roof tiles.

Teacher and student caught each other’s gaze and smiled.

The teacher asked Yan Gui: “The Song dynasty scholar Ye Cai, a Hanlin Academician, wrote a verse that fits this very scene perfectly. Do you recall it?”

Yan Gui said: “Is Teacher thinking of the lines, ‘Pairs of sparrows walk across the study desk; / Specks of poplar down drift into the inkstone pool’?”

The teacher gave an approving nod. “That memory of yours is a match for Shaojin’s.”

Noticing the faint trace of pensiveness that had come over his teacher’s face, Yan Gui also thought of the verse’s final lines — “I sit at the small window reading the Book of Changes; / Unaware of how many days spring has come and gone.” A scholar so absorbed in his books he has no sense of time passing — yet for his teacher, the passing of days was something he felt with the keenest sensitivity of all.

Yan Gui said: “Elder Brother and Little Uncle Jin are coming home for their rest day tomorrow. Is there anything Teacher would like me to prepare in advance?”

Tomorrow was already the fifteenth of the month — time for the府 school’s rest day.

The teacher had already made up his mind. “Bring out the essays and literary journals that Shaohuai has sent back, and have them read carefully tomorrow.”

“Yes, Teacher.”

“Does Teacher miss Little Uncle Huai?”

Master Duan ran his hand over the smooth armrest of the wheelchair, and said with a smile: “I do miss Shaohuai a little, yes.”

The following day, Pei Shaojin arrived at the Xu household early. “In late spring, when the spring clothes are ready” — late spring was the time for new garments. Shaojin had brought a robe in water-ripple blue for his teacher, cut in the Suzhou style, and said: “This is cloth that Elder Brother chose — the robe was made in Suzhou and sent back to the capital. He especially reminded me to bring it to Teacher when late spring came and it was time to put away the cold-weather clothes.”

Master Duan was accustomed to dark-colored garments, and seeing the pale shade of the new robe, he said: “I am long in years — how would it look for me to wear such a bright color? Surely it would not be fitting…”

“The sages say that a gentleman is like water — adapting to the shape of whatever vessel holds him. Elder Brother chose the water-ripple shade especially.” Shaojin said. “He also said that in Jiangnan, a water-ripple blue robe suits people of all ages, and he hoped Teacher would at least try it on.”

He added: “The last time I accompanied Teacher to the Mangshan Temple, Old Taoist Wu was also wearing a blue robe, was he not?”

Shaojin passed the robe to Old Aduo, who also chimed in: “Young Master Huai really chose beautiful cloth.”

“Is that so?” Master Duan’s face said refusal while his heart said something else entirely. “Well then, let me just try it on…”

Once tried, he never changed back out of it. He wore it straight through to the classroom.

Blue robe set against white hair — though Master Duan’s youth was long behind him, putting on the scholar’s blue robe again seemed to recover something: a trace of the spirited, unyielding ambition of younger days.

He even had Old Aduo help him into his black satin boots.

A blue robe always needed to be paired with good boots.

When Shaojin and Yan Cheng came in and saw Master Duan looking so different from his usual self, they exchanged a glance, both quietly pleased. Shaojin thought to himself that among all of them, it was still his elder brother who understood their teacher best. Whether it was a painting, a wheelchair, or a spring robe in blue — his elder brother always gave it genuine thought.

As always, Shaojin and Yan Cheng first presented their recent compositions to the teacher for comment. While the teacher read, the two of them went through the essays and literary journals Pei Shaohuai had sent back. Yan Gui, being still young, continued to focus mainly on the Four Books and Five Classics.

The warm spring sunlight slanted into the schoolroom. Teacher and students all wore intent expressions, absorbed in what lay before them, so that even the birds on the roof tiles seemed to sense the mood and fell quietly still.

Master Duan set down Shaojin’s and Yan Cheng’s essays. The soft rustle of paper. Shaojin and Yan Cheng looked up.

The teacher said: “Shaojin’s writing has become considerably more restrained — no longer as openly sharp-edged or slightly driven to one side as it once was, and the reasoning has grown more mature. The examination case judgments are argued with clarity and grounded in sound reasoning — persuasive work, and among the better examples. If there is something lacking…”

The teacher paused, furrowing his brow. “When most students write, their greatest fear is insufficient learning — not being able to draw on a wide range of references. But you, Shaojin, are well-read and have an exceptional memory, so citing the classics and drawing on the ancients has never been your difficulty… Yet there can be too much of a good thing. The essays you have written cite the ancients too frequently, which makes them somewhat laborious to read and can give the impression of merely stringing together borrowed passages — and this actually weakens your own arguments. What matters most in writing an essay is the articulation of one’s own ideas: every word and sentence should serve to build toward those ideas. In the days to come, this is the area to work on, steadily improving from here.”

Shaojin listened with care. In his younger years, his advantage had been his speed at memorizing texts; as he grew older, he had come to feel increasingly that he needed to step outside the confines of “rote memorization.” His teacher’s comments today had touched precisely on this.

Shaojin replied: “Thank you, Teacher, for the guidance. The restraint in my writing may be because the family is together again — my state of mind has changed considerably along with that. As for the tendency to string together borrowed passages, I have taken it firmly to heart and will be sure to correct it going forward.”

Turning to Yan Cheng’s essays, the teacher said: “Yan Cheng’s essays still have a somewhat narrow scope of ideas and imagery — or the opening legs are broad and ambitious, but what follows lacks the force to sustain it, and the writing grows smaller and smaller as it goes on, so that by the closing leg, it reads like an entirely different essay from the introduction and opening.”

The teacher advised Yan Cheng: “For a while, you might go less often to the prefectural school. When your grandfather, father, or Second Uncle is at home, seek them out and talk with them — learn what is happening in the court. The more you hear and see, the broader your perspective will naturally become.”

Yan Cheng replied: “Thank you, Teacher. I will follow Teacher’s instruction.”

They then discussed Pei Shaohuai’s essays together. Yan Cheng remarked with admiration: “Shaohuai’s writing has advanced to another level entirely. I can’t put my finger on exactly what has changed — I only feel that the essay is seamlessly unified, and compared to the pieces in the Imperial Examination Essay Collection, it holds its own without any difficulty.”

Shaojin also said: “Elder Brother has original thinking and has had remarkable opportunities besides. After this period of study away from home, the force of his writing is more impressive than ever. I imagine that in next year’s spring examination, he could well compete for the very top of the second list.”

Master Duan stroked his beard and replied with a smile: “Shaohuai has indeed made evident progress during this journey south. It is partly because he encountered excellent guidance, and partly because his own mind is keen enough to grasp the deeper meaning behind it.”

With Shaohuai as the example, the teacher turned to Shaojin and Yan Cheng and said: “After next year’s autumn examination, the two of you should also make the journey to Jiangnan — walk about, learn, take it all in. Broad experience is always an asset.”

“Yes, Teacher.”

In another year, both the Pei and the Xu households would be caught up in one wave of activity after another — Yan Gui would sit the childhood examination, Shaojin and Yan Cheng would sit the autumn examination, and Shaohuai would sit the spring examination.

After the teacher had returned to his room, Shaojin and Yan Cheng fell to chatting idly.

When talk turned to family matters, Yan Cheng grew somewhat subdued. Shaojin asked what was the matter. Before Yan Cheng could answer, young Yan Gui spoke up on his behalf.

“Little Uncle Jin,” Yan Gui said, “Elder Brother is bothered about a marriage proposal. Grandmother and First Aunt have been busy these days arranging a match for Elder Brother.”

Shaojin and Shaohuai were a little past sixteen; Yan Cheng had already turned seventeen. It was indeed the proper age for such things to be arranged. At Xu Zhan’s age, he had already been engaged to Lian Jie’er.

Shaojin laughed a little. “Isn’t that good news? Why is my great-nephew looking so glum about it?”

“Shaojin, please at least try to act your role as a Little Uncle,” Yan Cheng said. “These days I am like the old verse — ‘The many-paged book, faithful as an old friend; morning and evening, joy and care, always at my side.’ When I am in the company of my books morning and night, where is there any room to be ‘in the company’ of anyone else?”

“That kind of ‘company’ and this kind of ‘company’ are rather different things.”

Yan Cheng turned and asked Shaojin: “And what about you? You and Shaohuai are not young either — hasn’t your family started thinking ahead for you both?”

It was meant as an offhand remark. But to everyone’s surprise, Shaojin’s cheeks turned crimson as the morning sky at the question. He pushed his elder brother’s name in front of him as a shield, saying hurriedly: “Elder Brother is ahead of me in line, and he doesn’t even have any news yet — I’m still not in a hurry… not in a hurry…”

Yan Cheng was observant. Looking at Shaojin’s red cheeks, he pressed further: “You’re not in a hurry, so why are you blushing? This looks very much like someone protesting too innocently.”

Watching Shaojin hem and haw, Yan Cheng grew more certain, and said: “Something is off with you. You are hiding something. Out with it.” In an instant, all his earlier moping was entirely forgotten, replaced by a keen interest in his little uncle’s romantic affairs.

Taicang Prefecture was a scene of busy activity. The farmwomen tended the green rice seedlings in the flooded fields, hoping for as fine a harvest as last year. The embankments and irrigation channels were complete, and there was no longer any fear of summer floods.

The men moved back and forth between home and the wharf — some joining the civilian militia to patrol the new harbor, others continuing to build and finish the storehouses, shops, and paved roads around the wharf.

They were racing to finish before summer.

In summer, the sea winds turn northward, and the outbound merchant ships would ride those winds home to Da Qing. The people of Taicang Prefecture were eagerly looking forward to welcoming the first ships that chose to dock at the new harbor.

That day, Pei Shaohuai accompanied his father to the old shipyard to attend the “laying of the keel” ceremony — marking the moment when the Taicang Shipyard began construction of its first vessel.

Coming back to the old shipyard, it was no longer what it had once been.

Timber of all kinds had come down along the Yangtze River from the Hunan and Huguang regions and was laid out on flat ground to dry and cure, row upon row and beam upon beam, an impressive sight.

The dry dock, stretching over two hundred meters in length, had been repaired and restored. High platforms and wooden scaffolding rose on either side of it, enclosing a vast space where several hundred people could work at once. The vessel would be assembled in this dry dock piece by piece, until it was ready to enter the water and begin its purpose.

Judging by the scale of the dry dock, it would one day be capable of building ships of a thousand liao in capacity.

Wu the Supervisor reported to his superior: “Prefect Pei, time was limited. The shipyard has only restored one dry dock for now. The others that fell into disuse can be cleared and repaired gradually over time.”

“Very well.” Pei Bingyuan replied.

Looking at the rows of craftsmen assembled before the dry dock, one could see great timber builders, fine woodworkers, caulking craftsmen, riveting craftsmen, lacquerers, seam-packing craftsmen, and more — old and young alike, all summoned back by the prefectural administration from the villages and towns where they had dispersed. Returning to familiar ground and returning to their trade, the craftsmen were in good spirits; they had seen what the Prefect was capable of, and trusted him fully, and looked forward to passing on the traditions of Taicang shipbuilding to the next generation.

Pei Shaohuai came forward to the site of the keel-laying ceremony.

Standing at a height above, he looked down to see that a timber frame, dozens of meters in length, had already been assembled in the dry dock. Thick beams of oiled pine had been bent into shape, their two ends curving upward with the underside forming an arc — the main spine of the vessel, like a backbone. Along either side of the spine, rows of curved ribs had been fitted, so that the whole together looked like the skeleton of some great sea creature — which was precisely why it was called the “dragon bone.”

The keel was secured firmly in the center of the dry dock, not budging by the width of a hair. At the prow, a piece of palm fiber had been tied; at the stern, a length of red cloth was bound in bright, vivid color — symbolizing a head of palm and a tail of red, like a dragon swimming freely, a promise that good fortune would follow.

The vessel about to be built was not especially large — Pei Shaohuai estimated it at only two or three hundred liao capacity, enough to hold fifty or sixty people. Every journey of a thousand li begins with a single step; once this first ship was built, everything that followed would come more smoothly.