He didn’t have great skills—couldn’t build roads or clear mountains. He wished only to be like the breeze, the mountain spring, a plain steamed bun, or a simple cotton jacket—something to refresh, to satisfy hunger and warmth, a daily companion.
Xie Yan licked the soup from his lips.
Lu Yang asked what it tasted like.
Xie Yan answered honestly: “Sweet… and savory.”
Lu Yang asked again, “Is it good?”
Xie Yan nodded: “It’s good.”
“And do you want more later?” Lu Yang inquired.
Xie Yan did.
Lu Yang smiled warmly. “When I return from the prefecture, I’ll stew soup for you again.”
Xie Yan grimaced.
Still smiling, Lu Yang asked, “What should a good man be?”
Xie Yan thought deeply. Sitting up straight, he answered, “A good man should be a worthy support for his husband, not a hindrance. He should stand behind him.”
Lu Yang leaned close, coaxing gently. “Are you a good man or a bad man?”
Xie Yan declared loudly, “I’m a good man!”
Lu Yang feigned surprise. “Wow, so straightforward. You’d give yourself up to me?”
Xie Yan slouched, a wry expression, repeating Lu Yang’s advice:
“We both have important things to do. We can’t be clingy. You go to the prefecture, I won’t stop you—but take care of yourself. Take your medicine, don’t overwork. I’ll study hard too.”
Lu Yang kissed him—corners of the lips, then swirling his tongue inside.
It was indeed sweet.
Xie Yan wanted to linger, but Lu Yang let go and got up to pack a food container. “I made a jar of chicken soup. Take it to the Wealth God for me.”
Xie Yan sat at the kang, wiping his mouth, pouting: “Wu Pingzhi doesn’t need chicken soup.”
“I want to borrow a helper from him first. Take the soup now; I’ll talk later,” Lu Yang said.
Xie Yan agreed: “Okay.”
After a rushed morning, a few words, a little closeness, Xie Yan shouldered his bag and carried the food container to school.
At home, Lu Yang tidied the kitchen, then went to the west room. “Mother, I’ll be out today. Will you be okay at home, or do you want to go to the shop?”
A few days ago, Uncle Aqing came to pay the summer tax with two young relatives—both sixteen, hardworking, but needing guidance. Lu Yang had decided to keep them on, so Mother Zhao didn’t have to go to the shop every day.
Still, Lu Yang’s mornings were busy: preparing Xie Yan’s meals, tidying the house, then off to the shop. He also helped make buns and keep an eye on Lu Lin. After lunch, he would go out for errands.
Mother Zhao stayed home, doing needlework, preferring a quieter environment.
Lu Yang reminded her, “I won’t be back for lunch. Make sure you eat—don’t go hungry.”
She saw him off. He wanted to walk—only a minute’s distance. They left the horse at the shop to avoid feeding it at home.
The house had no stable; entering meant three rooms surrounding a small yard, more for drying clothes than keeping animals. Houses near the school were like this; ordinary families rarely kept livestock.
He had no special neighborly ties, just casual greetings. The alley had six households besides theirs, nine families total. Those renting nearby for study were mostly scholars. Xie Yan’s house was big, school expensive, so they rarely met neighbors.
Lu Yang didn’t flaunt achievements—people called Xie Yan “Scholar Xie,” and Lu Yang “Husband Lu.” Peaceful enough.
At the shop, he’d take home vegetables every afternoon, asking around if anyone needed slightly wilted produce. This ensured neighbors could help if needed. Private opinions about them—praise or envy—didn’t matter. Harmony was enough.
That day, he checked the shop, preparing the stove early. Zhang Tie would set it up, while new helpers Pomegranate and Ginkgo kneaded dough. Today: steamed buns and flower rolls; no replenishment after selling out. Zhang Tie would have time to prepare stove materials, funded from the account.
After work, goods were covered for the night. The stove, especially the chimney, took days to build—preferably at night to avoid dust.
He and Lu Lin made sauce buns together and practiced literacy and bookkeeping. Lu Yang taught him everything he could—reading, accounting, even assigning simple tasks.
Shop visitors were many; some left without buying. Lu Lin began noticing why, learning quickly to be tactful.
For example, recommending duck eggs to regulars: two types—salty, expensive; plain, cheaper. He advised familiar customers to buy more plain and fewer salty eggs—practical advice for home use.
That day, two regulars came together. Lu Lin realized that after suggesting the economical option, he should give a soft exit for the pricier choice: “The salted eggs need curing; try a few at home first. If good, come back.”
Thus, customers could show off by buying all plain eggs or save money tasting a few, without embarrassment. A mere two-cash difference, but it was all social skill.
Lu Yang chuckled. “Brother Lin, you’re getting sharper.”
Lu Lin blushed. “No one else nearby has our full selection; I figured they’d come anyway. Otherwise, it wouldn’t work.”
Lu Yang told him not to worry. “Serve every customer well. If they leave, find the reason, fix it, and move on. If they come again, fine; if not, we keep going. Don’t blame yourself.”
