Days passed. Bai Lan spent mornings obediently in Ning Muyan’s study reading and writing, and afternoons experimenting with herbal ointments, powders, and essential oils in Tianmendong. By the next day off, he had accumulated a small box full of bottles and jars.
One morning, Bai Lan, unusually diligent, arrived early at the study. He even brought a plate of Ning Muyan’s favorite plum pastries.
Ning Muyan had only just arrived. Seeing him unusually early, he raised an eyebrow.
Bai Lan eagerly placed the pastries on the desk and smiled: “Young master, please have some.”
Ning Muyan arched an eyebrow. “Feeling dizzy or sore again today, so you want to leave?”
Bai Lan quickly shook his head. “No, nowhere hurts.”
“Then what is it?”
Obediently, Bai Lan replied, “Tomorrow is my day off.”
Ning Muyan held a scroll in his hands and said without looking up, “I know.”
“I have nothing else to do. Last time we went out, I saw the bustling Nanmen Temple. I plan to set up a small stall tomorrow.”
Ning Muyan put the book down. “Didn’t you just receive your monthly allowance? Are you out of money again?”
“No, not at all. I just thought it would be good to have a skill for the future. If I leave the mansion and no longer receive an allowance, I’ll still have a way to make a living.”
Hearing this, Ning Muyan’s brow tightened ever so slightly.
“And?”
Bai Lan stepped forward, trying to please him, and began massaging Ning Muyan’s back. “My little stall has everything, just missing a signboard.”
“Setting up a stall and needing a signboard—are you planning to make this a long-term business?”
Bai Lan nodded.
“Then why not write it yourself?”
“I hardly know any characters, and if I wrote it myself, it would look ridiculous. If the young master would write the signboard for me, that would be perfect.”
Ning Muyan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at the boy with the crescent-shaped eyes. “Little Doctor Jiang, do you know how much one of my calligraphy pieces is worth?”
Bai Lan knew Ning Muyan’s calligraphy was expensive but didn’t know the exact price. He shook his head honestly.
Qing Mo, who had come in with tea, overheard this and perked up with a sense of pride. “Our young master’s calligraphy easily goes for a hundred taels. If it’s a painting, it’s worth even more. Even though it has a price, the household doesn’t rely on selling calligraphy or paintings—they only give them to people they know. Outside, there’s no market for it.”
Bai Lan’s gaze flickered, and he paused in arranging the items in his hands. With such a high-value piece placed in front of his humble stall, it really felt out of place. It would certainly attract attention, but it was asking for too much.
Well, he thought, he could just secretly write one himself and claim it was commissioned elsewhere. Just as he was about to give up, Ning Muyan said, “Fine. Rarely do I see you so eager to improve. I’ll make an exception and write one for you.”
Bai Lan didn’t smile. “Have I ever been unmotivated before?”
“Half a month of studying, two or three days you’re nodding off, another two or three days your stomach or head hurts. If you applied yourself properly, you wouldn’t need to ask others for help.”
Bai Lan pouted but had no argument.
“Get the paper ready.”
He fetched a sheet of xuan paper and ground some pine soot ink.
Ning Muyan rose, lifting a purple-tipped brush. “The name.”
“‘Miraculous Healing Stall,’ ‘Cure-All Stall,’ ‘Medicinal Wonders Stall’…” Bai Lan babbled several ideas.
Ning Muyan looked at him silently. “All that ink in your head, and you waste it on gimmicks? Who names their stall like this?”
“But these names are so grand!”
“They only make it sound unreliable.”
Without further words, Ning Muyan wrote a few characters on the paper.
Bai Lan stared at the sheet, reading aloud slowly: “Little Doctor Jiang’s Stall.”
Ning Muyan put down the brush. “Looks like your visits to the study weren’t in vain.”
Bai Lan huffed. “I suppose I should thank you for not misleading me into writing the wrong name before.”
Ning Muyan knew he was aware of the earlier lesson, so he remained calm. “It was to remind you to remember your teacher’s kindness.”
Bai Lan didn’t want to argue further, intending to take the little sign, but Ning Muyan pressed the paper down.
“What are you doing?”
“You can’t receive something for nothing. I can’t help you for free.”
Bai Lan’s eyes widened. Such stinginess from a wealthy household!
“I don’t have that much money to buy your writing.”
Ning Muyan said, “Then you won’t even properly thank me? Isn’t that a little rude?”
“Then what do you want?”
“You must take me out to a meal.”
Bai Lan muttered quietly—there was no way he’d miss a meal at the mansion.
“Alright, if my stall does well tomorrow, I’ll treat you to a meal, deal?”
Ning Muyan said nothing further, handing over the finished sign.
On his day off, Bai Lan packed early and went with San Leng to Nanmen Temple Street.
Stalls there didn’t require a fee, so many people came early to secure good spots, sometimes arriving in the middle of the night.
Bai Lan and San Leng, unaware, thought they were early, only to find the prime spots taken and everyone already calling out their wares.
They settled at the edge, spread palm mats, covered them with a blue cloth, and placed all the bottles and jars neatly.
San Leng, lying on the mat while arranging the goods, said, “All your savings and this month’s allowance went into this. Hopefully, it will sell well today.”
Their stall was simple—no umbrella, no cart, and no place for the signboard.
Bai Lan, like a street fortune teller, used a pole to hang the signboard from Ning Muyan, turning it into a little banner next to the stall. Now everything was in place.
“No worries. Even if nothing sells today, none of it will go to waste. I can use it myself.”
San Leng nodded, standing up and smiling at the sign. “The young master’s calligraphy really is good.”
“It certainly helps make the stall look proper.”
With the stall set up, the two had nothing to do. Bai Lan patted his medicine box. “You sturdy little thing, bear with me for a while.”
He then sat on the box—just the right size to rest on.
“A surprise! I thought the young master was out to receive guests early in the morning, but it seems he came to see Little Doctor Jiang running a stall.”
From the viewing balcony by Nanmen Temple, Ning Muyan sipped tea, observing.
“People keep chattering more and more,” Qing Mo commented, patting her own mouth.
Ning Muyan looked at the small stall in the corner. The two had set up, but weren’t calling out.
By now, Bai Lan had somehow acquired two bowls of small dumplings from another stall and was curled up on the medicine box, eating happily.
Ning Muyan shook his head. This didn’t look like business—it looked like two stray kids sneaking into a wealthy home to eat.
Within the time of an incense stick, Ning Muyan had counted Bai Lan’s consumption: one bowl of dumplings, two fried quails, a piece of crispy lamb rib, jujube, and waxed pears. At last, a passerby glanced at the stall with a jerky snack in hand.
Stomach full, Bai Lan waited… but with no customers, he grew anxious and started calling out, yet few people stopped to look.
Ning Muyan stood by the railing for a while, letting out a quiet sigh.
“Qing Mo, call over a couple of people—”
He didn’t finish his sentence. A group of young scholars in blue robes, fanning themselves, had already gathered around Bai Lan’s small stall, and Ning Muyan held his words back.
“Gentlemen, please have a look. We have premium medicinal oils here.”
San Leng, noticing visitors at last, hurriedly greeted them.
The scholars waved their heads, clearly just passing by, about to move on, when one of their companions laughed.
“This little stall is quite interesting. It’s not big, yet the signboard is properly done.”
“The brushwork is nothing like ordinary hands.”
The scholars, drawn to the sign hanging from the bamboo pole, began to comment eagerly.
“The strokes are smooth, long and flowing, somewhat resembling Ning Jieyuan’s calligraphy.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If a piece of his work were in the Wanjin Pavilion, I might believe it. Look at where we are—someone is clearly imitating with the intent to deceive. Such things aren’t rare.”
Bai Lan scratched his palms nervously. The scholars weren’t buying anything, but they were fascinated by the writing.
“May I ask, young master of the stall, whose hand wrote the characters on this sign?”
Bai Lan stepped forward, hands behind his back, a sly smile tugging at his lips. “This writing didn’t come easily.”
Hearing this, the scholars became even more curious. “Please do tell us.”
Bai Lan shook his head slightly. “Gentlemen, why not first examine the medicinal oils? Then all will be revealed.”
The scholars frowned. This young stall owner was pretty and pleasant, not sly like other vendors, but they still wanted to know who wrote the characters. One asked, “What kinds of medicinal oils do you sell?”
Bai Lan seized the opportunity, quickly picking up two bottles of cooling oil. “Refreshing oils for the mind and body. In summer, the heat is stifling, mosquitoes swarm, and study can be exhausting. A little of this cooling oil can relieve heat, repel insects, and clear the mind—a must for any scholar!”
One scholar frowned. “There are many oils on the market. They can’t work so miraculously.”
“Ah, products vary in quality. Gentlemen, why not try it?”
The scholar opened a bottle. A fresh, floral jasmine scent wafted out. Nearby spectators leaned in. “The aroma is delightful, jasmine floral and elegant, with a hint of cooling mint.”
They eagerly rubbed some on their palms, the coolness penetrating straight to their skin.
“When fatigued or drowsy, rub a little on the temples. The effect is even better.”
San Leng added quickly, “A few drops in water during morning face washing will wake you instantly!”
All from experience.
“How much?”
Bai Lan said promptly, “Just two qian of silver.”
“Two qian?”
The scholar hesitated, muttering, “This young master’s goods aren’t cheap.”
“Quality comes at a price, just like the writing on the signboard.”
The scholar paid, then asked, “Then who wrote the characters?”
“My teacher,” Bai Lan replied casually.
“May I ask who this teacher is?”
Bai Lan waved lightly. “Just an old man who once misled students. Not worth mentioning.”
The scholars snorted, feeling tricked, but the cooling oil was good, so they didn’t demand a refund.
They shook their heads at the current generation’s lack of integrity, not stooping to imitate Ning Muyan’s writing for profit, and walked away.