Chapter 77

Chapter 77: Digging a Well

The next morning, the well-diggers arrived.

Many men in the village had done work like this before. They watched over their crops day after day; when the season slowed, they took whatever labor they could find. To feed their families, they could become masons, tilers, stonemasons, well-diggers—whatever paid.

Today, the 10 men stepped into their roles without hesitation.

After gathering in the Tang yard, they did what experienced hands always did first: they walked the ground, tested the soil, argued softly over the best place, and judged whether the earth would hold.

Tang Yi Chen and the others had already discussed it. In the end, they chose the back courtyard. After the old master examined the spot, he gave a slow nod of approval.

Qin Hui Yin stayed home that day and volunteered to cook.

Tang Yi Chen had warned her in advance that four men would be eating there. Qin Hui Yin wasn’t about to put out a feast so rich it turned into a target. Everyone in the village lived with similar limits. If their household ate meat and fish every day like wealthy merchants, resentment would grow teeth.

So she planned carefully.

There had to be meat, but not too much. Fish was perfect—it came from the river and cost nothing, and if cooked well it could outshine meat. Better yet, it showed hospitality without flashing silver.

Then there was the rice. Their family usually ate plain white rice, but cooking for 10 mouths meant stretching it. Qin Hui Yin mixed in taro. It filled the belly, and the fragrance was good.

By noon, the meal was laid out: grilled fish, mapo tofu, sweet-and-sour ribs, stir-fried cabbage, chive pockets, and a clear mushroom soup. The rice was taro rice—hot, soft, and fragrant.

“Da Fu,” one of the workers called while wiping sweat from his brow, “what are you cooking at your place? Why does it smell so good?”

Tang Da Fu was helping nearby with odd jobs, towel draped around his neck. He chuckled, pride puffing his chest. “My little girl’s especially good at cooking fish. Her fish doesn’t have that heavy smell like ours. Just from the aroma, I know we’ll have grilled fish again.”

He grinned wider. “I’m not bragging—when my little girl makes grilled fish, I can finish a five-jin one by myself.”

A few of the men swallowed, eyes drifting toward the kitchen like moths to flame.

Most villagers didn’t bother with fish. One, it could smell; two, it wasn’t as rich as meat. But this scent was different—smoky, spicy, mouthwatering enough to pull even fish-haters by the nose.

“If I’d known,” one man muttered regretfully, “I would’ve stayed to eat. I figured five wen could buy more than a jin of cornmeal—enough for my whole family for days.”

“Forget it for today,” Tang Da Fu said, sobering. “You already told your families you’d go home. If you change your mind last minute, you’ll have to argue it out at home.”

He lowered his voice, glancing toward the house. “And we already planned how many mouths we’re feeding. There’s no extra.”

He didn’t say the rest aloud, but everyone understood. Married men had more to weigh. Some village women were wary of Li Tao Hua—afraid their husbands would be “stolen” if they worked here—so they ordered them to eat at home. And if a man ate at home, he could pocket the extra five wen. For ordinary families, five wen wasn’t small.

The four young men who’d chosen to stay felt more and more that they’d made the right decision. Unmarried, they had no one to scold them and no one to take their money.

When Tang Lu Wu came over to tell them to rest, the six men who were leaving lingered like hungry dogs.

As they passed the table and saw the dishes filling it to the brim, one of them sucked in a breath through his teeth.

The other four looked nearly blissful.

Qin Hui Yin carried out the last dish—the mushroom soup—and smiled. “Come sit. Don’t be shy. Eat as you like.”

Tang Da Fu waited, then frowned. “Where’s your mother?”

“The table is too small,” Qin Hui Yin said. “I set up a low table in the kitchen. I’ll eat there with Sister Lu Wu and Mom.”

Tang Yi Xiao popped in from the side. “I’ll keep Mom and my sisters company.”

Tang Da Fu felt a pinch of unfairness for Li Tao Hua, but with so many men at the table, he understood the danger of tongues and didn’t press it.

It wasn’t that Li Tao Hua or Qin Hui Yin cared about old rules—but old rules still had teeth. If Li Tao Hua sat at the men’s table today, the young men would inevitably glance at her. People wouldn’t blame the men for looking; they’d blame Li Tao Hua for “seducing” them. A pretty woman never won that kind of story.

The men ate with enthusiasm, and their praise came quickly.

“Usually when you cook, the smell carries all the way over,” one worker said between bites. “We finally know—your food doesn’t just smell good. It tastes even better.”

“Yin Girl’s cooking is something else,” another added, half-joking. “If she were a boy, she could be sent to a restaurant as an apprentice.”

“When Zhang Yun Gui gets married,” someone laughed, “he could hire Yin Girl as a kitchen helper—she could even earn money.”

Tang Da Fu stiffened and glanced toward the kitchen, wiping sweat that wasn’t there.

His wife’s precious daughter—who dared to order her around as a kitchen helper?

Tang Yi Chen, who had been quiet until then, lifted his eyes. “Uncle Yun Gui is getting married?”

“Probably,” a man said. “I heard the engagement’s already been settled.”

“That marriage is going to cause drama,” another worker said eagerly, gossip warming him like wine. “The girl Yun Gui is marrying was originally being matched to Er Zhu. Er Zhu was sent off to work at the dam, and the Zhang family’s old madam handed the girl to Yun Gui instead.”

He chuckled. “Er Zhu isn’t here, but Da Zhu is. How could that house not explode?”

In the kitchen, Li Tao Hua spoke under her breath while picking at her bowl. “Daughter, today’s meal is too abundant.”

“Mom,” Qin Hui Yin said softly, “the fish came from the river. The tofu was ground from our own soybeans. The mushrooms were picked from the mountain. It looks like a lot, but only the ribs and flour truly cost money.”

She tapped the rice bowl with her chopsticks. “And this rice? It’s seventy percent taro, thirty percent white rice.”

Li Tao Hua’s mouth twitched, torn between pride and caution. “It’s still plenty. Tonight we cut it down. Not because I’m stingy—you can’t flaunt wealth. Keep a low profile.”

Qin Hui Yin nodded, taking the lesson to heart.

In her own world, a host’s table was supposed to be full. That habit ran deep, carved into bone. But here, “full” could turn into trouble.

Tonight, she decided, they’d eat simpler.

Coarse-grain buns. Pickles. And a big bowl of fish-slice porridge to fill everyone up.