Ch 105: Reborn to Raise My Husband

“Your mother’s family were physicians,” Xiao Yuanbao said. “You learned the craft from childhood. Healing and saving lives is a virtuous thing, and more than that—you’ve always loved the work. If you gave it up now for the sake of livelihood, your heart would never be content.

“It’s the same for me. I grew up learning to cook—if someone told me to weave cloth or sell clothes instead, I’d have no joy in it.”

To Yuanbao, food therapy was the perfect meeting of their skills. Medicine could not be separated from food, and food therapy required both medical understanding and culinary craft. It would join their two strengths into one trade, and neither would have to abandon what they had each studied since youth.

Besides, the two of them were close, both newcomers to the capital, and it was only right they support each other.

“I know your true wish is to open a proper medical hall,” he went on. “But there are too many obstacles for now—lack of capital, connections, and reputation. Yet because it’s difficult, you must prepare step by step.

“If we open a food-therapy shop first, we can earn money to fund the future clinic. And if you wish, you could choose certain days—say, the first and fifteenth each month—to sit in the shop and see patients. That would build your name and connections, so when you do open your own clinic, you’ll already have people who trust you.”

Bai Qiaogui listened closely. His words struck right to her heart.

She had always wanted to open a women’s clinic—not merely for livelihood, but because it was something she truly cared about. Her dream was to gather skilled female physicians and ge’er doctors to treat women and furlang.

In the common households of the empire, women and ge’er made up half the people, yet female healers were scarce. When wives or furlang fell ill, especially with disorders particular to their sex, they often hesitated to speak of it, too embarrassed to seek help. And if they did wish to be treated, it was awkward to face a male physician, while finding a reputable female one was near impossible.

That was one side of the hardship. The other was that women and ge’er who wanted to practice medicine found doors closed to them. Most medical families passed their art only to sons. Even in more liberal households that allowed daughters or ge’er to learn, marriage usually confined them to the inner quarters, serving husbands and raising children instead of seeing patients.

And those few who did manage to practice were often dismissed or scorned by male physicians, earning less and respected less though they worked side by side.

Having grown up in her maternal grandfather’s clinic, Bai Qiaogui knew all this too well.

The capital, vast and crowded, was filled with apothecaries and clinics, yet in all her walks through the streets she had never once seen a hall run solely by women. It was better than the provinces, to be sure—female physicians here were not as rare, and some clinics employed one or two—but none were wholly their own.

She had long dreamed of changing that: to found a place staffed by women and ge’er, serving only wives and furlang. Such a hall would be a true fulfillment of her craft.

But dreams required silver, and reputation, and backing—none of which she possessed. Opening such a place seemed near impossible.

Now, hearing Yuanbao’s proposal, she felt a spark of direction.

“You’ve spoken straight to my heart,” she said. “I’ll follow your lead. Still… even if we open this kind of shop, will anyone come?”

“You’ve never run a business, so your worry’s natural,” Yuanbao said. “But I’ve been in the capital over a year. I’ve watched carefully. To make a living here, one must be clever—one must offer something new.

“The city is full of the wealthy. And among the wealthy, illness is everywhere. These people want for nothing—they don’t worry about food or clothing. Do you know what troubles them most?”

Bai Qiaogui arched a brow. “What?”

Yuanbao smiled. “Once, Anan told me a story.”

He began: “There was a rich merchant in the old days, trading in salt and iron—so wealthy his fortune could rival a kingdom’s, and his life was luxury itself. What he ate and used was no less than what was sent to the imperial court. But all that extravagance wasn’t where his money truly went.

“Do you know what cost him the most?”

She shook her head.

“Alchemy,” Yuanbao said. “He poured rivers of silver into the hands of Daoist alchemists who claimed their elixirs could strengthen the body and lengthen life. A single small pill cost ten thousand coins, and he paid without blinking.”

Bai Qiaogui laughed. “Then that merchant was a fool indeed.”

“He wasn’t foolish,” Yuanbao said. “To run salt and iron trade and build such a fortune—he must have been shrewd. He paid for those pills because he feared dying before he could enjoy his wealth.”

“The rich live in ease and comfort,” he continued. “Their greatest fear is that they won’t live long enough, or well enough, to savor it. If there’s a way to preserve health and prolong life, of course they’ll pay for it.”

Bai Qiaogui fell silent, thoughtful. What he said made perfect sense.

“You worry no one will buy food-therapy if they’re not already sick,” Yuanbao said. “That’s because we come from modest homes, where a full meal is the first concern and luxuries are waste. But these nobles live differently. Their days are idle and rich—they’ll spend freely for a promise of health.”

He’d learned this truth himself after coming to the capital—ever since that banquet at Madam Lü’s, where the wealthy amused themselves by toying with others, he had seen clearly how extravagance and vanity ruled their world.

At Madam Lü’s banquet, everything had been exquisite—the food, the wine, the silks, the laughter. Those people were so idle that they took pleasure only in mocking others. Such cruelty came from their wealth. Ordinary amusements could no longer please them.

If not for the later misfortune that brought her down, would Madam Lü have ever wished her luxurious days to end? Of course not—she would have wanted them to last forever.

And look at Jiang Tangtuan. He was born into an official family; his father, uncles, and brothers all held posts, not high ones, but the family had served in government for generations and always had silver to spare. When he fell into the lotus pond as a child, his parents spent heavily to buy a charm for long life, burned it to ashes, mixed it with water, and made him drink it for longevity. Later, when illness left him frail, they still chased after every remedy they heard of—dew collected from the back of lotus leaves, taken before dawn because it had never seen the sun, said to cure all ills.

So those with some rank and means all longed for health and long life.

Even setting aside the rich—what ordinary person does not wish the same? Only the poor have too many troubles to think beyond daily hunger; they live too tightly to spare coin for preserving their health.

With these thoughts clear in mind, Xiao Yuanbao grew confident about the food-therapy business. Once the shop opened, there would be no shortage of customers. The only challenge was to develop enough good formulas before then.

Bai Qiaogui drew a steady breath. “All right,” she said. “Then I’ll join you in it.”

They struck the agreement on the spot and began testing recipes together.

The summer heat was heavy, but they still spent their days over the stove.

Jiang Tangtuan sent over a cartload of ice for them and insisted on tasting every new dish himself, giving notes on flavor and effect.

Medicinal broths simmered day after day; chickens, ducks, pigeons, and soft-shelled turtles came and went like flowing water.

Yuanbao could not finish what they made, so Qiaogui carried portions home. Luo Tingfeng, returning from the morning court each day, found a fresh tonic soup waiting for him.

After a few days of this, he was sitting in his study writing when his nose suddenly started to bleed.

“You two have too much energy,” he said, tilting his head back with a cloth pressed to his nose. “Yesterday pigeon soup, today pork-bone broth, tomorrow lamb kidneys… however good it tastes, I can’t keep up with all this nourishment!”

He started to add, “It’s my fault—if only—” but Qiaogui shot him a glare.

“Say no more. If you had both great talent and great fortune, we’d never have been husband and wife. As it is, you hold an official post, and I have my own work beside you. Managing our days together—nothing makes me happier than that.”

At that, Luo Tingfeng fell silent.

She dipped a cloth in cool water and wiped the back of his neck. “All these recipes I’ve been making with Yuanbao are for replenishing qi and blood. You don’t need any of that. In summer the heat rises easily, and strong tonics only make it worse. No wonder your body rejects them.”

Speaking of the summer heat sparked a thought.

She turned quickly to him. “This food therapy ought to follow the seasons. In cold months, warming tonics for qi and blood; in summer, cooling dishes to clear heat and purify the blood. No, I must go tell Yuanbao at once—we’ll draw up separate recipes for each season.”

And off she went before he could answer.

Watching her hurry away, Luo Tingfeng could only shake his head, half amused.

He truly wanted to write a letter to Qi Beinan, to tell him what had become of them in the capital—that between the two of them, he and Bai Qiaogui had been “nourished” almost to collapse.

But he had no idea where Qi Beinan was just now.

At that moment, far away in Yingju Prefecture, Qi Beinan was overseeing the provincial examinations. After reviewing hundreds of test papers, his eyes were sore and blurred, and his stomach empty.

When the day’s grading finally ended, he breathed out. Soon, when this round was complete, he could return to the capital.

The scent of gardenia drifted through the examination compound; he realized, almost with surprise, that midsummer had come. Over a month had passed since he’d left Kyoto, the journey through several provinces gone swiftly.

“Gentlemen,” said Lord Zhang of the Ministry of Rites, “the hour grows late. We’ll continue at the next dawn. You’ve all worked hard.”

Qi Beinan finished reading the last page in hand, laid it aside, and tidied his desk before leaving with the other examiners.

“I’ve heard the pickled vegetables at Tianxiang Ju here in Yingju are especially crisp and fragrant,” someone said. “Shall we all go and try them?”

“I’ve heard of the place,” another replied. “Never been.”

Qi Beinan had no objection; the Ministry’s travel stipend was generous. Since arriving, he’d already joined such dinners twice—extravagant feasts costing ten strings of cash at a sitting, every dish mountain or sea delicacy.

The food was fine, but the older officials loved their drink. Once the cups began to flow, they grew loud, urged one another on, and would not leave before midnight.

After a few such nights, Beinan had had enough.

He went to Lord Zhang and said politely, “I’m rather weary today and fear I might delay tomorrow’s duties. I’ll forgo the gathering and take my meal in the quarters.”

“That’s understandable,” Lord Zhang said. “It’s your first time on an examination tour—anyone would tire. A few more rounds and you’ll grow used to it.” He cautioned Beinan to mind his health, then let him go.

Walking back to his lodging, Qi Beinan found himself wondering why no letter had come from the capital. He had clearly written in his last message that he would be here in Yingju. Could it be that the post relay had lost the letter again?

As he was turning the thought over, Qi Beinan walked absently into his quarters—only to hear Qin Jiang’s delighted voice calling from behind.

“Langjun, a letter!”

Beinan’s face lit at once. “Is it from the capital?” he asked quickly, reaching out to take it.

“I didn’t look.”

Still smiling, Beinan carried it eagerly inside and tore it open before he’d even crossed the threshold. But at the sight of the sender, his joy faded a little.

It wasn’t from the capital. It was from Linzhou.

When he finished reading, the smile returned. Zhao Guangzong had passed the provincial exam.

According to the letter, twelve candidates had been selected, and Zhao ranked fifth. Posts had already been assigned—he was appointed assistant magistrate of Feng County under Jinling Prefecture.

Beinan felt genuinely happy for him. The county assistant’s rank was not high, below that of the magistrate, but if he served well, he could be promoted in time.

He’d never been to Feng County, but during his student years in Jinling he’d heard of it—a modest place, neither rich nor poor, much like Ling County. Not easy to make achievements there, but a fair posting all the same.

At least Zhao had succeeded. Future prospects would depend on fortune and his own ability.

Beinan took up his brush and wrote a letter of congratulations, adding some practical advice for Zhao’s new duties, two full pages in all. By the time he finished, the moon had climbed over the willow branches.

He set down his pen, fanned the ink dry, sealed the letter, and handed it to Qin Jiang. “Send this off first thing tomorrow.”

Outside, the moonlight was bright enough to cast his shadow under the eaves. He stepped on it as he exhaled a long breath.

Even Zhao Guangzong’s letter had reached him, yet nothing had come from the capital. The thought left a dull ache in his chest.

---

By August, the scent of osmanthus filled the air.

Qi Beinan returned to the capital just before the Mid-Autumn Festival.

He and the other officials who had gone out to supervise the examinations first reported to the Ministry of Personnel, where their superior presented a memorial to the emperor. The rest busied themselves sorting paperwork and archiving the exam scrolls.

After half a day of tedium, they were finally dismissed. Fortunately, beyond their usual rest days, they were also granted two extra days to recover from travel.

“The festival’s nearly here,” someone remarked. “There are mooncake stalls everywhere now—all colors, red and yellow, bright as lanterns. Quite a sight.”

Xiao Yuanbao was returning from the Luo household just as offices were closing for the day.

He hadn’t lingered—Luo daren had just come home from court, and husband and wife surely wanted time together. He had already taken up too much of Gui-jie’s hours; it would be ungracious to stay longer.

Leaning against the carriage wall, weary from the day’s errands and no noon rest, he half-dozed as Wen-ge’er spoke. At the mention of mooncakes, he lifted the curtain and glanced out. The streets were indeed full of vendors.

“Mid-Autumn is the festival of reunion,” he murmured.

This year, it would likely be only him and his teacher.

The carriage rocked gently, lulling him toward sleep, until Wen-ge’er’s call roused him as they reached the gate.

Supported down from the step, he had barely steadied himself when he spotted a tall figure by the porter’s lodge.

“Qin Jiang—is that really you?” Yuanbao called, eyes widening.

“Ge’er,” the man answered with a grin.

“When did you return?”

“Entered the city this morning. Just now went to the palace gate to fetch the master back.”

At that, Yuanbao could think of nothing else. He rushed into the courtyard and straight toward Xinyi Pavilion.

Sure enough, in the study stood the man he hadn’t seen for over two months.

For so long there’d been no word at all—his heart leapt between shock and joy. He hesitated only an instant before hurrying forward and throwing himself into the other’s arms.

He clung tight around Qi Beinan’s waist, pressing his cheek to his chest, silent for a long moment.

Beinan smoothed a hand over his back, feeling the familiar softness in his hold. His gaze warmed. “Seems you’ve grown rounder since I left.”

Yuanbao tipped up his chin, lips pouting. “So what if I have?”

“I was away all that time, and not one letter from you. I thought perhaps the roads were rough and the couriers lost it—”

Beinan looked down at him. “But now it’s clear it wasn’t the post’s fault at all. Someone simply never sent a letter.”

Seeing his faint scowl and the hint of wounded pride, Yuanbao couldn’t help but laugh.

He leaned up, brushed a kiss against Beinan’s cheek—and finding that too little, kissed his lips as well.

Beinan, never granted such tenderness before, drew him closer.

The room fell quiet, broken only by the soft, wet sound of breath.

When they finally parted, lips sore, Yuanbao stared at the glimmering sheen on Beinan’s mouth and felt his ears burn—it was his doing, after all.

In a low voice he murmured, “I did think of you.”

At that, Beinan’s mouth curved. “Then why didn’t you write?”

Xiao Yuanbao pouted, his expression shifting. “Who told you to send home all those strange things? I was afraid you weren’t focusing on your official duties, so I didn’t write at all.”

Qi Beinan raised a brow. “What, you didn’t like what I sent?”

“That pink pearl,” he added, “I searched for it a long time. It wasn’t cheap either.”

“Wasteful spending,” Yuanbao said.

“How’s it wasteful? The travel stipend was generous—they permit officials to buy gifts for family, to show thoughtfulness. If I hadn’t spent it, people might’ve said I was pretending to be aloof.”

“There was no reason not to use it,” Beinan continued.

Yuanbao frowned in worry. “But wouldn’t that count as corruption?”

Beinan laughed. “What are you thinking? It’s all legitimate, approved by the Ministry of Revenue.”

“Even after buying things, I still have over fifty strings of cash left—money I didn’t spend.”

Yuanbao’s eyes widened. “The allowance for those sent out is that good? Why didn’t you say so sooner? That’s nearly a whole year of your salary in the capital! And you were so reluctant to go, as if it were some hardship no one wanted. I thought they’d forced the worst assignment on a newcomer like you.”

“With benefits like that,” he said with a laugh, “I’m sure everyone would be fighting for the chance.”

In truth, the stipends for field assignments were remarkably generous—indeed a plum posting. Later, once the court reformed the system, such comfort would vanish; the allowances would barely cover food and travel, and men would have to dip into their own purses. Then it would truly be a burdensome task.

Beinan smiled faintly. “You really don’t know why I didn’t want to go, do you?”

Yuanbao pressed his lips together, a smile tugging at them all the same.

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