Chapter 3: The Pig‑Driving Girl
At first light the next morning, Fan Changyu left little Chang Ning in Madam Zhao's care and set out with a little over three hundred wens and a silver hairpin tucked safely into her pocket.
The hairpin had been a gift from her parents on the day she came of age—pure silver, costing more than two taels. Pawning it would pain her, but it would also give her enough to buy a pig.
Inside the pawnshop, the shopkeeper squinted at the hairpin for an inordinately long time before raising three fingers.
"Three hundred wen."
Fan Changyu nearly choked.
"This hairpin is pure silver. Only three hundred?"
The shopkeeper shrugged.
"It may be silver, but it's light, and the style is old‑fashioned. Still, I know your family's situation. I'll give you five hundred. I can't offer more."
"One tael," she said flatly. "Not a wen less."
He placed the hairpin back on the counter.
"Then you'd best take it home."
She had counted on this pawn to buy her pig. She had not expected such shameless bargaining. Without another word, she picked up the hairpin and strode toward the door.
The shopkeeper had not expected such stubborn resolve.
"Wait—wait! One tael, then. Consider it Uncle losing money out of pity. It's early morning—doing business with you will be my first transaction of the day…"
When she left the pawnshop, she had one tael of silver more than before.
She headed first to the cooked‑food street to inquire about the market price of braised meat.
It happened to be market day. Though still early, the streets were already bustling. Farmers from the countryside had brought vegetables, grain, and poultry to sell, hoping to earn enough to buy New Year's goods before returning home.
Fan Changyu made a circuit of the street. Most shops sold roast chicken and goose. The most popular braised items were pig head meat and pig ears; pig offal was the least favoured.
A plump auntie noticed her lingering near the display.
"Girl, fancy some roast chicken?"
"How much for the pig head meat?" Changyu asked.
"You've got a good eye!" the auntie beamed. "Braised all night—fragrant as anything. Five wen for two liang. How much do you want?"
That was fifty wen per jin—clearly inflated for bargaining.
Changyu frowned deliberately.
"So expensive…"
"It's New Year season! Everything's gone up. Mine's already the cheapest. If you want it, I'll give you two liang for nine wens."
That worked out to roughly forty‑five wen per jin. Likely the true price.
She continued her inquiries. Braised pig ears were the most expensive at sixty wen per jin—rarity drove the price. Braised offal was cheapest at twenty wen per jin. Few people liked offal; the wealthy disdained it, and the poor often cooked it poorly, leaving an unpleasant smell.
Butcher shops rarely sold offal at all. One could buy a whole bucket for less than ten wen.
Armed with this knowledge, she left the cooked‑food street and entered the meat market. Beyond it lay the tile market where livestock was traded.
The meat market was even livelier. Her family's pork shop stood among the others—well‑located, once prosperous. Now it was shuttered, its doorway occupied by small vendors. The sight pricked her heart. She lingered a moment, silently promising herself she would reopen it soon.
Then she turned toward the tile market.
The livestock area was chaotic—pigs, sheep, cattle, and horses all jostling, the ground littered with droppings, the air thick with the smell of animals. Middle‑aged men in short jackets shouted trade jargon incomprehensible to outsiders.
Her appearance—a young woman, pretty and alone—drew attention.
Several traders called out, but she ignored them. She had accompanied her father here many times and knew better than to buy from livestock dealers. On market days, farmers often brought their own pigs to avoid being cheated by traders; their prices were always better.
Yet after circling the market, she found nothing suitable. Her father had taught her to choose pigs with round rumps and short, thick tails—pigs with thick skin and fat, yielding excellent meat.
Just as she was about to move on, she noticed a thin, dark‑skinned old man standing quietly in a corner.
Beside him stood a plump, well‑fed pig, tied by ropes around its front legs and neck. It was dirty, and because it was still early, few buyers had approached. The old man looked anxiously at passersby but seemed too timid to call out.
Changyu approached.
"Uncle, how much for this pig?"
The old man brightened nervously.
"The pig traders in the countryside only offered ten wen per jin. That's why this old bag of bones brought it here myself. If you want it, twelve wen per jin."
Changyu's eyes widened. Traders in the market were asking eighteen or nineteen wen per jin—and only after haggling would they drop to fifteen. Twelve was a bargain.
Fortunately, the market was still quiet; otherwise, the pig would have been sold already.
"I'll buy it!" she said at once.
The pig weighed ninety jin. She paid one tael and eighty wen, then began driving the pig home toward the western quarter.
The meat market was already open. If she slaughtered the pig now, she would only catch the tail end of the morning rush and be forced to sell at a discount. Better to prepare properly and slaughter it at dawn tomorrow.
Driving a pig down the street made her quite the spectacle. People stared; she ignored them. When acquaintances asked, she cheerfully advertised her business, saying the pig would be slaughtered tomorrow and the shop reopened—inviting them to come support her.
By chance, she met a restaurant chef who used to buy meat from her father. Seeing the pig's size and hearing the shop would reopen, he immediately ordered twenty jin, leaving a deposit of two hundred wen.
Changyu returned home beaming. The alley was narrow, and her calls—along with the pig's indignant squeals—echoed loudly.
A snow‑white gyrfalcon suddenly burst from the direction of her house and soared into the sky. Changyu paused, puzzled. Falcons often stole chickens in the countryside during winter, but in town? What was it doing here?
The houses in the alley were cramped, two‑storey dwellings built uniformly years ago.
In an attic room at the far end, a man sat half‑upright on a bed near the window. He wore a shabby grey jacket that could not conceal the innate nobility of his bearing. A long piece of charcoal lay extinguished beside the brazier. His inner garment, folded nearby, had a corner torn away.
The window was half‑open, letting in a cold wind that stirred his hair and clothing.
The face—clear as moonlight, pure as new snow—belonged to the very man Fan Changyu had rescued.
The commotion outside drew his gaze. The girl, smiling, walked down the narrow alley where the snow had melted into slush. She wore the same apricot‑coloured jacket he had seen the night before, like a warm light appearing in an old, quiet painting.
But what she was driving with a bamboo stick was… a pig.
The pig's squeals confirmed it.
His expression grew faintly incredulous.
He had seen refined ladies of noble families and spirited daughters of military households, but a girl driving a pig was a first.
She soon passed out of sight, though he heard her younger sister's delighted cry,
"Sister, where did such a big pig come from?"
And Changyu's bright, laughing reply:
"I bought it, of course!"
More voices joined in—Auntie Zhao, no doubt helping to herd the pig.
The man closed his eyes. He needed to recover quickly.
Meanwhile, Changyu drove the pig into the side shed behind her house and shut it in. Then she took the bucket of pig offal she had received from the Chen family, went to the well, and washed it thoroughly.
Fresh pork was best slaughtered the same day, so the pig would wait until morning. Tonight, she would braise the offal—not to sell, but to give away as a bonus.
For every jin of fresh pork purchased, she would give two liang of braised offal.
She had toured the market earlier. Cooked‑food shops were plentiful—meaning demand was high, but competition fierce. If she suddenly began selling braised meat, customers might hesitate to spend money on an unfamiliar product.
But free samples? People rarely refused free food.
If they liked her braised offal, they would return for more.
After washing the offal, she rolled up her sleeves and lit the stove. She filled a pot with water, gathered spices, wrapped them in a clean cloth with ginger and garlic, and dropped the bundle into the pot to form the braising liquid.
Her family's kitchen was well‑equipped. Her mother had been particular about food, and when the family had been well‑off, they had stocked every necessary spice.
Changyu had learned many dishes from her mother, though she was only average at most. But braising—braising she excelled at. Perhaps because she had adored braised pig's trotters since childhood.
When she took up the cleaver to chop the offal, her movements were bold and decisive, shaped by years of slaughtering pigs and splitting bones. The heavy blade struck the chopping board with such force that even a thief would have fled at the sight.
An hour later, a rich, mouth‑watering aroma drifted from the Fan family's kitchen. Neighbours sniffed the air, wondering whose household was cooking such fragrant meat.
The scent rose upward, and because the Zhao and Fan houses were adjacent, the man in the attic smelled it most keenly.
He swallowed hard and closed his eyes tightly.
His body was too weak. Since his injury, he had not eaten a proper meal.