For fifteen years, Lin Fang had lived a pampered life under the care of her family, with everything attended to by servants. Never did she imagine she would one day find herself struggling daily just to fill her stomach. Looking down at her feet, smaller than the traditional “three-inch golden lotus,” she sighed. Despite the exhaustion and the pain in her soles, she had to endure it for survival. Truly, she thought, people are shaped by their circumstances.
The clothes she wore now were also taken from the master’s house. Having already trespassed into their home, Lin Fang no longer felt the need for courtesy. After eating a few eggs to regain some strength, she used the lockpicks she carried to open all the locks and rummage for food.
Of course, picking the first lock wasn’t easy. In her previous life, she had read about the structures of various locks and even novels detailing lockpicking techniques, but putting theory into practice was another matter. It took her two full days to finally open the first lock. By then, her body was nearly stiff. When she pushed the door open, her legs gave way, and she collapsed straight into the room. Looking back, it had been quite the ordeal.
With the experience from the first lock, the subsequent ones became easier. Lin Fang even mused that she might have a talent for thievery, though life hadn’t yet pushed her to that point. Then she laughed at herself—what difference was there between her actions and those of a thief?
The quickest way to open a lock would have been to smash it. There was a firewood-splitting axe in the kitchen, but Lin Fang refused to do that. Trespassing into someone’s home without permission was already disrespectful; breaking the locks would make her no better than a murderous bandit.
Unfortunately, none of the rooms had any food. However, they were well-stocked with bedding and clothing—men’s, women’s, old and young, even a few items for infants, all found after Lin Fang picked the locks on the cabinets.
She couldn’t guess what kind of family had lived here. Apart from food, everything necessary for daily life was neatly arranged and in good order. The main house she had occupied was one of four, all similarly structured.
The three rooms on the east side, adjacent to the main house, appeared to be bedrooms, likely for women, given the feminine items inside. Unlike the main house’s heated brick beds (kang), these rooms had ordinary wooden beds—perhaps the occupants preferred them. The next two rooms were storage spaces filled with farming tools.
This was the first time Lin Fang had seen a kang since arriving in this world. In her previous life, she had slept on one as a child. In winter, firewood or coal stoves would heat the kang, making it warm to sleep on. The downside was that scorpions often hid in the cracks, and one might get stung. Eventually, most villagers dismantled their kang and switched to beds. Her parents had even made her a beautiful one.
The west side was divided into two sections. The room closest to the main house had a single bed and a small wardrobe containing men’s belongings—likely a man’s bedroom. The other two rooms had a well with a stone cover on the southern side and miscellaneous items piled on the other.
Strangely, the chickens, pigs, and cows here didn’t need feeding. Every morning at dawn, they went out to forage and returned before dark. None had starved or frozen to death, and they moved as swiftly and alertly as wild animals.
“Cluck-cluck-cluck—cluck-cluck-cluck—”
“Cluck-cluck-cluck—cluck-cluck-cluck—”
…
Hah, another chicken had laid an egg. Lin Fang wasn’t in a hurry to gather pinecones. Instead, she followed the sound, reached into the lower nests she could access, carefully wrapped the eggs in a cloth, and placed them in her coarse cloth backpack before heading to the pine forest.
Over the past days, while searching for an exit, Lin Fang had explored nearly every corner of the area. It was like a massive circular trench—no matter how far she walked, she always seemed to circle back. Despite her sharp senses, which usually helped her discern differences, they were useless here. Even using the square courtyard as a reference point yielded no results.
She hadn’t found an exit, but she did discover something interesting: hundreds, if not thousands, of chickens in the trench. They looked like domestic chickens but were incredibly fast, often flying up trees or cliffs. Their roosts were in the trees, where makeshift chicken coops were built. Lin Fang couldn’t climb trees to confirm, so it remained a guess.
Another oddity was that, despite it being winter—a season when chickens usually didn’t lay eggs—these chickens continued to produce them, albeit less frequently. Some laid an egg every four or five days, while the lazi ones took ten. Lin Fang found it amusing and marked a few chickens and their nests to track them.
Of course, the eggs she found were often frozen solid. She only took the freshly laid ones, as there were plenty to spare. With so many chickens, they must have belonged to the household. Lin Fang only collected eggs, never considering eating the chickens—though Granny Liu had no such reservations and had already killed three.
Along the way, Lin Fang used the small dagger she carried to dig up dried “guben” roots (a sweetener she knew from her past life as “jiegen”). Adding them to boiled vegetables improved the flavor. The dagger, a gift from Steward Qi for self-defense, was razor-sharp and made quick work of the frozen ground.
Though they hadn’t found food inside the house, Lin Fang and Granny Liu weren’t starving. The wilderness was full of dried wild fruits that could be boiled and eaten. Nearby fields still had leftover corn cobs and small, discarded sweet potatoes. There were also plenty of wild rabbits, though hunting them was hit-or-miss. Still, they’d managed to eat rabbit meat a few times.
The kitchen had no grain, but it did have oil, salt, vinegar, and soy sauce—albeit in limited quantities. Using them sparingly, they could last a while longer, though the meals were bland.
After gathering roots, wild fruits, and eggs, Lin Fang’s basket was half-full by the time she reached the pine forest. Her decade of practicing with throwing needles now paid off. She picked up empty pinecones discarded by squirrels and hurled them at the ones still on the trees. Unlike rabbits, pinecones didn’t move, so she hit her targets easily, quickly filling the basket. Not wanting to be greedy, she carried it back, pleased that she’d have a full stomach that night.
From afar, she could see Granny Liu pacing at the courtyard gate, clearly waiting for her return.
“Granny Liu, Fang’er is back,” Lin Fang called as she approached, too exhausted to say more.
Helping Lin Fang remove the basket, they carried it together to the kitchen. Lin Fang was too tired to move, so Granny Liu ladled her a full bowl of chicken soup and urged her to eat. Though hungry, Lin Fang had no appetite—she just wanted to sleep.
“Sixth Miss, you must eat something,” Granny Liu fretted. “After a whole day of work, you can’t go without food.”
Forcing down a few bites of chicken and sips of soup, Lin Fang gradually regained some energy. “You should eat too,” she urged Granny Liu. “Don’t starve yourself just to make me eat more. I need you to recover quickly so we can find the exit together.”
She was using reverse psychology, knowing Granny Liu could be stubborn.
“Alright, alright, this old servant understands,” Granny Liu replied, serving herself half a bowl and eating with Lin Fang.
By the time they finished, night had nearly fallen. Granny Liu had already prepared hot water. After laying out the bedding, she helped the nearly asleep Lin Fang wash her feet. The young mistress, who had never known hardship, now toiled daily for survival. Guilt-ridden over her own uselessness, Granny Liu insisted on tending to Lin Fang’s feet to ease her fatigue and ensure a restful sleep.
Once Lin Fang was in bed, Granny Liu secured the courtyard gate, sliding the bolt and fastening it with a pin to prevent tampering from outside. After checking that all doors were locked, she finally retired to sleep beside Lin Fang.
In this desolate place, with only the two of them for miles, caution was paramount. Since moving into the house, they had never lit lamps at night, sleeping at dusk and rising at dawn to avoid attracting trouble. The idea of pinning the bolt had been Lin Fang’s—though it wouldn’t stop determined thieves, it might buy them time.
Lying in bed, Granny Liu couldn’t sleep. The events of that fateful day replayed in her mind.
At the poetry gathering, after some socializing, the Sixth Miss had claimed fatigue. The magistrate’s wife sent a maid to escort her to a guest room. Granny Liu knew the truth: her mistress simply disdained the petty jealousy of the other young ladies. Whenever that Mr. Shi spoke to her, their glares could have devoured her alive.
The Sixth Miss preferred piping-hot tea, regardless of the weather, so Granny Liu had sent Bo’er to borrow a stove for heating water. But the kitchen maid had gossiped, saying the mistress didn’t value Bo’er—why else would a personal maid be sent on such errands? Bo’er had argued with her and returned fuming. The Sixth Miss had even comforted her, saying they should live their own lives and ignore others’ opinions.
Looking back, Granny Liu realized the maid’s words had likely been a test, orchestrated by her mistress, to gauge the relationship between the Sixth Miss and her maid. The Sixth Miss had always been kind to servants, even the lowest-ranked ones—how could she not treat Bo’er well? Yet, in the end, their enemies had shown no mercy.
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