"Off to scavenge from your uncle again? If the madam finds out, you'll get another earful for sure! Sigh! I've told you before, young master, your uncle's not having it easy. Times are getting worse by the day—people can't even fill their bellies, where would he get spare money for wine and meat..."

The steward Uncle John unloaded the wine and meat from the mule's back, muttering as he headed into the courtyard. David Thompson stuck out his tongue at the old steward's back, then led the blue-spotted mule to the stable in the backyard, tied the reins, added fodder for all the livestock, and refilled the well water. After tidying everything up, he changed into a short jacket for home wear and went to the main room to see his father.

The dried venison and mixed vegetables David Thompson had given to the steward earlier had already been prepared by Aunt Mary and his mother, turned into four small dishes set on the table. David Thompson's mother didn't like to drink, and since it wasn't a festival, steward Uncle John couldn't very well sit at the master's table, so Charles Thompson drank alone, looking quite bored. At last, seeing his son finally come in, he raised his cup and called out loudly, "Little David, come here, have a drink with your father. Only you know how to care for your old man, timing your uncle's generosity for when I'm due home!"

"Shameless!" Mrs. Thompson-Bolton spat in disapproval, putting down her needlework.

"No, the teacher at the academy said that wine—wine can corrupt one's character, ruin one's morals!" David Thompson glanced at his mother's face, using the excuse to dodge his father's invitation. Yet the newly formed Adam's apple in his neck bobbed involuntarily, making a clear "gulp" sound.

"Enough, stop pretending. Since you were little, you were a little wine bug, sipping from the tip of grandpa's chopsticks—it's hard to keep you from drinking. Just don't drink too much, or you'll mess up your recitation tonight!" Mrs. Thompson heard the sound, looked at her child with affection, and gently reminded him.

"Alright! Thank you, mother! Thank you, father!" David Thompson had been waiting for his mother's permission. He hurried to his seat in a few quick steps, took the wine jar, filled his own cup, raised it, clinked it with his father's, then lifted it to his brow in salute before downing it in one go.

"Good lad! Just by the way you drink, I can tell you're a true son of the Li family!" Charles Thompson praised with a hearty laugh, his face full of love. He had left with the caravan in late spring and only just returned home in early autumn. The journey had been full of hardships, all for the chance to sit at the table with his wife and son for a peaceful meal. After three months apart, his son had grown much taller, but his wife looked even more haggard, the wrinkles at the corners of her eyes and on her cheeks proof of the hard life when the man of the house was away.

"Father, you've had a hard journey. I offer this cup to express my respect. I wish you health, long life, and ever-growing business!" David Thompson picked up the wine jar and refilled his father's cup. The wine, thickly brewed by his uncle's secret method, looked rich and dense, shimmering like warm amber in the lamplight. It made him think of the afternoon's events, and as his father set down his cup, he poured more wine and said, "I passed by uncle's inn today and helped him tidy up a bit. Business there is really slow!"

"Of course. People have little money these days, the government taxes more, trade routes are in decline—naturally, no one visits the inn. The few who do order food are the sort he doesn't dare ask for payment. And as for ordinary folks, who has money to eat and drink there?" Father Charles Thompson sighed, not sure if it was for his brother-in-law or himself.

Life was getting harder, and businessmen always sensed the changes in the world first. Back in the Kaihuang and Renshou years, the emperor wasn't so wise or heroic, nor could he write good essays, but the furs and livestock he brought back from the frontier always sold quickly. Now, in the Daye era, though the family was supposed to be prosperous, it took three times the effort to buy goods at the market. The goods brought back from the frontier also took three times the effort and time to sell without losing money.

"And yet you still have the nerve to take food from your uncle's house. Next month, when you go to the academy, remember to bring your uncle a long robe on the way—your mother made it this spring, originally for you to wear in winter. But with the way you're growing, you probably won't fit into it anyway!" Mrs. Thompson-Bolton put down her chopsticks and spoke softly when her husband and son mentioned her family.

The festive mood in the room was dampened by the troubles of daily life, and the three—husband, wife, and son—fell silent. The hardship of the The Bolton Family was plain to see, and the The Thompson Family was only a little better off. Even if Mrs. Thompson-Bolton wanted to help her family more, there wasn't much she could spare.

"Pop!" The wick of the sesame oil lamp burst, spitting out a big spark. Mrs. Thompson-Bolton took the chance to trim the lamp and left the table, and as she turned, she gently rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Come on, what's there to be sad about? Thirty years east of the river, thirty years west—who knows when Brother Michael's luck will turn around again!" Charles Thompson tapped the table with his chopsticks, a bit displeased. Seeing his wife lower her head and say nothing, his heart softened for no reason, and he relented, "This time I brought back an ox and three skinny horses. Their frames are decent—tomorrow I'll have someone train the ox to the plow, and this winter we'll feed the horses more. Come spring, we can sell them for a good price. Then, we can lend Brother Michael some capital, have him hire a good cook, and invite Old Master Smith from the county to write a calligraphy piece for the main hall. Maybe that'll change his luck!"

"That would be wonderful, but will we have enough money for our own goods next year? Second Brother, who manages the ancestral hall, has been coming by asking when you'll be back to discuss next year's incense money for the ancestors. Davey is doing well in his studies—next year, the county will recommend two students for the capital exams, but without some money to smooth things over..." Mrs. Thompson-Bolton, grateful for her husband's decision to help her family, was reminded of their own troubles and started fretting about money again, rambling on for a while without saying whether she agreed to her husband's plan.