The snow had fully melted. The days were growing warmer, and the river water was rising. Clara forbade the children from going near the river to play.
With the thaw, Adam and Ben's morning jogs resumed.
Before spring planting could begin, the first task was harvesting the wheat that had been sown at the end of last autumn—clearing the fields to make room for rice.
On this matter, Clara and Lester had come to a strange, unspoken agreement: "You don't bring it up, and I won't either."
February was already halfway through. Farmers bustled across the fields. At the Liew family's old estate, everyone—young and old, men and women—was fully mobilized.
Even little Rosie, just six years old, went out each day. With a tiny basket on her back, she and her cousin Ryder picked wild greens along the field paths while the adults worked, bringing the greens home to feed the chickens.
Amid the industrious rhythm of Liew Clan Village, Clara's family—living alone on the northern slope—seemed entirely out of place.
At dawn, when everyone else picked up hoes and buckets to harvest wheat, Clara would be out with her four stepchildren, running laps around the village.
After their run, she was sometimes seen carrying two oversized wooden buckets—custom-made by Carpenter Liew—to fetch water from the village well.
Where others needed two trips to fill a water vat, she filled both of hers in one go.
Next came the scent of cooking wafting down from the wildflower-covered hillside. While others were just heading home for breakfast, Clara's courtyard already echoed with the sounds of children reading aloud.
When the farmers returned to the fields after lunch, her house grew eerily quiet. If anyone happened to pass by the river and paused to listen, they might even hear the soft sounds of snoring.
In the afternoon, the courtyard would come alive again with the grunts and shouts of martial arts training.
The smoke from her chimney always rose earlier than anyone else's. Before sunset even touched the horizon, the light smoke was already curling above her roof.
By the time the villagers returned under moonlight with tools over their shoulders, her hillside home had already gone still—everyone fast asleep.
What kind of life was this?
Just eating, sleeping, watching the clouds roll by—it was the kind of life even the gods wouldn't dare dream of!
Eventually, Old Walter Liew couldn't take it anymore. With the family wheat harvest completed, he immediately sent Kate—his pregnant second daughter-in-law, who was now idle—to go ask what was going on.
"Just go ask Lester: Is he planning to keep living like this? No wheat harvested, no fields planted—what's he waiting for, a diet of cold wind?"
Caleb watched as his wife and daughter left. Turning to his anxious father, he stoked the flames further.
"Father, have you seen those two acres? There's more weed than wheat in them. They didn't touch that field all winter. I doubt they'll harvest more than a handful of grain."
That patch of land had been reclaimed from the wild. It was already poor and barren to begin with. Without careful tending, it was a miracle if anything grew at all.
Old Walter Liew shot to his feet. "I'm going out."
He didn't say where, but everyone knew he was headed for Lester's place.
Land and grain were the lifeblood of farmers. If you were short on food, you could make do. But if you lost your land, you lost all hope of surviving.
Kate and little Rosie were still meandering near the river when Old Walter caught up to them. He waved them back home and said he'd go speak to them himself.
Kate glanced at the small house across the river and sighed, turning back with her daughter in tow.
Clara had long expected Old Walter would come knocking eventually.
Sure enough, the moment he arrived at the gate, Clara—lounging in a bamboo chair sunbathing—kicked Lester awake, who was dozing off against the washbasin stand.
"Your father's here."
"Huh?" Lester wiped the drool from the corner of his mouth and looked up in confusion, utterly lacking his usual roguish charm. "Whose father? What father?"
Old Walter Liew stepped through the gate just in time to hear this exchange. Seeing his third son still in a daze, looking every bit the lazy good-for-nothing, he bellowed, "Your father—that's who!"
That shout snapped Lester out of his stupor. Startled, he backed away, eyeing his storming father warily.
"F-Father! You need something? Have you eaten yet? Want to rest inside?"
"Rest?" Old Walter raised a hand and smacked Lester on the back of the head. "Your brothers have already finished harvesting, and you're still out here napping? You planning to just skip the harvest altogether? What's your plan for spring planting? Do you even have a plan?"
Lester clutched his head and scurried behind Clara, whining, "Father, my wife handles the outside stuff. I stay in the house. I don't know anything about farming. Why're you hitting me? Ask her!"
Clara awkwardly stood up, cleared her throat twice, and knew there was no escaping this. She forced a smile. "Father."
You don't slap someone who greets you with a smile—especially not your daughter-in-law.
Old Walter Liew took a deep breath and tried to put on a kinder face, though the way his brows twitched betrayed his irritation.
"Please, come inside," Clara said, gesturing toward the main hall.
While Old Walter turned his back, Clara gave Lester a swift kick. "Go get your father some hot water. Can't you take a hint?"
Lester rolled his eyes so hard they almost flipped into the sky. He made a show of waving his fist at Clara's retreating back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw four little heads peeking over the window sill, giggling with their teeth showing.
"What're you looking at? Done with your writing practice?" he barked.
The four heads instantly disappeared. They sat back down at the big desk, using sticks to write in sand-filled wooden trays.
Old Walter glanced curiously toward the children's room. "They're practicing calligraphy?"
Clara took the seat opposite him and nodded. "Didn't Lester study in the county town for a year and a half? Would be a waste if it went unused. So now he teaches the four kids. They're still young, easy to teach while their memory's sharp."
Old Walter found this quite novel. "He can be a teacher now?"
Lester entered, setting a bowl of hot water beside his father with a smug grin. "It's nothing. Just teaching them to read and write. Do it enough times, and they get it."
He made it sound easy, but only Clara knew how close he'd come to hanging himself out of frustration dealing with the kids.
Still, they were one family—there was no need to mention such things.
Hearing that Lester had at least some use helped cool Old Walter's temper. But he hadn't forgotten the reason for his visit. He asked Clara what her plans were for the spring planting.
She immediately sensed he had something to say and politely asked for his advice.
Old Walter drank half a bowl of hot water, then glanced toward the eastern fields of the village and said shrewdly:
"In my opinion, don't even think about buying land. Better to ask Frank Liew—since you saved his family—to lease you twenty acres of his good fields."
He'd done the math. With twenty acres of fertile land, subtracting rent and the 1/15 grain tax, and planting two harvests a year, you could end up with over 1000kg of surplus grain annually.
Converted to silver, that's around twenty-five taels in income. Even after expenses for tools and such, you could still save twenty taels easily.
Two adults, four children—not exactly luxurious, but enough to live decently.
And twenty acres of land wasn't back-breaking. Clara was strong as an ox—she might even find it easy.
After hearing Old Walter's well-thought-out plan, Clara's inner thoughts were: Father, farming and killing people are two entirely different things. You really overestimate me.
Last year she couldn't even manage two acres. And now he wanted her to handle twenty?
(End of Chapter)
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