The Chen family’s Sixth Uncle clearly treated her like an unwanted female dependent. He assigned her the cramped eastern wing at the far end of the compound. The room had only a narrow bed less than 1.2 meters wide, a small vanity table, a tiny square table, and two short stools.

Even Nanny Zhang’s room next door was larger.

Nanny Zhang clicked her tongue and prepared to go demand a room change. “I know this old house well—there are at least a dozen rooms in the inner courtyard! Even the maids with big egos get better rooms than this!”

“It’s already generous of the Chen family to provide lodging,” Xianjin replied calmly. “Not to mention I’m tagging along with Third Master and getting three meals, fruit, and snacks.”

Nanny Zhang fell silent.

This was better. She’d once looked down on Xianjin for nearly becoming a concubine. Now the girl was earning her keep just like her. That was admirable.

Ever since Madam He died, Nanny Zhang had grown increasingly fond of this girl—first intimidated by her quiet defiance, then impressed by her actual skills, and now convinced that everything she said and did followed a clear logic. Her instincts, honed over half a lifetime, told her: following this girl might lead to a better future than sticking with Third Master.

Nanny Zhang’s way of showing affection was through food. She snuck out three or four mung bean cakes from the kitchen. “Eat up, you’re too skinny. That Third Madam is awful—who starves people in this day and age?”

Xianjin thanked her and ate slowly, chewing each bite with care.

After Nanny Zhang left, Xianjin continued unpacking. She hadn’t brought much—three or four sets of plain cotton clothes, a small tin of balm that worked for both face and lips, and a few wooden hairpins. She also had her “reach-for-money” kit: her household registry (like an ID), a reed pen for writing and communication (in place of a phone), the key to her old room in Yi Courtyard, and a few taels of loose silver. The three hundred-tael banknotes left by Madam He were sewn into the lining of her undergarments. The gold jewelry was locked in the dresser back in Yi Courtyard.

That was it.

She was seriously considering getting an abacus. But even the rat-like bookkeeper in Xuancheng hadn’t heard of one.

Jing County was even more remote—no chance of finding one here. Still, she needed one. Otherwise, future accounting would be a nightmare.

Xianjin closed her eyes. Ancient times had fewer people and colder weather. The Chen residence backed onto the Tianhuang Creek, a tributary of the Wuxi River. In the twelfth lunar month, the cold was bone-deep. She tossed and turned on the rock-hard bed, unable to sleep.

Someday, when she had money, she’d build a fire-heated bed that burned day and night, hold eight jade hand warmers, and sleep under three thick silk quilts—she’d keep herself blazing warm!

That was her fierce bedtime vow.

The next morning, the town and countryside woke to the sound of roosters crowing. Just after breakfast, the steward she’d met the night before arrived, flanked by two laborers carrying two towering stacks of ledgers.

“Bookkeeper He, you’re from Xuancheng—your status is different from ours.” The steward was a bit chubby, his belly bulging like he was five months pregnant, and his face gleamed with oil like a freshly polished pig.

Um… did the Chen family not screen for appearance?

First, the rat-faced Mr. Nian, now this pig-like steward. One more and they’d have a full zodiac lineup.

The steward smiled broadly. “Third Master said yesterday he’d begin managing the shop and workshop today. These are our records from the past three years—expenses, income, purchases, loans—it’s all here. Please review.”

Sixth Uncle had done his homework. This girl wasn’t anyone important—just the daughter of the Third Master’s beloved concubine. No Chen bloodline, no formal status—not even a proper cousin. Not worthy of the title “Miss.”

No one knew what tricks she’d used to tag along to Jing County. Probably just trying to escape the wrath of the main wife.

Xianjin glanced at the pile—at least fifty ledgers. She picked one up and skimmed it. It used the same old single-entry method: date, amount, and reason. The smallest entry was just two copper coins. Even the fake accounts were meticulously detailed.

Xianjin smiled. “And you are?”

The steward kept smiling. “My surname is Zhu. I’m one of the managers at the Chen paper shop. The other manager oversees the workshop—he’s skilled at papermaking but lacks connections, so you’ll be seeing more of me.”

Your real name is Zhu? (Pig?) Xianjin quietly lowered her head.

In short, two managers—one technical, one commercial. The commercial one was squeezing out the technical one.

Got it.

She flipped another page and asked casually, “What happened to the previous bookkeeper? Did I take his place?”

Manager Zhu coughed. “Well—who does what job is up to the boss, right? If the boss doesn’t dismiss someone, they just get reassigned. Wherever they’re placed, they should still do their best.”

Old Madam Qu wouldn’t create a new position just for her. Nor would she send her here just because Chen Fu came. If she were here, it meant someone was needed—someone to shake things up. If a change was needed, it meant the previous work wasn’t good enough. And yet that person hadn’t been dismissed—just reassigned?

Bookkeepers were never isolated. They were always tied to a web of relationships. This one must have strong backing.

Xianjin smiled and returned the ledger. “What’s your relationship with the previous bookkeeper? Brother-in-law? Cousin? Third Aunt’s husband? Or… maybe Sixth Uncle’s man?”

Manager Zhu’s smile froze, then widened again. “You do love to joke…” He turned and barked at the laborers, “Hurry and move the ledgers inside! If you delay Bookkeeper He’s work, I won’t spare you!”

Xianjin raised her arm to block them, smiling. “Ledgers don’t leave the bookkeeping room. That’s the rule.”

“I don’t know what rules the previous bookkeeper followed. But now that I’m in charge, my rules apply—and the bookkeeping room is sovereign.”

Her smile faded. “Ledgers contain numbers, but they represent money. If you’re moving them out, did you make a list? Count the pages? Log the files? Match the watermarks? Sign the vouchers? Have a third-party witness?”

Manager Zhu hadn’t expected her to be so aggressive on day one. He wanted to lash out, but feared Chen Fu.

Xianjin crossed her arms and stood firm, blocking the laborers. “Take the ledgers back to where they came from. You—” she pointed to the quieter one on the left, “you lead the way. I’m coming with you to watch you return them.”

Return them? She was going with them?

Manager Zhu panicked. These fake ledgers had been crafted to fool upper management. They were expensive and flawless—no one could find a flaw. They’d planned to use them to stall Chen Fu for ten days.

Everyone knew Chen Fu’s style. When they got word he was coming, they hadn’t prepared anything. The real, error-ridden ledgers were still sitting in the paper shop.