Peizhi’s perfectly arched brow didn’t so much as twitch. The letter, signed with a flamboyant ‘B’, detailed a plot of such blatant malice it felt almost… pedestrian. Frame Gongze for industrial embezzlement? Steal heavy generator components? It was typical of the clumsy, desperate maneuvers Peizhi had come to expect from her cousin. The truly remarkable part was Baoxia’s delusion, believing Peizhi would simply *return* to her, defeated and bereft, after Gongze’s ruin. As if a life of enforced scrubbing and accounting for fictitious social slights held any appeal after the sweet oblivion of a twelve-hour slumber. Madam Rong, however, was clearly not accustomed to such revelations. Her face, usually a mask of severe competence, had gone a mottled purple, her mouth working without sound. The crumpled paper, still accusingly face-up, seemed to pulse with venom. Peizhi simply sighed, a soft, almost imperceptible exhalation that smelled faintly of jasmine tea. “Madam Rong,” Peizhi’s voice was a gentle hum. “My hands are quite delicate, as you can see. And I find the chopping of firewood to be an exceedingly strenuous activity. The splinter risk alone is quite high.” Madam Rong blinked, her gaze torn from the letter to Peizhi’s languid posture on the chaise. “But… the midday meal, Mistress Peizhi. The coals… who will—” “Just so,” Peizhi murmured, barely shifting her shoulders. “The coals. And the furnace. I hear the exhaust flues behind Bay Gamma stay red-hot all morning. We wouldn’t want to waste such a reliable draft, would we?” Madam Rong’s confusion deepened, but before she could voice it, Peizhi continued, her eyes now gleaming with a quiet, almost mischievous intelligence. “I have a notion. You’ll need to procure a small, thick-walled clay pot. And… oh, let’s say, two kilograms of the cheapest pork ribs from the market stall nearest the docks. The ones with a good layer of fat. And a jar of wild honey, if you can find one that isn’t too watered down.” “Ribs? Honey? For the foreman’s lunch?” Madam Rong stared, aghast. “Mistress, the other wives prepare meticulous stews, steamed buns, boiled greens…” “And they waste valuable energy doing so,” Peizhi countered, waving a dismissive hand. “We shall be efficient. And quite comfortable, I assure you. If Gongze is to be kept happy, he needs to be well-fed. And if he is well-fed, I get to sleep. A perfectly symbiotic relationship, wouldn’t you agree?” Madam Rong, still holding the damning letter in one trembling hand, found herself inexplicably nodding. The logic, however skewed, held a certain unassailable truth in Peizhi’s serene delivery. Later that morning, as the sun climbed higher, casting long, sharp shadows through the industrial complex, Madam Rong carried out Peizhi's instructions down to the ounce. The cheap, fatty ribs, slathered in sticky wild honey and a secret blend of herbs Peizhi had plucked from a forgotten corner of the garden, were sealed tightly within the clay pot. Peizhi, wearing a crisp cotton shift and polished wooden sandals, then directed Madam Rong to carry the vessel—under strict instructions not to tilt it—toward the loud, rumbling iron works. “Just slide it in, Madam Rong,” Peizhi murmured, pointing a pale finger toward an iron maintenance vent near the generator housing. “The residual heat will do all the work. We shall retrieve it just before the midday siren.” Madam Rong, feeling like an accomplice in a bizarre culinary experiment, did as she was told. The heat radiating from the grate forced Madam Rong back, blotting sweat from her temples, while Peizhi, serene under her woven straw hat, did not blink. They returned to the quiet of Peizhi’s courtyard, distant from the clang of iron plate. Peizhi spent the next few hours in her usual routine: a light snack of preserved plums, a leisurely perusal of a worn novella, and a half-hour nap on her chaise. As the midday siren sounded its blast, a cherry-lacquered sedan braked hard over the crushed gravel outside the courtyard gate. The other wives, already gathered for their lunch breaks, gasped, their hands flying to cover their mouths. From the front seat, Baoxia stepped out in an emerald-lined scarlet qipao stitched with gold thread. A heavy, silver-clasped satchel swung from her hand, and a pair of oversized, dark spectacles obscured her eyes, giving her an air of theatrical importance. “Oh, Peizhi, darling,” Baoxia’s voice cut across the alley. She gestured around the modest courtyard. “Still living in this… hovel? My, my. I did warn you. Ling Yao was your only ticket out of this squalor.” She then turned her attention, with a predatory gleam, towards the shipyard gate, where Gongze, his face grimed with industrial dust, was just emerging. “Gongze, my dear,” Baoxia purred, her voice suddenly saccharine. She strode directly towards him, completely ignoring Peizhi, who had slowly risen from her chaise to observe the spectacle. “I heard about your… recent challenges. So unfortunate. But I have a proposition. My family’s new venture, ‘Azure Horizon Logistics,’ needs a reliable supplier for its new fleet of cargo vessels. A lucrative contract, of course. Enough to get you out of this… rather unfortunate situation.” She held out a thick, official-looking document, its pages crisply bound. “It’s a long-term commitment, Gongze. Just a signature here,” she pointed to a line on the document, her red-lacquered nail tapping the paper. “And your troubles, and perhaps even Peizhi’s troubles,” she glanced back at Peizhi with a sneer, “will simply vanish.” Gongze remained silent, expressionless. His eyes, usually cold and sharp, flickered once towards Peizhi, a brief, almost imperceptible warmth. Then, without a glance at Baoxia, he pushed past her, his rough canvas sleeve brushing her silk hem, and walked straight to Peizhi. The thick, official contract fluttered in Baoxia’s hand, ignored. He stopped before Peizhi, his gaze dropping to the heavy clay pot that Madam Rong had hauled back from the boiler line. The pot was almost too hot to touch, radiating an intense warmth that promised untold delights. Gongze, with the practiced strength of a man who dealt with heavy machinery daily, took the pot from Madam Rong. He carried it to the small, sturdy wooden table Peizhi used for her afternoon tea. With a surprising gentleness, he found the seam of the lid and, with a swift, decisive crack, lifted it open. A cloud of fragrant steam billowed forth, thick and sweet and savory. The aroma was intoxicating, a rich, complex perfume of caramelized honey, slow-cooked pork, and an earthy undercurrent of herbs. It swirled through the air, eclipsing the acrid smell of coal smoke and the faint metallic tang of the shipyard. The ribs, impossibly tender, glistened with a dark, sticky glaze, the meat practically falling off the bone. The smell hit Baoxia like a physical blow. Her expensive, catered lunch, which her chauffeur was now awkwardly bringing out in a silver tiffin box, suddenly seemed bland and unappealing. The faint perfume of steamed fish and jasmine rice vanished under the heavy scent of glazed pork. Within moments, dock laborers, their bellies empty from morning shifts, drifted toward the fence. Their eyes, wide with a yearning that bordered on reverence, fixed on the steaming pot. Their cold tins of boiled greens and dry buns looked pitiful by comparison. Baoxia, clutching her ignored contract, was suddenly surrounded, not by men eager for her influence, but by a silent, hungry crowd captivated by the simple, exquisite food from Peizhi’s kitchen. Baoxia's cheeks burned scarlet beneath her powder. Every hungry look skipped past her fancy papers to fix upon the meat. Gongze, still without a word, broke off a succulent rib and offered it directly to Peizhi. She took it with a serene smile, a small dab of honey-glaze on her lips. Then he portioned the rest among the men lined up along the low brick wall, each taking a rib with a gruff word of thanks. Not a single man spared Baoxia a second glance. Baoxia spun on her heel, her silk slippers grinding into the dirt. She marched to her foreign car, leather bag swinging hard against her hip. The chauffeur, sensing her fury, scrambled to open the door. As the engine roared to life, Baoxia leaned out of the window, her face contorted with a venomous rage. Her eyes, no longer obscured by dark lenses, were blazing. “Fine,” she hissed over the sound of chewing and grease-smacked lips. “Let them feast. Let them wallow in their dirt.” Her gaze darted towards the main shipyard gate, where a heavy, rusted iron lever controlled the massive steel barriers. “But some gates, once closed, stay closed.” With a final, spiteful glare, she slammed the gate’s manual lock, the heavy *clunk* echoing through the quarters. The Crimson Comet then sped away, leaving a plume of dust. Only then did the workers, now sated and returning to their posts, notice something amiss. The main gate was indeed locked, sealed shut. And from the boiler bay, where Gongze had stepped inside to inspect the valves, a klaxon began to howl, marking a spike in the steam line.

The Furnace Ribs