Reaching out， she caught hold of Yingnü's hand， clammy like a fish dredged from the water. Startled， she called out to Yingnü and reached for a match， lighting the kerosene lamp. Yingnü faced the wall， hugging her shoulders， lying motionless， seemingly deep in sleep. Unsure， Zhaonü called out to her again.
Clearing her throat， Yingnü replied， "It's nothing， Zhaonü. Just a dream."
Moving her pillow， Zhaonü lay closer and embraced Yingnü as if they were children again， their bodies curving tightly into each other's. Against Yingnü's gradually steadying breath， Zhaonü drifted off to sleep.
When she opened her eyes again there was already daylight outside， her body lying half out of the quilt. Yingnü was nowhere to be seen. In the wing room， the stone grinder was making a cracking noise. Putting on her clothes， Zhaonü saw Yingnü and Madam were grinding maize. Two green stone grinders were covered with scratches， and it was hard to tell how old they were， as there were only two large， thin stone slabs left. The giant handles of the grinders were made of hard rosewood. Yingnü separated her two feet—one in front of the other—with half of her body on the handle， endeavouring to both push and pull the handle. Madam was sitting on top， pouring corn into the hole of the grinder.
It was a completely ordinary scene， yet Zhaonü could not help feeling something was out of the ordinary.
Yingnü was smiling， dimples appearing on her face， pink cheeks lustrous as she hummed away happily.
"Zhaonü， today the market will be open. Both of us can go there after breakfast."
After they finished grinding three litres of corn and feeding the pigs， Zhaonü and Yingnü changed their clothes and walked into town. Madam reminded them to bring back some oil and salt. It was the height of summer， when people were delighted to see the dark green shade of the trees. As they climbed up to the entrance of the mountains， both of them were sweating all over.
Sitting down under the shade of the trees， Yingnü used her hand as a fan， and took out her floral handkerchief to wipe away the sweat. Then she stepped on the rock to pick up raspberries. In no time， her lips were bright red. She asked whether Zhaonü wanted any， but Zhaonü was afraid of the sour taste. Zhaonü looked into the distance， seeing her mother's tomb on the slope. The peach and plumb trees her father planted in front of the tomb were all heavily burdened with fruit. They weighed down the branches， like two expanded floral umbrellas. The story about the connection between a girl's fate and the flower tree told by Madam came to Zhaonü's mind. A faint smile emerged on her face. She shook her head.
"Yingnü， I'm wondering—what sort of dream did you have last night？"
Yingnü， busy finishing a raspberry， pouted and turned her head askance in thought， the juice red on her lips.
"I can't tell you."
"Why？"
"Someday you'll understand."
Remembering it later， Zhaonü realised that， in that moment， Yingnü had appeared for a second like an adult. Although they were born on the same day， everyone who knew them felt Zhaonü to be older by a few years—she seemed so much more full of care and the weight of the world， her way of speaking more serious and tending toward the salient. While Yingnü looked like an adult， her mind was not yet entirely opened to the realities of the world. Yet at that moment， Zhaonü saw something completely different. Arriving in town， before the two parted， Yingnü laughingly said： "I know you've got things to do—I'll go to Juzi's house and do the shopping."
Zhaonü was somewhat embarrassed—it seemed Yingnü had guessed at what was on her mind. Yet it was impossible. She hesitated to watch as Yingnü entered the crowded throng and disappeared， all trace of her vanishing in an instant.
As if it were nothing at all， Yingnü entered Juzi's fine family home， where Juzi sat knitting a sweater in front of the TV screen's glitter， using a vermillion mohair thread， which shone in the crystalline light.
"Juzi， you're sewing？"
Not raising her head， Juzi mumbled in reply， her ball of thread suddenly rolling from the sofa to the ground， to beneath the olive-coloured refrigerator. Yingnü stooped to pick it up， patting it free of dust as she handed it back.
Juzi's yellow face teemed with freckles， but she always dressed fashionably， more so than Yingnü. She did not look at people when speaking， and would make a heavy nasal sound. Her boyfriend was the son of a head of town commerce and industry office， working as an accountant in its foodstuffs division. It took Juzi's father， Uncle He， a great deal of efforts to settle the marriage. The head of the Township Industrial and Commercial Office， who wore a wide-edged hat， came to her home for drinks now and then. He sipped the wine while his face turned blue. When he left， Uncle He would send him home on his motorcycle. The trunk of the motorcycle was filled with bags of stuff. Uncle He was involved in a grocery business， and he hung the business license high on the shelf. He smiled brightly in the picture on his license. But Juzi's fiancé seldom gave any attention to her. He did not come half as frequently as Uncle He did. On the rare occasions he did come， he brought two bottles of wine， as it was inevitably one of the festive seasons. And he would stay there silently， wearing his poker face and waiting for meals. The meals were in a banquet style， with four dishes and eight bowls of different food. After the meal they would go and play poker. He said why not play mahjong instead. Juzi couldn't play， losing every time. Each time she lost her fiancé would laugh， sneeringly， lips curled with a kind of duck-beaked diffidence.
Juzi made a mistake as she was knitting. Taking the mohair and thread， she attempted to tear them apart， but the mohair did not tear easily. Seeing the impatience on her face， Yingnü said， "You can't just tear up mohair like that."
Juzi replied haughtily， "Have you ever torn up something this expensive before？"
