Courtyard House: Home Alone

"Young master,"

Chunxing's chopsticks hovered in mid-air, the pleats on the dumpling wrapper casting dappled shadows in the candlelight. "I...I have no one left in my family. When we fled in 1937, my father and younger brother died on the other side of Lugou Bridge. My mother took my younger sister south, and we haven't heard from them since."

Qiuju and Xiahe also stopped eating. The three girls exchanged glances, as if in some silent understanding.

"Young master,"

Qiuju's voice was even softer than Chunxing's, "Me too. When Grandpa Tang was selecting people at the Baoding shelter, I was the only one left."

"I also have an uncle,"

Xia He suddenly spoke, a forced smile that looked more like a grimace, "I worked as an accountant in Shijiazhuang. Last year, someone sent a message saying I'd married a new wife, and told me... told me not to go back."

Only the soft crackling of embers in the stove and the mournful howl of the north wind sweeping across the eaves outside the window remained in the main room. Lin Yifan put down his chopsticks, and the porcelain plate clinked against the table with a crisp "ding".

"That's perfect," he said. "This year, the four of us will spend the New Year together. Chunxing will manage the accounts, Qiuju will cook, Xiahe will run errands, and I... I'll be in charge of eating."

The three girls were stunned for a moment, then burst out laughing.

Chunxing laughed the most restrainedly, her shoulders trembling slightly; Qiuju covered her mouth with her sleeve, her eyes curving into crescents; Xiahe was the boldest, directly tapping Lin Yifan on the forehead: "Is this all you've got, young master?"

"What?" Lin Yifan stepped back, deliberately widening his eyes, "I'll provide the brains, you guys provide the physical labor. It's a clear division of labor, perfectly reasonable."

As he spoke, he picked up a piece of braised pork knuckle from the plate—the one left by the deaf old woman had been sliced ​​thinly and arranged on a blue-and-white porcelain plate, with amber-colored jelly forming on the glossy skin. He divided the slices into three portions and placed them into the plates of the three maids.

"Eat up," he said. "Grandma Long's kindness shouldn't be wasted."

Looking at the piece of meat on the plate, Chunxing suddenly felt her eyes well up with tears. She remembered when she was little, her father would come back from the market and take out slices of pork head meat from an oil paper package, and her mother would always give her and her younger brother and sister the biggest pieces. At that time, she took it for granted, until she could no longer eat it.

"Young master,"

She lowered her head, her voice a little hoarse, "You've been so kind to us."

"What's so good about it?"

Lin Yifan had already picked up his chopsticks again. "You serve me food and drink, and I'll help you secure your future. It's a fair trade, and we're even."

He spoke casually, but the three maids all understood the weight of his words. In those days, there were very few households in Beiping that treated their maids like human beings.

Moreover, Lin Yifan's "planning for a future" was not just empty talk—he taught Chunxing to read and write, so he taught her to read accounts; he taught Qiuju to cook, so he taught her to cook; and he had Xiahe to relay messages, so he had her pass on the message.

After laughing and joking around for a while, Lin Yifan took his underwear and went to the backyard. There was a special bathroom there, with a large wooden tub in the middle and a tin water tank on the top of the wall next to it, where you could add water for a shower.

However, since it's winter now, a soak is more comfortable.

Chunxing, along with Qiuju and Xiahe, filled the bucket with water and then sent the two of them back to their room, while she stayed behind to prepare to scrub Lin Yifan's back.

This wasn't the first time, and Lin Yifan wasn't as shy as he had been the first time. He stripped himself naked and then climbed into the bucket.

People matured earlier back then. When Chunxing saw Lin Yifan naked, she blushed and wondered to herself: Do boys start maturing at eight years old?

Chunxing hurriedly lowered her eyes, her knuckles turning white as she soaked the loofah in hot water. She was sixteen this year, and would be seventeen after the New Year. She had heard some old women gossiping when she worked for the Tang family, but seeing it in person, she realized that the descriptions in those stories were actually quite subtle.

"Young master, please...please move forward and sit down."

Lin Yifan, on the other hand, was quite composed. He sat in the tub, the water level just above his chest, the steam making his cheeks flush red.

Memories from his past life, spanning over thirty years, swirled in his mind. He was long past the age of feeling ashamed of being naked, but the body's reaction couldn't lie—when Chunxing wiped his back, he could feel his ears burning.

"Chunxing," he suddenly spoke, his voice muffled by the moisture in his breath, "how's your literacy coming along?"

Chunxing paused for a moment, then resumed her movements, the loofah gourd slicing down her shoulder blade: "I've finished the Thousand Character Classic, and I've read most of the arithmetic book you gave me. It's just... it's just those foreign numbers, I always get them mixed up."

"It's normal to get confused." Lin Yifan leaned forward, letting the hot water wash over his shoulders. "Did you figure out what was going on in the ledger I gave you?"

"I've noticed something," Chunxing said, her voice lowering as if afraid of being overheard. "There are three discrepancies in the Tang family's grain store accounts. Income is understated by 30%, while expenditure is overstated by 20%. I followed your method and compared the numbers piece by piece, and sure enough, they don't match."

Which three places?

"The market price for the brown rice on the 17th of last month was 85 cents per dou, but the account book recorded it as 93 cents; and the sorghum on the 23rd, 120 shi were put into storage, but the delivery slip showed 135 shi; the strangest thing was the sesame oil on the 30th, clearly only 50 jin were put in, but the purchase record book showed 60 jin."

Lin Yifan closed his eyes, his lips twitching slightly. This girl was even more clever than he had thought. He had "borrowed" a copy of the account book from Old Master Tang's study, deliberately leaving a few flaws, but she had found them all.

"Who do you think did this?"

Chunxing stopped the loofah sponge in his hand on his lower back, where there was a faint birthmark, like a leaf: "I dare not say."

"explain."

"...It was Mr. Liu, the accountant. He was the one who ultimately signed off on every discrepancy in the accounts. And,"

She paused, then said, "I compared the handwriting. The extra numbers have lighter strokes than the previous ones, as if they were added later."

"Chunxing," he opened his eyes, her face veiled in the steamy mist, "who did you tell about this?"

"No, I haven't told anyone."

"Don't say it again."

He turned around, the water rippling, splashing a few drops onto Chunxing's hand. "Let the Tang family investigate their own affairs. You just focus on your studies. When spring comes, I'll send you to a crash course at a Western-style school to learn proper double-entry bookkeeping."

Chunxing's hand trembled, and the loofah sponge almost fell into the bucket: "A Western-style school? I...I'm just a girl..."

"What's wrong, little girl?" Lin Yifan interrupted her, "There are already female bankers in Shanghai, are you worried you can't learn it?"

He spoke casually, but Chunxing felt something swelling in her chest. She lowered her head and continued rubbing his back, but her movements were much gentler than before, as if afraid of breaking something.

"Young master," she suddenly spoke, her voice as soft as steam rising from water, "why are you so kind to us?"