They talked a while longer. As night fell, Du Heng sent Zhuzi home with a bowl of pig’s blood. By then, Qin Xiaoman returned, carrying a basket of cypress branches.
They ate leftovers in the kitchen, the cold seeping in. Xiaoman peeked outside and heard a soft brush, brush, brush sound in the yard.
“Is it raining?” he asked.
Du Heng heard it too.
“Summer rain doesn’t make this sound—it’s snow pellets.” Xiaoman quickly set down his bowl. “I’ll go put the chickens in the coop.”
Rushing out, he saw the stone courtyard dusted with tiny snow pellets, bouncing like broken rice. The three chickens, startled, scurried into the coop on their own. Xiaoman closed the door, relieved he’d already stored the firewood under the eaves; otherwise, it would be wet.
“Real snow pellets,” Du Heng said, hopping in place near the stove, watching them fall in the light.
“This year, it’s coming earlier than usual. Freezing!”
Xiaoman was used to snow; no surprise. For villagers, it meant hardship—possible deaths from cold—unlike the wealthy who could enjoy it by the fire.
“Don’t move recklessly. Dr. Cui said bones are still growing; a misstep could make them crooked.”
Xiaoman helped steady Du Heng. Even after a short time in the yard, the chill seeped into his clothes, while Du Heng remained warm. He brushed the snow from Xiaoman’s shoulders and head.
“Could snow more heavily later. Even a pot of charcoal won’t warm the house tonight. Two more pots, four rooms total, still won’t be enough. The charcoal we’ve saved for cooking might not last until spring.”
Qin Xiaoman looked at the handsome Du Heng. The boy had been at their home for almost a month now, and he looked even better cared-for than when he had first been taken in. “You’re staying in my room again tonight? Then two charcoal stoves should be enough, right?”
Ever since that night when a wild cat had dashed into the house and Du Heng had stayed with Qin Xiaoman, Xiaoman had tasted the sweetness of having him nearby. But after that night, Du Heng had returned to his own room to sleep.
Xiaoman had wanted to find an excuse to have him stay again, but no suitable reason came to mind. He didn’t dare force it like last time.
Before Du Heng could respond, Xiaoman helped him into his room.
This room was slightly smaller than Du Heng’s, and being closer to the kitchen, which still retained some warmth from the fire, it was indeed a bit cozier.
But with the snow falling, even this room was as cold as Du Heng’s usual sleeping quarters—one could only imagine how frigid his own room must be.
Qin Xiaoman busied himself tidying the bedding and moving the charcoal stoves.
Du Heng found it a bit troublesome but could only watch quietly. “Dr. Cui said my foot is recovering well. After the New Year, I should be able to move around properly, just in time for spring planting. You won’t have to handle everything alone.”
Xiaoman smiled and handed him a cup of hot water. “You even know how to farm?”
“I do,” Du Heng replied. “Next year, we can plant all the land at home.”
“You’re quite greedy,” Xiaoman said teasingly, though he was secretly pleased. “Do you even know how much land I have?”
Du Heng’s smile was like a warm stove. “I remember it all.”
Throughout the night, the snow brushed against the roof tiles with a soft, steady sound—both noisy and strangely serene.
The charcoal in the room burned warmly, and with the window slightly open, Du Heng, wrapped in blankets, didn’t notice when the snow stopped falling.
The next morning, the two slept until daylight, nearly an hour later than usual, likely due to the warmth of the room.
The room was bright. Xiaoman guessed it had snowed last night. Pushing open the door to the courtyard, he saw it: the blue stone yard covered in a thick blanket of white.
Everywhere he looked was snow, broken only by the chirping of birds searching for food and the snapping of snow-laden trees and bamboo.
Rubbing his hands together, Xiaoman thought of the old houses in the village—surely some must have been crushed under the heavy snow.
He planned to eat breakfast first and then clear the snow from the roof and yard. Just then, Qin Xiaozhu came in, a rabbit-fur scarf around his neck and a basket in hand.
“Why haven’t you even cleared the yard?” Qin Xiaozhu said, stepping down and leaving footprints, frowning. “What time is it?”
Xiaoman ignored him and asked, “What’s the matter?”
“My mother is entertaining a matchmaker today. We don’t have fresh meat, so she said to borrow some pork offal. Once father slaughters a pig, we’ll return it.”
“Someone’s trying to match you?”
Qin Xiaozhu glanced sideways at Xiaoman. “Do I lack matchmakers? My mother wants a matchmaker to arrange a bride for my brother.”
“Oh,” Xiaoman said. “Elder or second brother?”
“Both,” Xiaozhu replied.
Xiaoman thought that made things easier. He went inside and fetched a basket of pork heart and lungs—this season, many liked to cook soup with fresh radish along with pork heart. His two elder cousins treated him well and sincerely hoped he’d find a good bride and a good brother-in-law.
Qin Xiaozhu waited in the main room, snow on his shoes untouched, and caught sight of Du Heng inside.
He only glanced once before awkwardly looking away, but kept sneaking peeks. He noticed the man seemed even more handsome than the first time he saw him.
Yesterday, during the pig slaughter, he had arrived late for the meal and hadn’t been seated with Du Heng, so he barely saw him.
His father had said Du Heng’s foot had been treated, and once healed, he would be able to walk normally. If that was true, Xiaoman was in for quite a fortunate advantage.
“Have some hot water,” Du Heng said, noticing the little boy with hands tucked warmly into his sleeves. Xiaozhu looked about the same age as Xiaoman but slightly shorter, and they didn’t resemble each other at all.
Du Heng thought the boy appeared more delicate than Xiaoman, much like those he remembered from his past.
Qin Xiaozhu took the water silently, thinking: no wonder so many want to marry a scholar—such a refined, soft-spoken young man, who could resist talking to him?
“Is your scarf rabbit fur?”
Hearing Du Heng speak, Xiaozhu’s heart raced. He lightly touched the soft scarf around his neck. Finally, after so many days, it had snowed—he had managed to get out to show it off. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have come in this cold.
At least Du Heng seemed to recognize quality, noticing his scarf at a glance. It made his early morning effort worthwhile.
“Yes. Father bought it from a cloth shop in the county. It cost several dozen wen.”
Seeing the proud look on Qin Xiaozhu’s face, Du Heng’s brows twitched slightly—this was the look of a child loved by his parents.
“It does look good,” he said.
Xiaozhu’s lips curled. But then he thought: wait, who is he saying this to? Could it be that he has taken a liking to me?
His heart skipped, a mix of nervousness and pride. Before he could gather his thoughts, Du Heng added, “Since it’s snowing, I want to get one for Xiaoman too.”