Du Heng, still under the blanket, pulled the clothes left by the boy over himself.
The trousers were easy enough—he just had to lift the legs and pull them on. The shirt had several long ties; he fiddled with them for a while before finally fastening it properly.
Having been rubbed with hot water earlier, his bed had warmed slightly. He wore a thin undergarment, a middle layer, and a slightly thicker padded jacket, yet it still wasn’t as warm as the bed.
He knew it was winter. Life in this era was far harsher than in a backward mountain village. Having a set of winter clothes was already a blessing.
The boy’s logic was sound: a cripple in the harsh winter couldn’t survive outside.
So… to stay alive, he had to accept being the boy’s husband.
After dressing, he sat on the bed for a long time, lost in thought. He pondered, worried, and reached no conclusion. The cold, however, was real.
Even in this small, drafty, half-wood, half-mud house, the chill was severe.
Finally, realizing his frail body could not withstand the cold, Du Heng lowered his head and slowly, with his limping leg, made his way to the warmest room—the kitchen.
Using this leg was still unfamiliar to him; walking was slow and laborious. Fortunately, the small tile-roofed house didn’t require many steps to reach the kitchen.
He cautiously peeked into the doorway connecting the main room and the kitchen.
The fire blazed, filling the kitchen with a warm yellow glow.
The boy was at the hearth, standing on a thick log. He swung an axe with his right hand, and—crack!—the log split into several pieces.
Du Heng took a breath. The boy was strong; naturally, if he weren’t, he wouldn’t have been able to carry him back.
He glanced at the piles of firewood stacked under the hearth and guessed that this must be a hardworking household.
“You’re here already? Not sleeping?”
Qin Xiaoman looked up from chopping wood and saw Du Heng standing in the doorway. Though tall, he looked small and timid there, like a young bride visiting a strange village.
“No,” Du Heng replied, limping toward the stove. He saw a large iron pot on the hearth with rice cooking. White rice soup was bubbling, releasing the fresh fragrance of the grain. He guessed it must be new rice, harvested this autumn.
“Hungry again?” Qin Xiaoman asked, noticing his gaze.
Du Heng instinctively shook his head. He wasn’t conscious of hunger, yet his stomach immediately protested with a couple of rumbling noises. Embarrassed, he covered it as if hiding a troublesome little imp.
Qin Xiaoman said nothing, instead fetching a small wooden stool and placing it near the stove.
“Sit here. It’s warm by the hearth. It’s cold out in the rain.”
He then went to a wooden cabinet by the stove. After a moment of fiddling, he came back with a small, hard rice cake about the size of his palm.
Du Heng watched as he shook it vigorously over the floor and blew on the ash from the tongs before carefully placing it into the stove.
The charcoal glowed red-hot. The hard rice cake quickly softened and puffed up.
Qin Xiaoman flipped it, placed it back, and repeated the process until both sides were puffed and golden. He tapped the rice cake and handed it to Du Heng:
“Here. Eat this to fill your stomach a bit.”
Du Heng held the warm rice cake in his hands, surprised. He remembered his grandmother heating corn cakes like this when he was very small.
The heat from the fire warmed him as he slowly separated the rice cake and ate it. The rice was coarse and rough in his mouth—not delicious—but he ate every last bite.
Meanwhile, Qin Xiaoman calmly scooped the red-hot embers into a metal brazier and glanced at Du Heng.
Slowly, deliberately, Du Heng ate. His father had been a scholar—refined, polite—but not as pleasing to the eye as this boy.
“You were wolfing it down earlier,” Qin Xiaoman observed. “Now that you’ve had a little, you’re taking your time.”
The small brazier was full of red embers. Qin Xiaoman scattered a little cold ash on top, cooling the coals so they wouldn’t burn the bamboo basket brazier or scald hands and feet.
He handed the brazier he’d just prepared to Du Heng.
Feeling the warmth radiating from it at his feet, Du Heng’s brow twitched slightly.
He had finished the rice cake and glanced around. Though the kitchen door was closed, through the window he could see the gray, misty rain outside. The hour was already late.
“Are you the only one at home?” he asked.
Qin Xiaoman gave a brief nod.
Du Heng was about to ask about his parents—whether they’d be back soon, whether he should go fetch them an umbrella in the rain—when he saw the young master, still with a faintly greenish youthful look, busy at the stove. As if anticipating his question, Qin Xiaoman said casually:
“My uncle passed away years ago during the birth of his son. My father was called by the county officials to help with some mining work, and when the mountain collapsed… well, he didn’t survive either. So, it’s just me at home.”
Du Heng froze, his expression tightening, his mind stalling for a moment. He couldn’t quite process such misfortune, yet the boy spoke calmly, as if stating a fact rather than seeking pity.
For a moment, Du Heng didn’t know what to say to comfort him.
Seeing that the water in the pot had lessened, Qin Xiaoman scooped a ladle of rice and pressed it with his fingers to test its softness. Seeing it cooked, he poured both rice and broth into a small woven bamboo basket.
It was as if he were reporting a task unrelated to himself, not expecting anyone to feel burdened or to offer consolation.
The bamboo basket could hold the rice but not the liquid, so the rice porridge drained into a bowl underneath, while the rice was kept separate.
After washing the pot, he ladled in some cold water, set the steaming basket over it, and poured the rice back in to steam. Soon, soft, fluffy, slightly sweet rice was ready.
Winter was the season for radishes and cabbage. While the rice steamed, thick slices of white radish were placed in an iron pot. By the time the rice was done, the radish was cooked too, so they could be served together.
Qin Xiaoman considered that this was Du Heng’s first day at the house. Ideally, he’d have prepared something meaty, but the house had no fresh meat. They would have to make do for now and perhaps visit his second uncle tomorrow to see if a pig had been slaughtered.
Du Heng watched the boy’s practiced, if rough, cooking skills.
“You really shouldn’t be telling a stranger these things,” he said.
Qin Xiaoman glanced at him, smiling: “Let’s not even talk about it. With the wind and rain outside, you’d collapse easily. I could probably lay you out myself. Even if you were strong, I couldn’t beat you—but if I just shout once, you think my second uncle wouldn’t come running with a butcher’s knife?”
Du Heng fell silent, realizing there was some sense of safety here after all.
After a long moment, he asked, “What’s your name?”
“Qin Xiaoman. I was born just after the beginning of summer—so that’s my name.”
Du Heng nodded. Farmers often named their children according to the twenty-four solar terms.
“And you? You have a name, right?”
“Du Heng. That’s my name.”
Qin Xiaoman’s brow twitched. He only knew how to write the character “Du.” Though his father had some literacy, he himself only recognized about a hundred characters. Hearing Du Heng’s name, he thought it refined, fitting the face at the stove.
“Your parents must have been educated. That’s a nice name,” he said.
It wasn’t like the village children’s names, often after animals or their birth order—crudely given, supposedly to make them easier to raise. The truth was, the parents simply didn’t know enough to give a proper name.
Du Heng said quietly, “It’s fine, I guess.”
Once Qin Xiaoman finished tending the stove, preparing chili for the radish dipping sauce, he noticed Du Heng suddenly stand up.
“Where are you going?”
“I want to look around at the door,” Du Heng replied.
He thought it strange—was the door really off-limits?
Before he could dwell on it, Qin Xiaoman said, “Take that brazier with you. It’s cold outside; if you freeze, it’ll be bad for the doctor.”
“…Okay.”
Du Heng picked it up and opened the kitchen door. The cold, drizzling wind immediately rushed in, stinging his skin.
The wind, mixed with rain and mist, cut sharply.
He hugged the brazier to his chest. The bluestone ground of the courtyard was wet, and the stacked firewood was no exception.
The gray sky spread like ink in water, and all he could see nearby was the field soil. Beyond that, the rain and fog blurred everything.
Looking at the distant mountains disappearing into the mist, and the winding road vanishing along with them, he frowned. The path back seemed to have been swallowed by the rain and fog, impossible to trace.
Qin Xiaoman tilted his head to look out. The wind snuck under Du Heng’s sleeves and trousers, cold enough to make anyone shiver—but he stood stiffly, as if feeling nothing.
He realized this person must be homesick.
Qin Xiaoman paused, then stepped out. “Look around. My roof is black-tiled, not a thatched shed. And see the courtyard? Stone-paved, not just mud.”
Du Heng smiled faintly. “It’s nice.”
“Since your legs don’t work well, don’t even think about wandering off. Stay here and be my husband. I won’t short you any food. You do what work you can, but I won’t make you carry heavy loads.”
Hearing the word husband, Du Heng felt his face heat. He didn’t answer.
“You don’t like it? Think I’m bossy?” Qin Xiaoman teased.
“I don’t,” Du Heng said honestly.
“Then… why would you agree to bring a stranger home to be… your husband?”
From what he remembered, there was no such custom.
“I’m the age of a young master now; most in the village are already talking about marriage. I can’t remain unmarried forever. But if I married into someone else’s home, my parents’ house would go to waste,” Qin Xiaoman said carefully. “Originally, I planned to find a live-in husband, but there wasn’t anyone suitable in the village, and outsiders gave no reply.”
Du Heng fell silent, deep in thought.
“So… did you agree so hastily just to get something to eat?” Qin Xiaoman asked. “Tell me honestly.”
Du Heng saw the sincerity in him and felt that no matter what he said, this was a life-saving kindness. He spoke carefully:
“I appreciate your goodwill, but we’ve only just met. To become husband and wife right away would be too rash. This kind of thing should come from mutual consent. It would be inappropriate to do it all muddled and half-understood.”
To keep things calm, Du Heng took a step back. “We should at least get to know each other first, don’t you think?”
Qin Xiaoman laughed. Full from his meal, now he wanted to get to know someone? Earlier, that wasn’t the case.
Mutual consent? Sounds like too many novels had gotten to him.
Life in the village wasn’t about twists and turns. People worked from dawn to dusk just to eat—there was no time or energy to worry about “mutual affection.” Even in formal marriages, if both families were from the same village, the couple might have seen each other a few times. There could be a spark of feeling, but mostly it depended on the family’s status, the bride price, and the dowry.
It was the parents’ decision, matched by the matchmaker. That was enough.
If someone married outside the village, the groom could have a lazy eye or a face full of pockmarks—and they’d only see it on the wedding night. By then, regret had nowhere to go. There was little room for romantic feelings.
Still, seeing Du Heng pitiful and not wanting to push him too far—especially since he was a man of unknown origin—Qin Xiaoman relented.
“Fine. You’re particular, so we’ll get to know each other first. Is that okay?”
Du Heng exhaled in relief. “That’s perfect.”
“Then come inside quickly. You’ll catch a chill out here.”
Du Heng hugged the brazier and nodded. He stepped into the kitchen. Just as Qin Xiaoman closed the stove door, a knock came at the main door.
He opened it again, calling out impatiently toward the courtyard:
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, Xiaoman,” came a young man’s voice.
Qin Xiaoman went out in the rain, frowning. “What do you want?”
“I went to the county today. I brought you a bag of roasted chestnuts. Eat them while they’re warm.”
Du Heng peeked out the window and saw the man wearing a straw hat, holding an oil-paper package sincerely in his hands.
Qin Xiaoman, already annoyed, became even more irritated. He waved dismissively. “I don’t eat this.”
The man didn’t get offended.
Qin Xiaoman said again, “If you don’t have business, go home.”
But the man lingered, hesitating, glancing around. He noticed a set of clothes hung on a line under the eaves and froze.
Though the man’s clothes weren’t very different from the young master’s, the sizes made it clear they didn’t belong to Qin Xiaoman.
The man furrowed his brow. “Xiaoman… there’s a man in your house?!”