Chapter 68

Chapter 68: Twisted into One Rope
Several hours later, Qin Hui Yin was woken by Li Tao Hua.

They were home.

Li Tao Hua climbed down first, then reached up for her. Qin Hui Yin caught her arm and hopped down in one smooth motion. Li Tao Hua stumbled from the sudden weight and grabbed her, steadying them both with a sharp inhale.

“Still sleepy?” Li Tao Hua asked, rubbing Qin Hui Yin’s head as if she were patting down a bird’s ruffled feathers. “Go sleep a bit more. We’ll handle things here.”

“I slept for hours in the cart.” Qin Hui Yin rubbed her face, forcing her eyes open all the way. “I’m not sleepy anymore—I’m just foggy from waking up. Washing my face will fix it.”

“Yin Yin, go rest,” Tang Lu Wu said, stepping forward at once. “We can’t help with the business decisions, but we can share other chores. I’ll wash the cart. Tomorrow you can check it. If you find any spot not clean, dock my pay.”

“I’ll cook,” Li Tao Hua added briskly. “Don’t worry about dinner. I’ll handle it. I watched beside you these past two days—I learned quite a lot.”

Tang Yi Xiao hovered near the money box, rubbing his nose like he was trying to scrub off his hesitation. “I’ll string the copper coins.” He glanced at Qin Hui Yin, cautious. “If you can trust me…”

Money was no small thing. If someone’s hands weren’t clean, they could pocket a few dozen wen at a time and no one would notice until it was too late. It was reasonable to be sensitive about it.

Qin Hui Yin looked at him steadily. “Younger brother, we’re family. If I didn’t trust you, I wouldn’t bring you along to earn money.” She tapped the edge of the box. “That money doesn’t belong to me alone. Each of us has a share. If I can touch it, why can’t you? The coins are scattered, though. Don’t rush to string them all tonight. String what you can. After dinner, we’ll string them together.”

The light that flooded Tang Yi Xiao’s eyes was bright enough to hurt. He nodded hard, as if he were afraid his voice would crack if he spoke.

Qin Hui Yin let them take over the obvious chores. It wasn’t like she had nothing to do.

Li Tao Hua had bought fifty chicks at the market. That meant the chicken coop needed to be tidied and repaired before the little yellow fuzz-balls got themselves killed.

While she was still thinking about it, Tang Da Fu limped into the yard carrying a wooden basin, his sleeves rolled up.

“You’re back,” Li Tao Hua said, eyes sliding to the basin. “You went to wash clothes?”

“I wanted to do something too.” Tang Da Fu held the basin out proudly, as if it contained treasure. “Yesterday’s clothes you changed out of still weren’t washed, so I gathered them and washed them. Wife, look—I washed them so clean.”

Li Tao Hua took the damp bundle, flipping through it. Her tone turned sharp. “In the future, only wash the men’s. Don’t touch the two daughters’. Even if it’s just outer clothing, it’s still not good if people see.”

The village gossips could wag their tongues hard enough to dig up bones. Li Tao Hua wouldn’t give them anything to gnaw on—especially when one of the girls wasn’t even Tang Da Fu’s blood.

“All right,” Tang Da Fu said at once. The pride drained out of him. He stood there looking dejected, like a dog that had brought home a stick and gotten scolded for it.

Li Tao Hua’s voice softened, the edge sheathed but not gone. “They are clean. It’s the first time I’ve seen a man wash clothes. In that, you’re already better than most village men. Looks like my lady’s eyes weren’t bad.”

Qin Hui Yin watched it happen: the dead-pond look in Tang Da Fu’s eyes lit right back up. One moment he’d been an eggplant hit by frost. The next, he was alive again, practically glowing.

Qin Hui Yin: “…”

Her mother really did know how to handle men.

Li Tao Hua planted a hand on her hip. “What are you standing there like an idiot for? Hang them up. Are you waiting for me to do it?”

“I’ll hang them right now,” Tang Da Fu said quickly, limping away toward the clothesline with the basin like he’d been pardoned from execution.

The Tang siblings stood there, expressions tangled.

There was a grim satisfaction in watching someone finally rein in their mediocre, chauvinistic father—so much like the men everyone knew. And yet it stung, too. He was willing to fawn over a woman he’d only recently married, yet he’d never thought to do anything for the children he already had. Their own flesh and blood mattered less than an outsider.

Bleakness sat heavy in their chests.

Then Tang Yi Xiao and Tang Lu Wu hurried over to help Qin Hui Yin carry the paper she’d bought toward Tang Yi Chen’s room, and the thought slipped away.

Trading an irresponsible father like Tang Da Fu for a sister like Qin Hui Yin… was actually a profit.

When they entered the room, they found Tang Yi Chen asleep with his head on the desk.

A thick stack of written pages lay beneath his arm—dense characters in shifting styles. Some strokes were sharp as carved iron and silver hooks; others were wild and sweeping; some powerful and forceful; some neat and elegant; some like dragons and serpents flying across the page.

Different scripts, but every line made the eye brighten.

This was the male lead’s strength.

Both the male lead and the villain were born in a rural place like this. One walked a path that became bright and upright; the other became a tragic beauty—strong and stunning, tortured and cutting his way through everything.

But here, under the lamplight and scattered ink, Tang Yi Chen was simply Tang Yi Chen: a living person, not a line on a page. He read late into the night. He wrote until his wrist must have ached. That drive wasn’t just something the story claimed. It was right here, pressed into paper.

“Elder brother is amazing,” Tang Yi Xiao breathed. “These characters are so pretty.”

Tang Yi Chen blinked awake, lifting his head slowly. Ink smeared his handsome face, making him look utterly bewildered. “When did you get back?” he asked, voice rough from sleep. “I fell asleep. I didn’t notice at all.”

Qin Hui Yin pointed at her own cheek, biting back laughter. “Wipe your face first.”

Tang Lu Wu found a handkerchief and handed it to him, pointing. “You’ve got ink here.”

Tang Yi Chen wiped, then stared at the stain on the cloth. “…So I do.”

“We just got back,” Qin Hui Yin said. Then, with shamelessness she wore like armor, she added, “Did you read all day? That won’t do. Your body will get worn out. By the way, we bought fifty chicks, and the coop still isn’t ready. You do it!”

“That last sentence is the real point, isn’t it?” Tang Yi Chen said, and there was even amusement in it now—easy, unguarded.

The Tang Yi Chen described in the book—imposing without anger, emotions hidden from his face—was not this Tang Yi Chen. This one hadn’t yet suffered the pain of losing those closest to him. There was no shadow in his eyes. They were clear and bright as the moon.

Everyone scattered back to the tasks they’d claimed. Qin Hui Yin and Tang Yi Chen headed for the yard corner where the old chicken coop sat.

The Tang Family used to have one, back when Tang Yi Chen’s mother raised chickens. After she died, the chickens were eaten, and no one bought new chicks again. Years had passed. The coop had fallen into disuse. It needed repairs before it could hold anything alive.

“The chicks are too small,” Tang Yi Chen said, examining the warped planks. “It would be better if an old hen could lead them.”

Qin Hui Yin glanced toward the kitchen and listened. No footsteps. No clatter approaching. She lowered her voice. “My mom’s never raised chickens, so she didn’t know. The seller tried to persuade her to buy a hen too, but she accused him of forcing a sale and refused to add the extra 50 wen. By the time I went back, he was gone, so I couldn’t buy one.”

“Daughter,” Li Tao Hua’s voice said from behind her, sweet as sugar on a blade, “your mom can hear…”

Qin Hui Yin went very still.

Li Tao Hua stood there holding a shovel, smiling without warmth.

“Mom,” Qin Hui Yin said instantly, turning with a bright, innocent face, “I’m praising you. I’m saying you’re amazing. The fifty chicks you picked are all so lively.”

Li Tao Hua rolled her eyes but didn’t expose her. She turned away, walked to the yard corner, casually plucked two small green peppers, and returned to the kitchen as if she’d never appeared.

Qin Hui Yin raised her voice on purpose. “Elder brother, look at these chicks. No wonder my mom picked them—every one of them looks lively and pretty. Look at their feathers, so bright and glossy.”

Tang Yi Chen coughed, laughter trapped behind his hand.