Mr. Sullivan is good at everything—he can make money, take care of the household, and is a master at cooking; he’s extremely capable. Because of this, his brother has nothing to do and can only specialize in squandering the family fortune—Mr. Sullivan’s brother is called “William Sullivan.” It’s said that he was sickly since childhood, and the family feared he wouldn’t survive, so they didn’t give him a formal name. Since he was born on the sixteenth day of the first lunar month, they simply named him “Sixteen.”

William Sullivan spends his days neither studying nor working. If an oil bottle tipped over, he wouldn’t bother to set it upright; no one has ever seen him fetch water, either. He either loafs around or drinks, utterly unambitious and lacking in any redeeming qualities.

Except for his looks.

He’s truly handsome. The town’s oldest resident personally attested that in nearly ninety years of life, he’d never seen such a well-proportioned man.

Unfortunately, good looks are useless—William Sullivan suffered a serious illness as a child, which left him with a fever-damaged mind. His eyesight is so poor that he can only see things within two feet; beyond ten paces, he can’t even distinguish between men and women. He’s also hard of hearing; you have to shout for him to hear anything. Every day, when passing by the Sullivan household, you can hear the refined and gentle Mr. Sullivan roaring at him like a mad dog from behind the courtyard wall.

In short, William Sullivan is a sickly, half-blind, half-deaf invalid.

With his looks, he ought to be a natural-born pretty boy, but in this remote, impoverished town, everyone is either dirt poor or destitute—no one could afford to keep even a fairy as a pampered companion.

According to local custom, when someone does you a great favor that you can’t repay, you become sworn kin—those with children have their children do it; those without, do it themselves.

The The Sullivan Brothers saved Charles from the jaws of wolves—a life-saving favor. Naturally, Charles was expected to recognize one of them as his adoptive father.

Mr. Sullivan had read so many books that he’d muddled his brain, insisting it was improper and refusing to accept. Instead, his brother, Master William, was delighted and immediately called out, “Son.”

Thus, William Sullivan, the good-for-nothing, gained a huge advantage—if this idle, sickly fellow ever ended up destitute, Charles would be obliged to care for him in his old age.

Charles made his way through his own courtyard, slipped out the side gate, and arrived at Mr. Sullivan’s house.

There were only two bachelors in the Sullivan household, not even a single hen, so there was no need for formalities. He always came and went as he pleased, never bothering to knock.

As soon as he entered the courtyard, a wave of medicinal scent mixed with the faint, threadlike sound of an xun (clay flute) greeted him.

Mr. Sullivan was in the courtyard, frowning as he decocted medicine. He was a scholarly-looking young man, dressed in an old long robe—not old, but always frowning, with an air of gentle poverty steeped in the smoke and fire of daily life.

The xun music drifted from inside the house. The shadow of the player, tall and slender, was cast by the dim lamp onto the paper window. Clearly, his skill was lacking; it was impossible to tell what tune he was playing. Now and then, a note wouldn’t sound, and the whole piece was hoarse and muffled, carrying a strange sense of desolation and weariness.

To call it music might be a stretch. Charles listened closely and thought that if he had to praise it, he could only say the wailing was rather melodious.

James Sullivan heard footsteps, smiled at Charles, then shouted toward the inner room, “Ancestor, have some mercy—you're about to blow your bladder out! Charles is here!”

The xun player paid no attention. With his hearing, he probably really hadn’t heard.

Mr. Sullivan looked rather pale.

Charles listened and thought the xun player sounded strong, not at all like a sick person, and felt half reassured. He asked, “I heard from Fatty Grant that Sir is going to change William’s medicine. What’s wrong with him?”

Mr. Sullivan glanced at the color of the medicine and replied irritably, “Nothing much, just the change of seasons. Different medicines for different times of year. This sickly fellow is delicate and hard to care for—oh, you’re just in time. He somehow got hold of something today and wants to give it to you first thing tomorrow morning. Go take a look.”

☆, Chapter 2 Adoptive Father

Charles picked up the freshly prepared medicine and entered his little adoptive father’s room.

William Sullivan’s room was lit by only a dim oil lamp, its bean-sized glow flickering like a firefly.

He was sitting by the window, most of his face hidden in the shadows, only a hint visible. He was probably about to go to bed; William Sullivan hadn’t put up his hair, letting it fall loose. At the corner of his eye and beneath his earlobe were two tiny vermilion moles, like pinpricks. The scant light in the room seemed to gather and pool in those little moles, almost dazzling.

Under the lamp, a person’s looks gain an extra touch of color.

Everyone has an appreciation for beauty. Even though he was used to it, Charles couldn’t help but catch his breath. He blinked quickly, as if to blink those dazzling vermilion moles out of his eyelids, cleared his throat, and raised his voice: “William, time for your medicine.”

The youth’s voice was changing, and it was a bit of a strain to talk to someone half-deaf. Fortunately, this time William Sullivan heard him, and the bladder-bursting xun music came to an abrupt halt.

William Sullivan squinted to make out Charles standing at the door. “Who are you calling so disrespectfully?”

He was only seven or eight years older than Charles, still unmarried. Perhaps he was aware of his own hopeless nature and had resigned himself to a lonely life without a wife. Having finally stumbled upon a convenient son he didn’t have to support, he was eager to cling to him, always making a point to emphasize his status as “father.”

Charles ignored him, carefully setting the medicine bowl in front of him. “Drink it while it’s hot. It’s late—finish it and go to bed.”