When the sky began to lighten, The Foster Family's Old Cook finally finished making breakfast at her usual slow pace and came to knock on the door of Charles's study: "Young master, madam is asking if you’ll be joining her in her room for breakfast."

Charles was fully focused on practicing calligraphy. At her words, his hand paused mid-stroke, but he replied as usual, "No, she likes her peace and quiet, so I won’t disturb her. Please trouble yourself to tell my mother that her son sends his regards."

Old Cook was not surprised by his answer. The daily exchange between this mother and son was as routine as clockwork, nothing new about it.

It was strange, really. By rights, John Foster was only a stepfather; Charles and Grace were the real mother and son. Yet, these two only shared a table and exchanged the proper morning and evening greetings during the few days when John Foster was home, putting on a show of filial harmony and family bliss. As soon as the man of the house left, they became even more distant than strangers. Neither paid the other any mind, even though they lived in the same courtyard. Charles wouldn’t even use the main gate, slipping out the side door every day to run next door. Sometimes, mother and son could go ten or fifteen days without seeing each other at all.

Even when Charles had that near-fatal illness before the New Year, Grace had only come by with indifference to take a look, showing no concern whether her only son lived or died.

In the end, it was Master William who carried him away and cared for him personally.

Old Cook always suspected that Charles wasn’t really Grace’s son, but just looking at them, the two looked so much alike—there had to be a blood relation.

Besides, if he wasn’t her own child, why would a frail woman like Grace, adrift in a foreign place and barely able to fend for herself, keep the boy with her all this time?

It just didn’t make sense.

After a while, Old Cook brought over a food box and said to Charles, "Master is probably coming back to the city today. Madam asked that you come home early."

Charles understood what she meant. With John Foster returning, they’d have to put on their act of motherly love and filial piety again, so he nodded, "Understood."

His gaze fell on the food box. Suddenly, Charles noticed a long hair stuck to the handle. The hand he’d reached out with immediately drew back.

Old Cook’s hair was already white, so this long, black, silky hair couldn’t be hers. John Foster wasn’t back yet, and there were only three people in the house—if it wasn’t the cook’s, it had to be Grace’s.

Charles had a strange kind of cleanliness—directed only at his own mother.

Next door, he could eat leftovers from his foster father’s bowl without a care, but at home, if Grace had touched something, he wouldn’t take a single bite.

Old Cook knew about his odd quirk and quickly, carefully removed the hair, smiling as she reassured him, "Madam must have dropped it by accident. No one’s touched the pastries since they came out of the pot, don’t worry."

Charles gave her a polite smile. "It’s fine. I actually have some questions for Mr. Sullivan today, so I’ll eat at my foster father’s place."

With that, he didn’t take the food box, but instead gathered up the books on the table, tucked them under his arm, grabbed the heavy sword hanging by the back door, and left.

Mr. Sullivan was in the courtyard, sleeves rolled up, busy oiling several pieces of disassembled steel armor.

The armor had been sent by the city’s garrison. The soldiers in Yan Hui had their own "long-arm masters" to maintain military armor, but there was so much armor in the army that they were always overwhelmed, so sometimes they’d hire civilian long-arm masters for odd jobs.

"Long-arm masters" were craftsmen who repaired steel armor and firelocks, spending their days with iron contraptions. It was a trade, but in the eyes of ordinary people, long-arm masters were about the same as dog-catchers, cobblers, or barbers—one of the "lower nine trades." Even if you never went hungry in this line of work, it wasn’t considered very respectable.

Mr. Sullivan, a scholar, somehow had this unusual hobby. Not only did he tinker with these things himself, but he often "disgraced the literati" by earning a little money with his skills.

Meanwhile, William Sullivan, who had accidentally wandered into a young man’s dreams, was idly stretching his long legs, sitting on the threshold, slouched against the doorframe as if he had no bones in his body. Beside him was an empty medicine bowl—he’d finished it but hadn’t bothered to wash it.

William lazily stretched, half-dead with boredom, and waved at Charles, ordering, "Son, go fetch me the wine jug."

Mr. Sullivan, hands covered in gun oil and sweating profusely, said to Charles, "Ignore him. Have you eaten?"

Charles: "Not yet."

Mr. Sullivan turned and roared at William, "You’ve been sitting there all morning waiting to eat! Can’t you do some work? Go wash some rice and make a few bowls of porridge!"

William Sullivan tilted his head, playing deaf at just the right moment, and drawled, "Huh? What?"

"I’ll do it," Charles said, used to this routine. "What kind of rice should I use?"

This time, Master William heard him. Raising his long eyebrows, he said to Mr. Sullivan, "Stop bossing the kid around. Why don’t you do it yourself?"

Mr. Sullivan, the scholar, was so infuriated by his scoundrel of a younger brother that his face was practically smoking. "Didn’t we agree to take turns? A real man—if you can’t hear, fine, but why do you always go back on your word?"

William Sullivan pulled the same trick again, "not hearing" him, and asked, "What’s he barking about over there?"

He acted as if it were real.

Charles: "…"

Honestly, being deaf seemed pretty convenient sometimes.

"He said…" Charles lowered his head, only to meet William’s teasing gaze. In that instant, last night’s dream flashed through his mind, and he suddenly realized he wasn’t as unaffected as he’d thought.