Chapter 12 (2/2)
Part 2: The Golden Eyes and The Depth of the Water
Still feeling warm, Mu Wan turned back to the cat bed, touched her flushed cheek, and asked the little ones, “Ertong, Zhongfen—when are you two opening your eyes?”
As if in answer to her call, after she and Liu Qianxiu had finished dinner, Zhongfen opened his eyes too.
He was black and white, and the color of his eyes seemed even prettier than Datou’s—also pale gold.
Zhongfen was the smallest of the three, frail and sickly, the one who had even needed hospitalization. And yet now his eyes were open, while Ertong still showed no sign of them. With the other two meowing beside him, all soft fur and newly lit eyes, the kittens had become almost unbearably cute.
Mu Wan finally drew her gaze away from Ertong and looked up at Liu Qianxiu.
“Will Ertong only open his eyes tomorrow?”
She had been feeding the kittens. Liu Qianxiu had not gone in; he was standing just outside the kitten room, looking down at the three little ones in the bed.
After dinner, he had changed into another set of clothes—light brown cotton-linen, loose sleeves and wide trousers, soft and flowing. On his tall frame, the clothes truly gave him the air of a Daoist immortal.
“It’ll happen tonight,” Liu Qianxiu said.
Tonight, though the exact hour was uncertain.
Mu Wan glanced at the time. Still holding the now-empty bottle, she gave it a little shake, then stood and walked out of the kitten room to stand beside him.
She was like a red rose suddenly placed right before his eyes.
“What time do you usually go to sleep?” she asked.
Liu Qianxiu did not seem to know what she was getting at. He simply answered, “Ten.”
“Ah.” Mu Wan parted her lips slightly, as if understanding. Then her eyes lifted and hesitated before she asked, with a little uncertainty, “Then... can I stay until nine-thirty? I won’t interfere with your rest, and I won’t bother you. I just want to see Ertong open his eyes.”
The moment she said it, Mu Wan realized the problem.
From now until ten, Liu Qianxiu probably spent the time in quiet practice. It was his time alone, and surely he would dislike having his routine disrupted.
She could ease herself into his life gradually, yes—but not in a way that made him start to dislike her. That would defeat the whole point.
A slight crease appeared between her brows just as she was about to speak again.
Liu Qianxiu interrupted first.
“That’s fine.”
Mu Wan’s brows lifted. She looked up at him.
His expression had not changed. He simply took the bottle from her hand, rinsed it clean, and walked out of the kitten room.
Now that she had permission for another hour, Mu Wan did not stay in the kitten room the whole time.
She waited there a while. Ertong had curled up and fallen asleep in the bed. At last, she stood and left the room as well.
The lights in the living room were off. Only the lamp on the low table was on.
Soft light spilled out from beneath the shade, cutting a small circle of brightness open in the dark.
Within that circle of light, Liu Qianxiu sat cross-legged at the low table, a book near one hand, reading with his whole mind stilled.
His presence had always seemed so faint and unobtrusive, but not because his features lacked depth. On the contrary: in the lamplight, shadow divided his face into one bright half and one dark, and the lines from brow bone to bridge of the nose carved his features into something deep, sharp, and striking.
And yet his bearing remained quiet.
No matter how sharp his features were, they all submitted to that clear-water calm of his, becoming serene and remote.
Mu Wan’s heart, which had only just slowed, began racing again.
She stood there in silence, simply watching him.
When he turned a page and happened to look up, he saw her.
Caught, Mu Wan parted her lips slightly and pointed toward the kitten room.
“Ertong fell asleep.”
She was a little bored.
Liu Qianxiu’s posture did not change. “Would you like to read?” he asked.
“All right.”
Mu Wan slipped off her shoes, walked over barefoot, and sat down cross-legged beside him.
The low table was not especially small. It was more than enough for Liu Qianxiu alone, and even with Mu Wan, it didn’t feel too crowded. Once she sat down, she looked at the book in his hands.
The layout was vertical, the paper yellowed with age.
“What are you reading?” she asked, stretching her neck slightly to peer forward, lashes lowering as she tried to see.
Liu Qianxiu handed the book over.
When Mu Wan touched it, her fingertip sliding over the page, she felt something she could not quite name.
It felt like an ancient text.
Only after taking it did she fully register what that meant. There were a few things in Liu Qianxiu’s living room, but all of them carried an old, quiet air. They did not look like modern imitations made to resemble antiques.
They looked real.
The low table before them, for example, seemed at first glance almost plain. But up close, it held finely carved patterns and carried a faint sandalwood scent, like a piece of old furniture that had already lived many years.
And the mural set into the load-bearing wall of the living room did not look as if it had simply been painted there later. It looked more like something cut from elsewhere and embedded into the wall.
Lin Wei had studied art, and through prolonged exposure, Mu Wan had absorbed enough to recognize that the mural’s style was deeply classical. The whole thing carried a beauty that had been refined inward over time.
Seated among these old things, Liu Qianxiu looked like a figure from a painting of immortals—elegant, sacred, impossibly far away.
Mu Wan looked at him and, little by little, drifted away in thought.
The book he had handed her remained unopened in her hands.
After a while, Liu Qianxiu lifted his eyes to her, meeting the gaze she had fixed on him. This time Mu Wan did not look away. Their eyes met, and she smiled openly.
Glancing once at the Tao Te Ching in her hands, Liu Qianxiu asked, “Why aren’t you reading?”
Mu Wan had only looked at it once.
Classical Chinese. Traditional characters. Dense, obscure, almost unreadable. She did not even recognize all the words.
So she gave up, honestly. “I can’t understand it.”
Liu Qianxiu lowered his eyes again and turned a page in his own book. Through the thin yellow paper, his fingers looked almost translucent. His tone stayed calm.
“And can you understand me?”
He had caught her.
Mu Wan was not embarrassed. She shook her head.
“No. I can’t understand you either.”
It was the truth.
Liu Qianxiu seemed like a doctor, like a Daoist, and somehow like neither of those things at all. He was like some great hidden figure living quietly in the world. The more she learned, the more unfathomable he became.
And yet he was not deceptive with anyone. He was like a pool so clear you could see the stones at the bottom, and still have no idea how deep the water truly ran.
Not knowing the depth yet did not matter. She could measure it slowly.
Thinking that, Mu Wan added, “But you’re better-looking than the book.”
Liu Qianxiu lifted his eyes.
Mu Wan was smiling.
Then his gaze returned to the page. Whatever line he had just been reading had already slipped away.
Seeing him continue, Mu Wan grew restless again. The paper in her hands rustled softly. She set one arm against the low table and rested her head on it, turning her face to look at him sideways.
“Liu Qianxiu.”
In the quiet, spacious living room, her voice sounded soft and sweet enough to taste.
Without lifting his head, Liu Qianxiu answered with one low, unhurried sound.
“Mm.”
The sound of his voice echoed in her ear. Mu Wan raised her head slightly and, looking at the line of his profile, asked, “You like living alone, don’t you?”
Under the lamp, the two of them occupied opposite corners of the low table.
He sat upright and still.
She curved against the edge of it like something languid and boneless.
“Why would you ask that?”
Mu Wan thought for a moment. “Because you’ve always been alone.”
Liu Qianxiu’s throat moved once. His gaze remained on the page before him, and his tone stayed mild, even.
“Now, in this moment, there are two people.”
