TSBIRBV Ch 100

Chapter 100 Heaven above, Suzhou–Hangzhou below (12)

“Bring him here and take a look at the child.”

All but dragging the physician, Haryang brought him to Yegyeol. The physician frowned for a moment upon realizing his patient was a ragged beggar boy; glancing at Haryang’s fine clothes, perhaps reassured about payment, he began to examine Yegyeol.

Taking the wrist for pulse and lifting the garment to inspect, the physician sighed.

“Undernourished, and the body is full of bruises. Perhaps strong bones by birth have spared him deeper damage, but at this rate his limbs will ache in foul weather.”

“What should be done?”

“First, meals must not be skipped. A tonic regimen would be best, if it can be arranged. But above all you must find a way to remove him from an environment of continual violence—otherwise…”

The tone was sardonic. Yegyeol thought he knew what the unfinished words meant.

“He’ll die, likely.”

As a street‑bound orphan, he had never thought he would live to adulthood; only wondered how he would die.

Beaten to death by a heterodox thug venting his spleen; killed in some dispute while running their errands; flogged to death when caught pickpocketing; starved; frozen after sleeping rough in the rain…

“Start with the medicine.”

At Haryang’s nod, the nurse produced silver from her pouch and set it in the physician’s hand.

“Medicine alone is a stopgap.”

Even with money in hand, the physician’s voice stayed abrasive.

“Whatever your station, if you only feed him for a few days of your Hangzhou holiday and prepare a few packets of medicine, it will do little for this child’s survival.”

Yegyeol nearly nodded without thinking. The physician was right.

There may be a bit of sun once a day even in the shade, and yet it remains shade.

“That need not concern you.”

Haryang’s manner was proper—and firm.

“You are a good physician.”

“…In Hangzhou’s back alleys, patients struggled back to life die again all too often. I simply did not wish to add one more.”

With that, he left with the nurse to prepare the prescription.

“If you’re to take the medicine, you must eat first.”

Saying his stomach was in tatters and rice gruel should come first, Haryang brought a bowl. The smell made Yegyeol’s mouth fill with saliva.

“Why does it smell so nutty…?”

Only then did he realize how ravenous he was.

“Will you try a spoonful?”

At Haryang’s words, Yegyeol nodded.

“Then I’ll change my wet outer clothes—eat at ease meanwhile.”

Indeed, Haryang had had no chance to change, having tended to Yegyeol in his soaked garments.

A beggar brat found in the alleys laid in bed, the young lord waiting for the doctor in wet clothes—truly a strange one.

“Go and come back.”

When Haryang disappeared behind the screen, Yegyeol lifted the spoon. Perhaps because tension ebbed, his hands began to shake.

To think he couldn’t eat because even holding a spoon was hard—what a luxury of complaints.

“You can’t demand a bundle from the one who pulled you from the water…”

He could not bring himself to ask Haryang for help. Somehow scooping the gruel, he brought it toward his mouth—only to drop it.

Seeing the pale stain on the expensive bedding, he flinched.

That cloth was worth more than everything he’d ever eaten and worn combined. Having frequented dyeing workshops, he had an eye; he clenched his eyes shut.

The clatter of the falling spoon must have been loud—Haryang returned. With no time to hide it, Yegyeol panicked as Haryang strode up and stripped off the bedding. Lifting even Yegyeol’s clothes to check his skin, he sighed in relief.

“Fortunately, you’re not scalded.”

“I… I’m sorry.”

Unable to meet his eyes, Yegyeol apologized; Haryang waved it off.

“You’re unharmed—that is enough. Had I known, I wouldn’t have taken my eyes off you. May I handle this?”

At the question, lifting the bedding, Yegyeol nodded. Haryang stepped out and returned with a fresh spoon. Sitting close at his side, he asked,

“If it’s all right with you, may I feed you?”

Yegyeol blinked.

A fine young lord—not ordering someone else, but feeding him himself?

Thinking the rich had odd hobbies—perhaps raising people?—Yegyeol lowered his eyes.

“If you wish.”

“What of it if it’s a fine young lord’s pity,” he thought.

“Take what you can while you can.”

His life wasn’t the sort that afforded the luxury of testing sincerity.

What of pity? He had no pride to stand. If each meal was warm, and he could sleep under a roof that didn’t leak wind and rain, it was enough to be wrapped in downy bedding and enjoy it.

He would hoard strength, stubbornly—and when the boy left Hangzhou, he would go back to the streets.

“Just flatter him a bit.”

Compared to beatings from Crooked Ear or Pit Viper, his body was comfortable; only his heart fluttered at the awkwardness of another’s kindness.

“Then—here we go…”

Haryang himself lifted the spoon and brought gruel to his lips. Braced for clumsiness, Yegyeol clenched his eyes and opened his mouth.

Raised as he was, there was no way a young lord would be used to tending others; if the spoon jabbed his palate or throat, he’d simply endure.

“Hmm?”

To belie his grim resolve, Haryang fed him with great skill.

When the bowl was empty, Haryang rose with it.

“I’m glad you ate well. I tried to help—was anything uncomfortable?”

“You’re skilled.”

Yegyeol answered in a flat voice; curiosity, which had pricked him, demanded scratching.

“Have you cared for someone before?”

“Ah.”

Haryang smiled awkwardly.

“My mother is unwell.”

Then hire someone, he thought.

Yegyeol frowned.

Haryang was clearly of a wealthy house; how could they not afford someone to tend to the lady of the house, leaving the task to a child?

He felt oddly displeased—even a full belly could not drown it.

Living with Haryang, Yegyeol learned for the first time that Hangzhou could be so snug—and so luxurious.

So this was a world built above the clouds.

Three full meals each day; at night, a bed under roof and walls, a thick quilt. Hot water for washing; clothes made of fabric so soft they seemed to melt at a touch, changed daily.

When he took the first bitter medicine, the sweet treat Haryang popped in his mouth made his eyes pop.

“What is this?”

“Having eaten bitter, eat sweet—then the mouth is set right, no?”

He hadn’t known. The idea that sweetness followed bitterness was too foreign.

Sensing his awkwardness, Haryang always sought new treats. One day he even brought barley sugar pulled into a somewhat shabby dragon shape to show him.

“How is it? A fine dragon, isn’t it?”

“Dragon, my foot. Just a snake—golden.”

“Then it’s a snake.”

A snake—it felt oddly endearing. Yegyeol blurted,

“Why do you keep bringing sweets?”

Eyes round, Haryang answered glibly,

“Because without sweet, you won’t take the medicine.”

“Huh? When did I—?”

“Well. It seemed so to me.”

Deny as he might, Yegyeol couldn’t beat Haryang’s gentle insistence.

All was abundance—spilling over.

“When I first came, I thought the bedding was too soft to sleep…”

Eyes once held open by vigilance fluttered shut the moment his head touched the headrest. Falling asleep as if fainting, he woke, for a while unable to tell if he was in Hangzhou’s back alleys or a young lord’s daylight‑ghost abode.

It was all like a dream.

For two or three days thereafter, he tossed with dreams of Pit Viper and Crooked Ear coming for him. Waking with a start, calming his harsh breath, he realized the quiet around him was peaceful through and through.

Here, there was nothing to fear.

Finding the fact oddly unsettling, he slid from bed and shuffled along. Leaning by the door, he cocked an ear to the room across. If he stayed like that, he fancied he’d hear Haryang’s even breathing.

He needed proof that reality—that all this given him—was not a dream.

He learned then that sometimes even peace requires time to adapt.

Though Haryang found him sleeping on the floor with the quilt around his shoulders first thing in the morning, he never once asked why.

Truly a strange young lord.

His oddities were many. Even now Yegyeol sat across from him, drinking some West Lake Dragon Well—something like that. A cup of the same sat before Yegyeol.

Even the nurse who brought the pot seemed plainly displeased that a boy who knew nothing of how fine West Lake Dragon Well tea was should drink it.

Yegyeol felt no affront. In truth, he couldn’t tell yesterday’s Mount Gentleman’s Silver Needle, the day before’s Dongting Biluochun, and today’s West Lake Dragon Well apart by scent. He thought of it simply as fragrant water.

But Haryang stubbornly sat him before him each day and poured the same infusion he drank. At first, Yegyeol thought him putting on airs and resolved to humor him. Yet Haryang never uttered a word of “infusion grade” or “tea aroma” or other connoisseur’s lore that Yegyeol could not follow.

“Truly strange.”