Nowadays, most people live in apartment buildings or villas, but the The Bennett Family family still lives communally, occupying a three-section courtyard. Henry Bennett's parents and his aunt live in the front yard, his uncle's family lives in the east yard, and in another small courtyard, Henry Bennett lives alone. Moreover, the Ding family is always tinkering—on a whim, they’ll tear down a wall, and when the mood cools, they’ll build an archway, plant grass and flowers, wishing they could carve beams and paint rafters.

But deep down, Henry Bennett looks down on all this. No matter how big or beautiful the courtyard is, it can’t compare to what they had generations ago. The more they fuss, the more it feels like they’re losing face, as if they can’t face the downward trend and are desperately trying to recreate past glory, but in reality, it’s just self-deception.

He wants to make a change, and he knows that working at the Cultural Relics Bureau won’t help much.

The living room was brightly lit, and the big round table was already set with four cold dishes and three hot ones, while the kitchen was still busy. Colin Bennett sat at his seat pouring baijiu, a small cup every day, but lately, with the hot weather, only half a cup.

Henry Bennett strolled to the kitchen door, sniffed, and asked, “Mom, where are my butter chicken wings?”

Lillian Carter stirred the vegetarian soup in the pot and turned to ask, “Grace, where are his chicken wings?”

“They’re probably burnt. I wasn’t paying attention.” Grace Carter lifted the lid with schadenfreude, fished out six charred chicken wings, and said, “With that little salary, it’s not even enough for a treat. International Hotel, Zhuifeng Restaurant, Peter’s Western Food—always picking the expensive places to eat.”

Henry Bennett took them, thoroughly annoyed by the sisters’ nagging. Ever since he turned eighteen, his birthday wish every year has been the same: for Grace Carter to get married and move out as soon as possible.

Once dinner was ready, the two families started eating. Colin Bennett's family of three, his two sons Earl Bennett and Eugene Bennett were both Henry Bennett's cousins. Henry Bennett was an only child and often made Edward Bennett so angry he couldn’t sleep.

“By the way, it’s been six days since Uncle left, right?”

The main seat was empty; Edward Bennett had gone to Yangzhou to attend the funeral of his late friend Vera Grant. But even with three days of vigil, he should be back by now. Henry Bennett gnawed on a chicken wing and laughed, “Master Grant must be buried by now. My dad’s probably started sightseeing in Yangzhou.”

Lillian Carter shot him a look: “Sightseeing? After the funeral, he should be comforting the family, seeing if there’s anything Vera's family needs help with.”

Henry Bennett replied, “What could they need? Don’t they have relatives or friends in Yangzhou? Besides, at Master Grant's age, even if he didn’t have kids, he must have disciples, right? What are disciples for? They serve their master in life and take care of the family after death—unless the disciples are heartless.”

Lillian Carter couldn’t out-argue him, so she filled his bowl to shut him up.

The evening was a bit cooler. Henry Bennett holed up in the machine room to clean. He never did housework—if a chair fell, he’d walk around it rather than pick it up. But the machine room was an exception; he never let anyone else touch it, always cleaned it himself, kept the doors and windows locked, and carried the key with him.

Grace Carter often teased that there were hundreds of thousands’ worth of treasures hidden inside. Eugene Bennett had once snuck in out of curiosity, just to feast his eyes, but ended up being kicked by Henry Bennett into the pond in front of the screen wall, catching a cold that lasted nearly a month in the dead of winter.

On a summer night, the courtyard was bathed in soft, bright light. Henry Bennett, sweating, came out of the machine room, holding a red rosewood tray in his left hand, with a piece of lychee-colored frozen stone on it. After showering, he sat on a rattan chair, and under the moonlight and a small lamp, began carving. Using the smallest knife, he followed the fine, radish-silk-like grain—there was no turning back with each cut; this was work that allowed no mistakes.

Henry Bennett carved a palm-sized Guanyin holding a ruyi, but before he could refine the details, he started to feel sleepy. Yawning, he glanced at the moon, thinking self-mockingly: What’s the rush? Even if I finish, it might not sell anyway.

Might as well go to bed.

There’s usually not much to do at the Cultural Relics Bureau. Henry Bennett arrived early and happened to catch the deputy director of the city museum, discussing the recent batch of artifacts to be displayed and confirming the inspection schedule for the bureau.

As soon as the museum leaders left, Ian Bolton arrived. Henry Bennett immediately stood up energetically: “Mr. Bolton, that shirt of yours is made of nice material.”

Ian Bolton forced a smile: “I’ve been wearing this same shirt all week.”

Henry Bennett couldn’t keep up the flattery for more than a sentence: “You’re an office director, after all. How can you be so careless about your appearance?”

He followed Ian Bolton into the director’s office. Ian Bolton sat down, and he sat across the desk, clearly with something to say, something to ask for. Ian Bolton pushed his teacup forward, looking quite open about it. He was keeping track—of all the people in this office, only Henry Bennett, the youngest, had never made him tea.

Henry Bennett had money and a temper, but no eye for flattery. His gaze circled from the bottom to the rim of the cup, clicking his tongue in disdain: “That’s just department store counter goods—cheap. Come pick one from our family shop, I’ll give it to you as a gift.”

Ian Bolton was furious. Not only did he not pour tea, he even looked down on his things. Leaning back in his chair, face dark, he asked, “What do you want?”

Henry Bennett lifted the stack of files at the corner of the desk and pulled out the bottom sheet: “I submitted a business trip application on Monday. It’s already Friday.”

“So what if it’s Friday?” Ian Bolton didn’t take the paper, resting his elbows on the armrests and interlacing his fingers. “I’m not approving it. I’ll take Old Stone instead.”

Henry Bennett held the application form: “Mr. Stone is over fifty. You want him to make such a long trip? Besides, this trip is to inspect that batch of artifacts. I know that stuff best—I can be the most help.”