He was worried that Little Brian might get lost, but also unwilling to show his face after being dismissed, so he could only follow along quietly. Yet Samuel Grant's lively figure ahead was somewhat irritating—what did it mean? Was he really that pleased even without seeing him?

After returning home, Henry Bennett wore a long face, skipped dinner, and spread out that bundle of sea-recovered fragments to study. The notebook lay flat at his side, three full pages of appraisal notes written, and he didn’t even notice the stains on his white shirt.

When Samuel Grant entered the small courtyard, he clearly paused in surprise. He knew Henry Bennett couldn’t possibly be admiring junk for fun, so he couldn’t help but move closer to observe, and then couldn’t help but ask, “Senior, what are these?”

Henry Bennett gently picked up a pottery shard, ignoring him completely, his eyes filled only with the artifacts that had drifted for a hundred years, not the living person before him.

Samuel Grant asked uncertainly, “Are these like artifacts recovered from the sea? Are they real or fake?”

This time, Henry Bennett looked up. “You recognize artifacts?”

Samuel Grant said, “I’ve read about them in books.” Specifically, in "As Mountain, As Sea."

It would have been better not to mention it—Henry Bennett had failed to borrow the book, and just hearing about it made him sulk. He gathered up his things and returned to the study. Samuel Grant hadn’t seen enough yet, so he walked to the window outside the study, tilting his head to sneak a look, his gaze lingering on that pile of “junk.”

He thought, does Henry Bennett like antiques and artifacts? Makes sense—playboys love to waste money on whatever catches their fancy.

He also wondered, what is Henry Bennett writing so furiously? Could he really figure something out?

With his head tilted, Samuel Grant's gaze couldn’t help but shift, landing on Henry Bennett’s large, well-defined hands. Those hands were strong, gripping the pen and shaking as he wrote another page. The blue veins on the back of his hand stood out, vivid and intertwined, full of vitality.

Henry Bennett had gripped his wrist before, and had also held his hand—he suddenly remembered these things.

The pen stopped moving. Henry Bennett put it down and picked up a piece of bowl bottom, trying to clean off the calcium to see the maker’s mark, but ended up dirtying his hands. Samuel Grant watched as the other frowned, then his sharp nose twitched—he thought, this face is not to be trifled with; no amount of handsomeness can soften that harshness.

He watched for a while; he didn’t see much of the artifacts, but instead studied Henry Bennett’s hands and face thoroughly, before finally returning to his room to study by lamplight.

The two of them, separated by a wall, each bent over their desks. The front courtyard lights went out a little after ten, and by eleven the east courtyard was dark too—only their small courtyard remained lit. At midnight, the antique Western clock in the machine room, still unrepaired, began to chime, crackling and then abruptly stopping.

Samuel Grant closed his book, took out a smooth jade stone and began to draw, reciting his lessons as he sketched. When he finished, he packed up, planning to continue next time. When he went to shower, he saw the study light was still on; after his shower, the light was off, and Henry Bennett was actually sitting under the porch.

He walked over and asked, “Senior, what are you doing sitting here?”

Henry Bennett yawned. “What else? Waiting to take a shower.”

The other’s shirt was covered in mud, probably even bug corpses. Samuel Grant couldn’t tell what kind of biological grime might be on those artifacts—definitely not clean. He stepped back a bit and reminded, “Then don’t put your clothes in the basket.”

Henry Bennett caught the hint of disgust. “I won’t. I’ll throw them on your bed in a bit.”

After a few casual exchanges, Samuel Grant went back to his bedroom to sleep. Ever since Vera Grant fell ill, he hadn’t slept well; no matter how tired he was, it always took a long time to fall asleep. Lying flat for ages, he still hadn’t entered dreamland, and soon his stomach felt empty.

Samuel Grant got up to eat some peach crisps, holding one hand underneath to catch the crumbs, not wasting a bit.

A shadow approached from afar, stopped outside the door, pushed it open, and became solid—Henry Bennett entered with a serious face, acting as if he owned the place. “I’m starving. Give me one.”

He hadn’t eaten dinner, and his stomach was already touching his back. Without waiting for Samuel Grant’s permission, he picked up a piece. “Tastes bad.” After one bite, he put it down. He could starve, but he wouldn’t mistreat his mouth and stomach. “It’s gone soft, not crispy.”

Samuel Grant hurriedly clarified, “My aunt gave these to me.” That’s why he was eating them sparingly, not wasting even half a bite.

Henry Bennett was baffled, misunderstanding, “You can’t bear to eat a box of peach crisps? Isn’t Yangzhou famous for all kinds of pastries? Don’t be so narrow-minded.” He remembered the other was an illegitimate child, hated by Vera Grant’s wife. “Guess you’ve never had anything good.”

Samuel Grant immediately asked, “Tonight, madam bought braised chicken from Jiumaozhai—is that good?”

Henry Bennett said, “A century-old brand, constantly improved—of course it’s good.”

Samuel Grant wiped his hands. “I thought you’d eaten something really special, but it’s just that.”

Two minutes later, the kitchen light in the front courtyard came on. Neither Henry Bennett nor Samuel Grant would back down; both wanted to prove themselves. Samuel Grant didn’t dare make a sound, afraid that arguing with Henry Bennett would wake others. He pushed Henry Bennett aside, turned, and took the remaining half of the braised chicken from the fridge.

Henry Bennett asked, “What are you doing?”

Samuel Grant didn’t answer. He emptied the coarse linen bag of spices, tore up the braised chicken and stuffed it inside, then added a section of scallion and a spoonful of Sichuan peppercorns. The bag went into cold water; once the water boiled, he cooked a handful of thin noodles, and when the noodles were done, tossed in a single heart of greens.

A bowl of chicken noodle soup was ready. In the rising steam, Henry Bennett was momentarily dazed. After one bite, his gaze completely softened. No oil, no salt—the flavor all came from the braised chicken, with the aroma of scallion and the tingle of pepper. He ate heartily, not out of reluctance to praise, but simply because he was too busy eating.