Necromancer saves the day [BL]

Chapter 56: Chapter 56 - Cooking for the first time

By the time Mo Yuxin’s suitcases were carried downstairs, the scrape on Mao Mao’s knee had been cleaned and covered.

He sat on the edge of the bed with his injured leg stretched out, watching Jua put the remaining gauze back into the first-aid box. The disinfectant had stung, and he had complained about it quite a bit. Now that Jua was finished, however, he seemed reluctant to let him close the box.

”Does it still hurt?” Jua asked.

”A little.”

”You said that before I touched it.”

”It hurt then too.”

Jua glanced at him. Mao Mao looked back with such a serious expression that he couldn’t quite bring himself to argue.

Near the doorway, Ying Rui stood listening to the butler’s quiet report. Everything Mo Yuxin needed for the night had been packed. The rest of her belongings would be sorted out later.

”Have the car brought around,” he said.

Mo Yuxin, who had been standing beside the dressing table, lifted her head.

”Rui.”

He didn’t turn.

Her fingers tightened around the handbag she had retrieved from her room. She had washed the worst of the mascara from her face, but her eyes were swollen, and the marks on her cheeks remained visible beneath the powder she had hurriedly applied.

For a moment, Jua thought she might start pleading again.

Instead, she looked toward the bed.

Mao Mao was leaning against his arm, his hand resting loosely in Jua’s lap. He looked tired. With his head lowered and his lashes still slightly damp, he could have passed for a child barely managing to stay awake after crying.

Then Jua bent to pick up a strip of discarded packaging.

Mao Mao looked up.

His gaze met hers across the room, and the corner of his mouth lifted.

It was a small smile. Deliberate enough that there could be no mistaking it.

Mo Yuxin’s face changed.

”You little—”

She took a sharp step toward the bed.

Mao Mao immediately drew back against Jua, catching his wrist.

Jua straightened before he had even finished picking up the rubbish. Seeing Mo Yuxin coming toward them, he shifted in front of the boy.

Ying Rui turned.

”What are you doing?”

”He—” She pointed past Jua’s shoulder. ”Did you see that? He was smiling at me!”

Behind Jua, Mao Mao’s fingers tightened around his wrist.

Ying Rui looked at the child pressed against him, then back at his wife.

”Take her downstairs.”

”Rui, he did it on purpose! He’s been doing this the entire time, and you keep—”

”Madam,” the butler interrupted, stepping into her path. ”The car is waiting.”

She tried to move around him. A maid caught her elbow, and Mo Yuxin jerked away so violently that the woman nearly lost her footing.

”Don’t touch me!”

Two servants moved closer. With the butler blocking her way back into the room, they guided her toward the corridor despite her protests.

Her voice followed them down the stairs.

Jua remained where he was until the sound had grown distant. Then he looked down at the hand still wrapped around his wrist.

”Let go a little. You’re squeezing.”

Mao Mao loosened his grip at once.

”Sorry, Gege.”

Jua rubbed the faint marks his fingers had left, then brushed the boy’s hair back from his forehead.

Ying Rui watched the movement without speaking.

A little while later, the front door closed.

The car drove away.

For the first time that evening, the house was quiet enough for them to hear the clock in the corridor.

Ying Rui stood still for several seconds before putting his phone into his pocket.

”Stay here for a moment,” he told them.

He went downstairs.

Jua was gathering the used cotton into a small bag when Ying Rui’s voice carried up from the hall.

”Call everyone here.”

Mao Mao lifted his head.

”Everyone?” he whispered.

Apparently so.

Doors opened downstairs. Footsteps crossed the hall, some hurried, others hesitant. Jua glanced toward the doorway, then helped Mao Mao off the bed.

”Slowly. Don’t bend that knee too much.”

”I can walk.”

”You can walk without dragging me as well.”

Mao Mao immediately slowed down.

By the time they reached the landing, the household staff had gathered beneath them.

The butler stood at the front. Behind him were the maids, the cook, and several other servants Jua usually saw moving quietly through the house. None of them looked comfortable. One maid kept smoothing her apron while another stared at the floor.

Ying Rui stood facing them.

”How long has this been happening?”

Nobody answered.

His gaze passed over their faces.

”All of you work here. You clean these rooms. You serve their meals. You’re telling me none of you knew?”

”Sir,” the butler began carefully, ”Madam usually handled the children’s affairs herself. We weren’t always—”

”You were here tonight.”

The butler fell silent.

Jua rested a hand on the banister. Beside him, Mao Mao stood close enough that their sleeves touched.

One of the maids began to cry.

”We didn’t know it was so serious.”

Ying Rui looked at her.

”Did you think it needed to become serious before someone told me?”

She lowered her head.

There were things Jua remembered without needing to think very hard. Eyes turning away when Mo Yuxin raised her voice. A servant lingering outside a room, then quietly leaving. The ease with which everyone had learned to become busy somewhere else.

He glanced down at Mao Mao.

The boy was watching the hall without much expression.

”Your outstanding wages will be paid,” Ying Rui said. ”Leave your keys and access cards with security before you go.”

For a moment, the servants seemed unable to understand him.

Then several people started speaking at once.

”Sir, please—”

”I’ve worked here for six years!”

”We won’t let this happen again.”

The cook came forward, wringing her hands.

”Mr Ying, I work in the kitchen. I don’t know what happens upstairs. Please reconsider.”

Ying Rui’s expression didn’t change.

”Then you should have told me what happened downstairs.”

She stopped.

Jua noticed Mao Mao looking toward her.

He didn’t ask why.

The butler tried once more. He spoke quietly, mentioning how long he had served the family, promising that the household would be managed differently from now on.

Ying Rui listened until he finished.

Then he said, ”You can arrange the final payments before you leave.”

That ended it.

There was more crying. A maid begged him to let her stay until the end of the month. Someone else insisted they had only been following instructions. Ying Rui refused every request with the same exhausted firmness, and gradually the group broke apart.

The house filled with footsteps again.

This time, they were leaving.

Mao Mao watched the butler walk away before leaning toward Jua.

”Does this mean they’re all going?”

”It looks like it.”

”Even the kitchen auntie?”

Jua looked at him.

Mao Mao touched his stomach.

Only then did Jua realise how late it had become.

By the time the last servant had left, the sky beyond the windows had darkened completely. Ying Rui finished a call near the front door, rubbed the space between his eyebrows, and turned to find the two boys waiting at the foot of the stairs.

Mao Mao looked up at him.

”Dad.”

Ying Rui straightened slightly.

”What is it?”

”I’m hungry.”

His father stared at him.

Then his gaze shifted toward the empty passage leading to the kitchen.

Jua pressed his lips together.

Ying Rui noticed.

”What?”

”Nothing.”

Mao Mao looked between them. ”Is there dinner?”

”There will be,” Ying Rui said.

He said it with enough confidence that Jua followed him into the kitchen feeling rather curious.

That confidence lasted until Ying Rui opened the refrigerator.

He studied its contents, shut it, and opened a cupboard instead.

Mao Mao climbed carefully onto a chair at the kitchen table. Jua took the seat beside him, keeping an eye on his knee.

For a few minutes, neither of them spoke.

Ying Rui found a packet of spaghetti.

He turned it over, read the back, and set it on the counter. Then he opened another cupboard.

Plates.

The next one held glasses.

He paused with his hand on the handle.

Jua lowered his head.

Mao Mao tugged his sleeve and whispered, quite audibly, ”What is Dad looking for?”

”A pot, I think.”

”I know where those are.”

Ying Rui turned toward them.

Mao Mao pointed beneath the stove.

His father crouched, opened the cupboard, and took out a saucepan that would barely have held a large bowl of soup.

Jua coughed into his hand.

”The one behind it might be better.”

Ying Rui looked at the saucepan, then at the packet of spaghetti.

Without comment, he exchanged it for the larger pot.

Water went in. The stove was switched on after a brief examination of the controls. Ying Rui rolled up his sleeves and picked up the pasta.

Jua had just begun to think they might manage dinner without incident when Ying Rui gripped the dry spaghetti in both hands.

”What are you doing?”

”Making it fit.”

”The water hasn’t boiled yet.”

Ying Rui glanced into the pot.

There wasn’t a bubble in sight.

”It’s hot.”

”That’s a different thing.”

Mao Mao nodded solemnly. ”Gege says you have to wait.”

”I heard him.”

Ying Rui set the spaghetti down.

A moment later, he picked it up again and tried to break the entire bundle at once.

It resisted.

His brows drew together.

Jua watched him adjust his grip with the same grim concentration he had worn while dismissing the staff.

A laugh slipped out before he could stop it.

Ying Rui looked over.

”Is something funny?”

Jua shook his head, though his smile made the denial rather useless.

”You look angry with it.”

Mao Mao leaned against his shoulder, giggling.

Ying Rui glanced down at the spaghetti.

”It won’t fit in the pot.”

”It will soften.”

”The ends will be outside.”

”For a minute, yes. They won’t run away.”

Mao Mao laughed properly at that, ducking his face against Jua’s sleeve.

The sound made Ying Rui pause.

He stood with the packet in his hand, looking at his son until Mao Mao noticed and quietened a little.

Jua rose before the silence could settle.

”Let me help.”

”You should sit down.”

”I can stir a pot.”

Ying Rui’s eyes dropped briefly toward his chest.

Jua understood the look.

”It only hurt when she pushed me. I’m fine.”

He moved beside him and checked the refrigerator himself.

There was minced beef, an onion, and a container of chopped tomatoes. A jar of tomato paste sat on the shelf in the door.

”Spaghetti bolognese?” he asked.

”Yes!” Mao Mao answered immediately.

Ying Rui looked at the ingredients Jua placed on the counter.

”What should I do?”

Jua handed him the onion.

”Peel this.”

Ying Rui accepted it with visible relief.

Then he reached for a knife.

”Just the dry skin,” Jua added.

”I know how to peel an onion.”

A few minutes later, Jua looked at the thick piece Ying Rui had cut away with the root.

He wisely said nothing.

Ying Rui caught him looking anyway.

”It was damaged.”

”Of course.”

From the table, Mao Mao stretched his neck to see.

”Was all of that damaged?”

”Mao Mao.”

The boy sat back down, smiling.

Once the onion was chopped, Jua put Ying Rui in charge of stirring it while he prepared the meat. It gave the man something useful to do, although he kept stirring with such determination that Jua eventually touched his wrist.

”A little slower. We’re cooking it.”

Ying Rui reduced the movement.

”Like this?”

”Yes.”

Their shoulders nearly touched at the stove. Jua added the beef and showed him how to break it apart with the spoon. Soon the kitchen smelled of softened onion and browning meat.

Mao Mao watched from his chair, occasionally asking whether it was ready yet.

Each time, Jua told him no.

Each time, he looked personally disappointed.

When the water finally boiled, Ying Rui lowered the spaghetti into it and watched the stiff ends gradually sink.

Jua glanced at him.

”See?”

”I see.”

”Didn’t even need to fight it.”

Mao Mao covered his mouth with both hands.

Ying Rui gave Jua a look, but there was little force behind it.

By the time the sauce had thickened, he had managed to set three places at the kitchen table. The bowls didn’t match, and he had initially brought spoons instead of forks, but Mao Mao helpfully pointed that out as well.

Soon they were sitting down to steaming bowls of spaghetti.

Mao Mao insisted that Jua sit beside him.

Ying Rui took the chair opposite.

For a moment, he watched them instead of eating.

Jua wound a few strands around his fork to test whether the pasta was cool enough, then warned Mao Mao about the steam.

The boy nodded impatiently.

He blew on his own forkful, took a bite, and immediately brightened.

”Gege, it’s so good.”

”You’ve barely chewed it.”

Mao Mao chewed with exaggerated care, swallowed, and repeated, ”It’s really good.”

Jua smiled and reached for his water.

A smear of sauce appeared at the corner of Mao Mao’s mouth within the next two bites.

Ying Rui picked up a napkin.

His hand paused above the table.

Then he leaned forward and carefully wiped it away.

Mao Mao stopped chewing.

His eyes lifted to his father’s face.

”You had sauce here,” Ying Rui explained.

The boy touched the corner of his mouth after the napkin was gone.

”Oh.”

Ying Rui folded the stained paper and set it beside his bowl.

”Eat before it gets cold.”

Mao Mao looked down again. After a moment, he wound another forkful, with considerably less success than Jua.

The spaghetti slipped loose.

Jua caught the edge of his bowl before he could drag it toward himself.

”Turn the fork against the side.”

”I am.”

”You’re turning the whole bowl.”

Ying Rui lowered his eyes to his own plate.

His pasta had slipped off twice already.

He adjusted his fork discreetly.

Across from him, Mao Mao finally managed a mouthful and looked so pleased that Ying Rui found himself watching again.

He knew his son’s birthday. He knew which school he attended and how much his tuition cost. Yet he couldn’t remember the last meal they had eaten together without someone else directing the conversation.

Mao Mao was talking now, explaining to Jua why his serving needed more sauce.

”There’s still plenty on your plate,” Jua said.

”That’s for these noodles. The ones underneath don’t have any.”

”You can mix them.”

”But yours tastes better.”

”It came from the same pot.”

Mao Mao considered this, then leaned over to inspect Jua’s bowl anyway.

Ying Rui reached for the saucepan.

”How much?”

Both boys looked at him.

He held the serving spoon above Mao Mao’s plate, waiting.

Mao Mao pointed to an empty patch near the edge.

”Just there.”

Ying Rui added a spoonful.

”A little more.”

He added another half.

”That’s enough,” Jua said. ”He still has to finish it.”

Ying Rui put the saucepan down.

Mao Mao looked very satisfied with the arrangement.

He ate until his pace finally slowed, his shoulder resting against Jua’s arm. Between mouthfuls, he continued praising the food, although by then his words had become less clear.

Jua nudged his glass closer.

”Drink.”

Mao Mao obeyed.

Ying Rui took a bite of his own dinner. The sauce was good. He couldn’t tell how much of that had anything to do with his stirring, but he was fairly certain his contribution had been limited.

”Gege should cook again,” Mao Mao announced.

Jua glanced at him. ”You can help next time.”

”I can watch.”

”You already did that today.”

”I watched very carefully.”

Ying Rui’s mouth shifted before he could stop it.

Mao Mao caught the small smile.

He stared for a moment, then lowered his face toward his bowl, winding another untidy bundle of spaghetti around his fork.

Under the table, his free hand found Jua’s shirt and held the hem loosely.

This time, he kept eating without checking the doorway.