The alarm rang three times before Tang Yu finally surfaced from a heavy sleep.
He glanced at the clock. “Seven forty…”
He shot out of bed, dragged on his uniform, and hurried downstairs.
Ji Qian’ang sat in the sitting room with a magazine, his severe face perfectly calm. Tang Yu’s hair was still sticking up when he stormed over.
“We’re going to be late. You couldn’t come upstairs and wake me?”
Ji Qian’ang rose, closed the magazine, and returned it to its place. “Young Master said I wasn’t allowed near the main house.”
Tang Yu glared up at him. That was completely different. The man was impossibly literal.
Before he could argue, Ji Qian’ang caught him by the back of the neck and steered him outside. “Keep wasting time and we’ll miss the assembly entirely.”
Tang Yu did not even have time to tie his shoes properly.
Traffic crawled toward South Island Secondary School. Tang Yu frowned at the jam while Ji Qian’ang remained expressionless. By the time they reached the gate, the principal’s speech was already coming through the loudspeakers.
Tang Yu had promised his grandmother he would return to school properly. She never hovered over him; she expected him to manage himself. Yet on his second day back, he arrived late with a stone-faced companion beside him.
The prefect at the edge of the field held out a sign-in board. “Late. Sign your names and stand over there.”
Three students were already waiting. Tang Yu joined them, with Ji Qian’ang a full head taller beside him. The others quietly edged away.
Hundreds of students sang the school song and listened to the principal. Tang Yu stood at the far edge feeling as if every head on the field were watching him. Jiang Hao, in a row nearby, turned and offered him an awkward grin. Tang Yu ignored him.
A shoe tapped beside his foot.
“Your lace is undone,” Ji Qian’ang said.
Crouching to tie it in front of the whole school would look ridiculous, so Tang Yu left it.
When assembly ended and the crowd began to disperse, Ji Qian’ang suddenly crouched. He crossed Tang Yu’s laces, looped them, and pulled them tight with the ease of someone who had done it a hundred times.
Something pierced Tang Yu’s chest. When his brother had been alive, Tang Yu had never needed to tie his own shoes. Tang Yifeng would do it while teasing that his darling was already old enough to manage.
Before Tang Yu recovered, Ji Qian’ang had straightened. “Done.”
The bow was perfectly even.
Tang Yu’s voice hardened. “Did I ask you to do that?”
“You didn’t ask me not to.” Ji Qian’ang sounded entirely reasonable. “Or did you want to fall in front of the whole school?”
“Idiot,” Tang Yu muttered in Cantonese.
Curious gazes immediately swung their way. Uncomfortable, Tang Yu walked faster, then stopped after several steps and looked back.
“Come on.”
Tian Qianxing had watched everything. He approached with a grin. “A-Yu, that companion of yours is pretty good. Shoelace service included?”
Fighting confusion and embarrassment, Tang Yu threw his schoolbag at him. “You talk so much. Want to try the service yourself?”
“I’m joking. But seriously, Ji Qian’ang is quite considerate—”
“Shut up!”
Tang Yu clapped a hand over his mouth before his burning ears detached from his head entirely.
All morning, Tang Yu stared through the window at the tropical trees, unable to forget what Ji Qian’ang had done. Ji Xuecha slipped in through the back door and sat in front of him.
“Have you decided about the anniversary performance?”
Tang Yu answered absently and somehow let her coax a promise out of him. Once it was settled, she returned happily to her own classroom.
At half past three, a driver took Tang Yu and Ji Qian’ang toward Jardine House.
Victoria Harbour’s skyline stretched beyond the windows, lit by the slanting evening sun. Inside Booth Three, new simultaneous-interpreting equipment glowed green beneath the Hong Kong Translation Society label. Two imported headsets and two microphones sat on the desk.
Tang Yu’s grandmother strode in carrying a briefcase, vigorous despite being in her sixties. “Starting today, Xiao Yu will spend two hours here every day.”
Tang Yu sighed. “I don’t want to.”
Ji Qian’ang set down both schoolbags and took a seat. “Please teach me too, Grandmother.”
His grandmother smiled at the eager student.
Tang Yu stared. “Ji Qian’ang, who said you could call my grandmother that?”
“Don’t fuss, A-Yu.” She smiled. “Then what should Qian’ang call me?”
Tang Yu could think of nothing better. “She’s my grandmother. As for everyone else…” He glanced at Ji Qian’ang. “Figure it out yourself.”
He dropped into the other chair and put on his headset.
His grandmother played a French news segment. Information poured into Tang Yu’s ears; his mind began processing it within fractions of a second, and his translation flowed through the microphone.
The first attempt was a disaster. His sentences broke apart, and he missed the final noun entirely. Irritated, he dragged a hand through his hair.
He lost focus three times. Twice he thought of Tang Yifeng, who used to bring him into interpreting booths. Tang Yu had never wanted to study, but being beside his brother had made him feel safe.
The third distraction was probably Ji Qian’ang, sitting nearby with his bandaged eye and Tang Yifeng’s features. Yesterday he had rejected Tang Yu’s help; today he had tied Tang Yu’s shoes. Tang Yu could not understand what game he was playing.
His grandmother did not scold him. She simply replayed the report.
Tang Yu closed his eyes and forced himself to hear nothing but the voice in his headset. After several attempts, every sentence finally landed where it belonged. It was not perfect, but it was complete.
His grandmother stroked his hair, unable to hide her satisfaction. “We continue tomorrow.”
Then she looked at Ji Qian’ang. “I have business to handle. You can learn the basics from A-Yu.”
She picked up her briefcase and left before Tang Yu’s consent seemed necessary.
Only the faint hum of equipment remained.
Ji Qian’ang sat at the desk with the headset around his neck, sunset staining the white gauze over his eye amber.
“You were listening just now?” Tang Yu asked.
He started to stand, only to find their headset cords twisted together. He tugged once, then again, making the knot worse.
“Don’t move.”
Ji Qian’ang leaned close. The distance between them vanished. Tang Yu could see the faint line of stitches beneath the gauze over his left eye.
With his head lowered, Ji Qian’ang worked his long fingers patiently between the tangled cords.
Tang Yu studied his profile. From this angle, the difference was obvious. Tang Yifeng’s profile had been gentle. Ji Qian’ang’s was all hard edges—cold, sharp, uncompromising.
“Finished staring?”
Tang Yu looked away guiltily. “Who was staring at you?”
Ji Qian’ang freed the cords and set them back in place. “Grandmother told me to learn the basics from you. Where do we start?”