Little New Year’s Eve was nearly over. Tomorrow would be New Year’s Eve—the last day of the lunar year 1861. Impatient people had already begun celebrating early.
Lin Yuchan hurriedly ran outside: “Mr. Rong is still waiting for me!”
Su Minguan stopped her, pointing at her feet: “Shoes.”
She’d nearly forgotten. Frantically finding a stool to sit on, she grabbed a rag from the wall to wrap her feet. Who knew there was more blood on her shoes than imagined—diluted by river water, it wouldn’t coagulate, instead smearing her hands. Looking back, she saw a trail of bloody footprints behind her. Startled into shivering, the rag was smeared messily.
Su Minguan wasn’t so amateur. When walking he’d carefully avoided blood pools, even kicking bricks and planks as bridges, keeping his feet clean.
Who told her to run so urgently? he couldn’t stop her either.
Helplessly, he said: “Don’t move.”
It was his oversight, forgetting to remind her to watch her feet. The entire pair of shoes was unusable.
Using keys, he opened several wooden boxes in the opium room. Since shipping workers wore out shoes quickly, one box indeed contained several pairs of seven-tenths new cotton cloth men’s shoes, probably kept as regular replacements.
“This pair should fit.” He picked the narrowest pair, about to throw it to her. “By the way, who is Mr. Rong?”
Fortunately, he looked before throwing. The little miss sat on the stool with a pair of blood-dripping feet raised, ten blood-stained fingers spread, looking at him helplessly while shaking her head desperately.
“No, no, no, don’t give them to me yet…”
Su Minguan laughed aloud, the bloody, heavy tension in his chest dissolving by three parts.
He ordered subordinates to bring a basin of water, personally carrying it before her. Seeing her anxious expression, his childish heart suddenly emerged, imitating opera tones: “Your Majesty, please use.”
Lin Yuchan felt slightly embarrassed, then unconvincingly thought: You ancient person, you’re mocking me.
She calmly washed her hands, laughing: “Little White-zi, no need for ceremony.”
The gang boss whose childhood name was Little White: “…”
Having given away her handkerchief, Lin Yuchan casually dried her hands on her sleeve. About to remove her shoes, Su Minguan’s low voice stopped her.
“Don’t let your hands touch blood.”
A simple, casual remark, yet Lin Yuchan couldn’t help extrapolating deeper meaning, momentarily lost in thought.
Su Minguan deftly removed her shoes, washed his hands in the basin, confirmed her sock ties weren’t dirty, and smiled: “Lucky you’re a Hakka girl, otherwise you couldn’t return tonight—come, try this pair.”
Lin Yuchan initially didn’t understand his meaning at all, stunned for quite a while before slowly comprehending, her ear tips growing somewhat hot.
Hakka women didn’t bind their feet. Poor Hakka girls even worked barefoot daily—Cantonese found this unremarkable.
But ordinary Han women had three-inch bound feet as standard. Even in sweltering heat they wrapped them thickly, not exposing a trace of skin even on wedding nights. The golden lilies beneath skirts carried ambiguous, even perverted implications—men seeing them once was considered improper.
In this era of judging women by feet, these two types weren’t even the same species.
Su Minguan had assumed she was Hakka, so felt fortunate for her: lucky she had natural feet and could barely wear men’s shoes; otherwise where could he find bound-foot shoes, naturally leaving her unable to move.
Furthermore, even with suitable shoes, bound feet, he dared not touch: if he did, either imprisonment and beatings or lifelong responsibility for her livelihood, truly one misstep causing eternal regret.
For him this was instinctive thinking; for her it was over a century’s generation gap, wasting much mental effort to successfully synchronize with him.
Su Minguan helped her put on shoes—still too loose. He carelessly found some cloth: “Padding should work…”
His fingertip touched her toe. Lin Yuchan suddenly felt uncomfortable, her heart scratching like a cat.
Of course, by her moral standards, naturally it wasn’t shyness or finding him improper. But thinking that in Su Minguan’s eyes, she belonged to “not the same type so feet can be casually touched,” that feeling… had a subtle discomfort.
After much consideration, she seriously clarified: “I’m not Hakka. I just never bound them.”
Su Minguan absent-mindedly said “oh.” Two seconds later, he suddenly startled like being scalded, withdrawing his hand as his face flushed red.
“I… you… I didn’t… I thought…”
Lin Yuchan hadn’t expected such a big reaction, immediately feeling apologetic and half-jokingly smoothing things over: “What’s wrong? I’m a child, not particular about such things.”
Su Minguan glared at her resentfully. A child—was there such a child?
He asked: “How old are you?”
Lin Yuchan recalled the birth date on her indenture contract: “Sixteen after New Year… oh no, seventeen.”
Counting nominal age—when in Rome, do as Romans do.
Su Minguan expressionlessly told her, “When my mother was your age, I could already count.”
Lin Yuchan’s brain cells died another patch: “…”
This damn Qing Dynasty! Simply unbearable!
She quickly put on the other shoe and sat up straight.
“Um… Minguan.”
Before leaving, she decided to speak openly, lest this unlucky child lose sleep tonight. After considering her wording, she began: “You also see that my family had few rules since childhood, and I don’t understand worldly etiquette…”
Su Minguan still couldn’t quite recover emotionally, his gaze touching her foot surface, asking somewhat disbelievingly: “Then… you don’t mind?”
“Of course I don’t mind.”
After finishing with a smile, seeing his apparent relief, she suddenly thought of a dangerous possibility and quickly warned: “But my not minding doesn’t mean you can act inappropriately! Understand what I mean…”
He looked confused briefly, then quite aggrieved: “Wasn’t it me who got taken advantage of on the boat earlier? Only officials can set fires while common people can’t light lamps? How are you so domineering?”
Lin Yuchan was speechless, her face stinging.