Since when had Zhou Zishu ever done something like this? He naturally assumed that he should bring in a bundle of firewood and stuff it into the base of the stove. Then he tilted his head, and saw that the base was not completely filled. Thinking that it would be troublesome to add more firewood later on, and desiring to do all the work now so that he would not have to later, he came up with the brilliant idea to carry another bundle over, stuffed all of it into the base of the stove, and lit it.

This was disastrous. Even before the sparks appeared, black smoke emerged first. However, he dodged quickly enough, raising the tongs and taking a huge step backwards as he stared at the stove uncomprehendingly. Hurrying over to salvage the situation, Wen Kexing scraped out more than half of the firewood, turned his head aside to cough twice, and said, “Hell, are you trying to burn the house down?”

Zhou Zishu fell silent for a beat, then, acting as though he knew what he was saying, persisted in casting his judgement with a justified air, “This firewood is of poor quality. The smoke’s so heavy, the wood’s probably too wet.”

He, too, was invited out of the kitchen without explanation by Wen Kexing, who had tears streaming down his face. He and Zhang Chengling stared at each other, and sat around waiting for food.

The sky had darkened completely by the time Wen Kexing finally finished preparing a whole table’s worth of a New Year’s Eve feast. It was growing colder outside; the northwestern wind rattled the window lattices non-stop, but the room was toasty from the few small stoves inside the house. A fragrance was rising gradually from the wine warming on the stove. Zhang Chengling rapturously carried the dishes one by one to the table; when he sat down, he felt like he had been hypnotised by the steam.

He had thought that he would never have a home again, that he was destined to be a penniless vagrant for life. Yet, who would have known that he still had the chance to celebrate the New Year so properly? He felt most of the forlornness in his heart scatter; gazing at Zhou Zishu, then at Wen Kexing eagerly, he reflected that the heavens had probably smiled down on him.

Zhou Zishu had always been a wine-lover, and was tempted by the smell of the wine at this moment. He first poured a cup for himself, dropped his gaze, brought it to his nose and smelled it for a long while, before finally taking a mouthful of it. He felt that though this farmer’s homebrew was no top brand, it had a pure fragrance that was indescribable, and when it melted on the tongue, it warmed him on the inside the whole way down.