Chapter 10: Too Thin-Skinned

Mother Song was first awakened at dawn by the rooster, followed shortly by a series of faint, rustling sounds. Seeing Huan-ya through the window, she didn't think much of it.

By the time she had dressed and stepped out, the girl was nowhere to be seen.

"Where has she gone?" Mother Song peered into the kitchen, but finding it empty, she followed the sound of clucking hens toward the backyard.

There, she found Huan-ya crouched by the chicken coop, her eyes glowing with such intensity that she swallowed repeatedly. Mother Song feared that if she didn't speak up, the girl might just grab the bird and tear into it raw.

The moment Mother Song called out, the girl shrank back into her usual timid, quail-like posture, falling silent with a face flushed as red as a cockscomb.

Too thin-skinned.

Mother Song shook her head and asked, "Do you know how to slaughter a chicken?"

Huan-ya startled, waving her hands frantically. "No, no, I won't eat it! I truly won't eat it!"

Internally, the girl was on the verge of tears. *It's over, it's over! The mistress must think I'm a glutton!*

"If you continue with this teary-eyed act," Mother Song said, "I will throw you out this instant."

"No, no!" Huan-ya immediately stiffened.

Seeing the girl’s eyes were still red but her composure was vastly improved, Mother Song sighed. *So be it. If she’s thin-skinned, she’s thin-skinned—as long as she can work.*

"You don't know how to kill a chicken?" Mother Song asked again.

Realizing the bird wasn't intended for her own consumption, Huan-ya nodded eagerly. "I do! I do know how!"

Mother Song gave a curt nod and opened the coop door. "Go in and catch that old hen."

Huan-ya ducked into the coop, and within seconds, the squawking hen was flapping its wings in her grip. Seeing her such proficiency, it was clear she had done this many times before, and her words from yesterday hadn't been empty claims.

Mother Song nodded slightly. "Huan-ya, I brought you here to work. If you do your job well and look after my son, I will not cast you out. Do you understand?"

Huan-ya nodded vigorously. "I understand! I am very good at taking care of people!"

Mother Song glanced at her sideways. "You said yesterday that you cared for your father while he was ill. What about your parents?"

Huan-ya froze. Her mistress hadn't asked yesterday, and she had assumed she didn't care—or perhaps, had simply forgotten.

"My... my parents are both gone. Father passed away from illness a few years ago. Mother caught a chill before the new year and never recovered."

As she spoke, Huan-ya turned her face away to wipe her eyes, then added, "Mistress, please rest assured, I will not run off. Even if someone comes to cause trouble, you need not fear—you hold my deed of sale!"

*With that,* she thought, *even if my aunt comes to snatch me away, she won't be able to, right?*

Mother Song hadn't expected the girl's past to be so grim. She pursed her lips, a pang of pity stirring in her heart.

"There's no need to call me 'Mistress.' We are all village folk; it sounds awkward. Just call me 'Auntie,' as you did yesterday."

Huan-ya obeyed promptly. "Understood, Auntie."

"Go on. Slaughter the chicken, boil the water, and pluck it. I'm going to prepare breakfast."

"Yes, ma'am."

Clutching the struggling hen and holding its sharp beak shut, Huan-ya hurried after Mother Song toward the front yard. She retrieved a kitchen knife, sliced cleanly across the bird's throat, and caught the blood in a rough porcelain bowl.

With a rhythmic dripping sound, a bowl of deep red blood was soon resting on the table. Huan-ya brought over hot water, scalded the hen, and began to pluck it.

She missed nothing—not the large feathers nor the fine down clinging to the skin. Once cleaned, she gutted the bird, carefully separating the offal and waste, laying each part out neatly.

When Mother Song stepped back out, she was met with a perfectly prepared chicken, with the innards and blood arranged in orderly fashion beside it.