Work is earnest, while life is colorful.

With Ba Wan’s lively interference, neither of them maintained their initial reserve. They had spent time alone before, but never quite like this, in such a place and moment. After a bit of preamble, they got down to business.

Li An scrolled through one video after another in search of inspiration, but couldn’t watch any for more than a minute. The content never matched, the themes weren’t right, or the difficulty was just too high. Eventually, they abandoned the videos altogether, let a piece of music play in the background, and began a free-form discussion.

It was, perhaps, the right thing at the right time. Idea followed idea—her thought sparked his, and soon both of their minds were wide open. Li An noticed that, as Chen Xuan grew more animated, he could hardly get a word in.

Ba Wan reappeared at some point, but this time was wiser, lurking at the bedroom door to observe quietly and avoid trouble.

An hour later, Li An stood up, saying, “Wait a moment.” He returned with paper and pen. After jotting down all their ideas, the two began to sift through them. After much discussion, Li An settled on the program he would present at tomorrow’s group meeting.

The first piece was a piano duet, “Summer,” performed by him and Wang Xiaohu. “Kikujiro’s Summer” was a well-known film in China, its music beloved by both adults and children. The piece itself was accessible and pleasant; Li An planned to specially adapt Wang Xiaohu’s part to suit his abilities. The theme of boyhood and growth was woven throughout, aligning perfectly with the concert’s motif: teacher and student, together on stage, growing side by side. This idea was Chen Xuan’s gift to Li An.

Li An’s second piece would be Bach’s F minor two-part invention, played solo by Liu Fengrui. After weeks of coaching, Li An was confident Liu Fengrui had mastered the piece sufficiently. He chose it to show the other piano teachers at Yudong just how far Liu Fengrui—whom they had once dismissed—had come.

After the previous teacher of the “Three Little Branches” left, the children were divided among the other teachers. Only those with little talent, like Xiao Bei, or the quiet Wang Xiaohu, were left, along with Liu Fengrui, in whom no one saw promise. When Li An took over these three, it was officially the teaching group assigning him students, but in truth, they were the leftovers. But times had changed. Li An believed Liu Fengrui’s performance would make some regret their earlier judgments.

Meanwhile, Chen Xuan had finalized her first program, but was stuck on the second. Li An suggested, “Maybe you could expand the flute quartet from ‘Kiki’s Delivery Service’ to an octet, adding one instrument to each original part. That makes eight instruments—including yourself, so all seven children would be involved.”

Quartets are typically string-based, but there are countless variations using different instruments. Chen Xuan had thought of this, but hesitated: “Two of the children just aren’t up to it.”

When it comes to ensemble, the quality depends on each performer’s skill, their sense of teamwork, and their mutual understanding. Chen Xuan held herself to high standards, and expected the same from her students’ performances. If they were to participate, it had to be the best possible presentation. She couldn’t bring herself to force an octet onto the stage if the quality wasn’t there, though the piece was rich in stage effect and showcased the flute’s brilliance.

The only issue was those two children whose abilities lagged behind.

“What’s their problem?” Li An asked, scrolling through the scores of the quartet’s four parts. Used to piano scores with two parts and chords, the flute music seemed almost toy-like to him, but he wanted to understand, despite the unfamiliar instrument.

“Fingerings,” Chen Xuan replied, showing him a three-part fragment, “like here.” Li An looked—an arpeggiated chord, reminiscent of a piano’s left hand playing 7-5-2-5-7-5-2-5. He squinted, asking, “Is this kind of arpeggio hard to play?”

“It’s not really difficult, but the fingerings in this range are tricky for some of them—they can’t play it well.”

Li An understood immediately. After pondering, he suggested, “What if you transpose the whole thing upwards?” That would eliminate the problematic fingerings.

Chen Xuan shook her head: “That won’t work. Transposing would make parts three and four easier, but parts one and two would have trouble with the high notes.” It was, indeed, a tricky situation.

He saw that she really wanted to stage this piece and thought further. The main function of the accompaniment is to support the melody, as long as the harmonies follow proper rules.

“In that case—” Li An’s voice stretched out, his mind brainstorming. Suddenly, a spark: “If you re-arrange the piece using four-part harmony, you could split it into six parts, giving the two simplest parts to those children. That would solve the problem.”

Chen Xuan’s eyes lit up, but soon furrowed. It was a good idea, but—

“My harmony skills are mediocre,” she admitted, unable to accomplish it herself in the short term.

“Are you comfortable with flute orchestration?” Li An asked.

She nodded distractedly. “Then it’s settled,” Li An said, closing the webpage and stretching. “Leave the harmony to me.”

He was surprised to see her hesitant. “What, you don’t trust me?”

“No, it’s not that,” Chen Xuan shook her head. She often heard him improvising next door, and admired his arrangements. It was more that she felt it was her responsibility, and hesitated to burden Li An, even with their relationship, given how time-consuming arranging could be.

And in the end, the program might not even be approved.

Li An seemed to sense her concern and smiled, “Or, you could simplify the arpeggios in the accompaniment parts to block chords, let each child play a single chord note. With so many players, the effect might not be much worse.”

Chen Xuan considered this and felt reassured. It wasn’t as elegant as Li An’s first solution, but it solved the problem, and—most importantly—she could manage it herself.

“Only Teacher Li could think of that!”

With the issue resolved, Chen Xuan’s mood brightened instantly.

Li An smiled and plucked Ba Wan from the bedroom, offering the cat to Chen Xuan, “Do you want to play?”

Chen Xuan joyfully rubbed her hands together, “Put him down. He doesn’t want you to hold him.”

“If I put him down, he’ll run for sure.” Li An set Ba Wan on the floor; sure enough, the cat ran two meters before stopping, cautiously eyeing them.

The two humans and the cat stared at each other.

Chen Xuan bent halfway, reaching out gently and calling in a voice both sweet and maternal, “Ba Wan, come here, come here.”

It was strange. Stranger still, Ba Wan seemed to understand, creeping toward her step by step.

Li An turned, about to say something to Chen Xuan, when his gaze inadvertently slipped through the neckline of her robe as she bent over. He quickly looked away and stepped out of the dangerous territory beneath his feet.

“Ahem, do you want something to eat?” He had already forgotten what he meant to say.

Chen Xuan, absorbed with Ba Wan, didn’t notice Li An’s discomfort. When Ba Wan reached her feet, she glanced down and realized her neckline was open. Seeing Li An busy in the kitchen, she paid it no mind.

She picked up Ba Wan happily. “Are you cooking?”

Li An turned. “I’m making noodles. Want some?”

Chen Xuan hadn’t eaten dinner, and with the atmosphere so warm and Li An offering, she couldn’t possibly refuse.

“Yes!” She replied, carrying Ba Wan out to the balcony to play.

Watching Chen Xuan crouched on the ground, playing with Ba Wan like a child, Li An felt his softest place touched again and again.

He watched quietly for a while, then turned and tossed a handful of noodles into the pot.

He hadn’t meant to be careless earlier. He never joked like that with any woman. Yet, as Chen Xuan said yes to the food, the scene from before flashed again in his mind.

Black and white, two pendants.

Utterly enchanting.