“Ninth Prince, what would you like to eat?” Feng Jiu’er turned around and cast a sidelong glance at the man who, even while seated, stood nearly at eye level with her.
But the man looked at her without a single word of response.
Feng Jiu’er blinked, and it seemed she understood where the problem lay.
“Ninth Imperial Uncle, what would you like? Shall I bring something over for you?”
Could the Ninth Imperial Uncle please stop being so impossibly difficult to serve? Her own father was still sitting over there being neglected, and here he was, being picky and fussy.
“Whatever.” Zhan Qingcheng dropped the two characters as if bestowing a great favour.
But Feng Jiu’er had not missed the fact that when her adorable yet infuriating Ninth Imperial Uncle said “whatever,” his gaze had swept briefly over the bowl still in her hand.
“Porridge, then?” Feng Jiu’er looked at this most impossible-to-please person with a beaming smile. “This porridge is wonderfully fragrant — truly.”
“Mm.” Zhan Qingcheng gave a nod.
“There aren’t any clean bowls left, though. If the Ninth Imperial Uncle wants porridge, he may have to wait a little while — I’ll go and give the bowl a wash.” She left those words behind and turned to go.
How had she forgotten — the Ninth Imperial Uncle of the past had never taken issue with her saliva before.
Was it because he had watched her eat so ravenously that he hadn’t the heart to compete with her for it?
Whether or not that was the reason, she might as well assume it was — telling herself that would at least make her feel a little better.
“There’s no need.” A low voice carried over from behind Feng Jiu’er. “Use yours.”
Biting down firmly on her lips to keep herself from laughing aloud, Feng Jiu’er walked toward Xue Gu with a quietly delighted expression.
“Feng Jiu’er, since when did you become so contrary?” Qiaomu, who was gnawing on a chicken leg while slurping porridge, could no longer bear to watch. “When did you start saying one thing and meaning another?”
“Me? Did I say something?” Feng Jiu’er looked at this person who was speaking in veiled allusions.
“Yes — you’re being completely dishonest!”
Qiaomu didn’t dare look at Zhan Qingcheng directly. But if even she herself could hear what Feng Jiu’er’s words implied, the Ninth Prince certainly couldn’t have missed it.
And yet she dared to openly flirt with the Ninth Prince like that — that took a certain kind of audacity.
Then again, thinking back carefully, she herself had once stormed off to kidnap someone with her men — and now she felt impressed with herself for merely making an indirect jibe. She really had no spine at all.
Qiaomu shook her head and picked up a plump, meaty chicken leg for another bite.
“Why didn’t Jian Yi bring back some wine? At a time like this, a drink would make everything better.”
“Miss, we are currently fleeing for our lives. Being able to eat our fill is already something to be grateful for.” Jian Yi lifted the roasted chicken off the rack, inspected it, then set it back.
Qiaomu looked at Jian Yi and forcibly swallowed the piece of chicken she had been chewing.
“Look — the fact that you’re willing to talk to me, Jian Yi, is already something. The whole journey, Jiu’er has been keeping the Ninth Prince company, and I’ve been so starved of conversation I’m nearly ill from boredom.”
“But could you please stop calling me ‘Miss’? No matter how you look at it, you’re older than I am, aren’t you? You can’t even get a simple address right — no wonder no woman has ever taken a liking to you all this time.”
“Having Jiu’er like me is more than enough. I don’t need any other woman.”
The moment Jian Yi’s words fell, two men at different corners of the cave let out a quiet cough at the same time.
Feng Jiu’er, who had just turned to walk back with a bowl of porridge in hand, was so startled by Jian Yi that she nearly tripped over her own feet.
She shot a glance at Mu Mu, who was smiling at the corners of his mouth, then lowered her head and continued walking forward.
Sitting down beside Zhan Qingcheng, Feng Jiu’er raised an eyebrow and looked at Jian Yi.
“Jian Yi, don’t talk nonsense.”
“That’s right, Jian Yi — since when did Jiu’er start liking you? Could it be that the two of you spent a few days together in the imperial palace and familiarity bred affection?”
“Cough—” The moment Qiaomu’s words finished, the man sitting beside Feng Jiu’er nearly sprayed a mouthful of porridge.
“Ninth Imperial Uncle, are you alright? Don’t rush — slow down!” Feng Jiu’er felt a headache coming on from two directions at once.
If time permitted, could she please challenge Qiaomu to a one-on-one duel?
This person who thrived on stirring up trouble was far, far too much.
Setting the porridge aside, Feng Jiu’er produced a small square handkerchief and dabbed at the corner of Zhan Qingcheng’s mouth, looking every bit the picture of a dutiful little companion.
“Ninth Imperial Uncle, was it too hot? Let me… blow on it first.”
Tucking the handkerchief away, Feng Jiu’er picked up the meat porridge again.
When Father wasn’t around, attending to the Ninth Imperial Uncle was actually not so bad.
Except that Father was still sitting right over there, and she couldn’t help wondering — would he be disappointed, seeing her behave in such a flustered, undignified way?
She pressed her lips together, scooped a spoonful of porridge, and held it out before Zhan Qingcheng.
“It should be cool enough now.”
In truth, it hadn’t been that hot to begin with. It was Qiaomu’s words that had provoked the Ninth Imperial Uncle into his little accident.
The air around the man beside her was growing increasingly cold. Feng Jiu’er didn’t dare move away and even found herself sitting up straighter than usual.
“Familiarity bred affection?” Zhan Qingcheng lowered his eyes and looked at the girl beside him, his voice cool.
Feng Jiu’er glanced sideways at Feng Li and, seeing he was still eating his porridge, felt a measure of relief.
“No, don’t listen to Qiaomu talking nonsense.”
If she didn’t clarify right now, Feng Jiu’er felt she wasn’t far from a sentence worse than death.
No matter how cold he was, how domineering, how unreasonable at times — he was still the Ninth Imperial Uncle. How could she afford not to take him seriously?
In truth, it wasn’t even a question of whether she dared. The Ninth Imperial Uncle simply would never give her the opportunity to be so cavalier.
Qiaomu smiled, and looked at Jian Yi with a raised brow.
“Jian Yi, perhaps you could clear up any misunderstanding — it wouldn’t do for things to be left unclear.”
For some reason she couldn’t quite name, Qiaomu had a feeling that Jian Yi’s explanation would only lift her spirits further. The words left her mouth before she could stop them.
“Jiu’er likes me and wants me to be her consort-attendant — that’s something the entire Feng Clan knows. There’s nothing strange about it.” Jian Yi said this without a care in the world.
Jian Yi hadn’t thought much of it. Qiaomu had said no woman liked him, and so he thought of Jiu’er. Since Jiu’er liked everyone, it was impossible that she alone disliked him.
How simple Jian Yi’s thinking was — no one could quite say. But true to Qiaomu’s prediction, after hearing his words, her mood did improve considerably.
Feng Jiu’er turned her eyes to the heavens in wordless despair. Should she go pummel Qiaomu, or educate Bei Mu Kingdom’s number-one assassin?
“The entire Feng Clan knows?”
Zhan Qingcheng’s low, soft voice forced Feng Jiu’er to pull her thoughts back.
“Ninth Imperial Uncle, please don’t take it seriously. Anyone with eyes can see that Qiaomu and Jian Yi are just teasing me — how could you have missed that?”
If she didn’t explain any further, would the Ninth Imperial Uncle declare he wanted to annihilate the Feng Clan?
The man’s capabilities were something she never doubted for a moment.
He was currently a tiger stranded on a plain, being tormented by dogs — and all of it was because of her.
The Feng Clan was vast, with many capable people among its ranks. But if the Ninth Imperial Uncle truly set his intent on destroying the Feng Clan, it was not entirely beyond the realm of possibility.
Qiaomu looked at Jian Yi, then couldn’t help turning to glance over her shoulder.
“Say, Jian Yi — so you’re actually…”
“Qiaomu!” Qiaomu’s words were cut off before she could finish them, by Feng Jiu’er’s sharp interjection.
She shot a glare at this person who, frustrated in her own romantic affairs, was bent on making trouble for others. Then Feng Jiu’er took a deep breath, shifted her gaze, and looked at Jian Yi.
“Jian Yi, one chicken leg is nowhere near enough for Miss Qiao. Give her two chicken rumps as well.”
“No problem.” Jian Yi stood up, whole roasted chicken in hand.
“Feng Jiu’er, how dare you speak such vulgarity?” Qiaomu casually tossed aside a chicken bone. “Besides, I won’t eat that sort of thing. If you like it so much, you eat it yourself.”