Zhang Zhixu was attended by quite a number of people. Besides Jiuquan and Ningsu, there were four manservants and two nursemaids. Jiuquan and Ningsu had known about Chen Baoxiang’s existence beforehand and could more or less accept the way these two’s relationship had rapidly evolved — but the accompanying nursemaids were thoroughly alarmed, shaking their heads repeatedly: “Young master, this is completely improper. Both of you are unmarried — how can you live under the same roof?”

Chen Baoxiang was puzzled. “It’s the same building, not the same room. If even that were taboo, wouldn’t Zhaixing Tower end up with no guests at all?”

The nursemaid cast a disdainful glance at her, then drew Zhang Zhixu aside and lowered her voice. “The women of Shangjing are full of tricks. Young master, you must be on your guard.”

The tricks Chen Baoxiang had, he had already witnessed firsthand — and thus far, she hadn’t directed a single one of them at him.

Zhang Zhixu held considerable respect for his elders and didn’t argue back. He simply turned to face Chen Baoxiang with a composed expression. “Did you hear that? Even outside, you are to abide by the Zhang family’s rules.”

“I heard.” Chen Baoxiang dipped her knees in a respectful curtsy toward him.

Yet in the dead of night, both windows on the sixth floor swung open simultaneously. One figure emerged cradling a jar of wine, the other carrying a few paper-wrapped parcels of small dishes, and the two of them crept stealthily up together onto the high roof ridge.

“I can’t believe you thought of this,” he said, looking down at the drop below. “How is this any different from loitering at the gates of the underworld?”

Chen Baoxiang gripped the tiles and felt her own legs go weak. “What can I do? They’ve got the floors below locked down tight. If we want a drink, we have to come up here.”

“Why do you want to drink?”

“My injuries are healed!” She plopped down beside him and happily broke the clay seal on the jar. “Recovering this fast — shouldn’t we celebrate? Besides, you barely ate at dinner. I had a feeling you’d be hungry.”

The Zhang family’s rules were truly absurd — once the meal hour had passed, there was apparently to be no more eating. Even during meals, a nursemaid stood at the side reciting passages from some culinary scripture, which had put her off her appetite entirely.

Thank goodness Ningsu had impressive lightness skills and had gone out to buy a roast chicken — it was still warm.

Chen Baoxiang generously tore off a drumstick and held it out.

He seemed to hesitate slightly, and didn’t take it.

“What are you afraid of? There’s no one here.” She shoved the drumstick firmly into his hand. “Go on, eat. We’ll split it between us.”

Golden grease dripped from the drumstick onto the back of his pale hand before he could dodge it.

Zhang Zhixu looked at it with distaste, his brow furrowed for a long moment — yet in the end, he lowered his head and took a bite.

Chen Baoxiang took a bold swig of wine, then said with bright-eyed satisfaction: “I hope I’ll keep having this kind of good fortune — surviving great danger, free of illness and pain.”

He nodded in agreement, then glanced at her. “Drink a little less.”

“It’s fine, I can hold my liquor.”

She’d said the same thing last time, and then promptly got drunk and clung to a stone pillar for dear life, refusing to let go.

He let out a helpless sigh, reached out with his free hand, and grabbed hold of the hem of her robe.

The two of them were sitting very close together. The moon above was exceptionally beautiful.

Chen Baoxiang drank and drank, then turned her head on a whim and suddenly leaned in close to look at him.

A straight, well-defined nose. A jaw with a clean, curved line. Like a crane above the clouds in the mountain mist, or like wisps of smoke in a painting, drifting and dissolving. Looking higher — those refined brows and bright eyes, the outer corners tilted upward ever so slightly, like a narrow boat gliding across the moon’s reflection on the water, drenched in the lake’s soft, hazy light.

Chen Baoxiang let out an awed sound. “So beautiful.”

He had known it would be something like this. Given her level of literacy, she couldn’t come up with anything more poetic even when complimenting him.

Zhang Zhixu said, unimpressed, “And what good does being beautiful do? I still can’t compare to your Pei young master.”

“Immortal, how can you hold such a long grudge?” She spread her hands helplessly. “Didn’t I make up for it afterward? If the great empire of Dasheng permitted a woman to marry two husbands, I would definitely want you as well.”

That remedy was worse than the offense.

Zhang Zhixu’s irritation surged afresh. “So I’d be your second husband.”

“Of course not — if I really could marry two, you’d be the first and he’d be the second.”

“What’s so good about him, anyway?” Zhang Zhixu couldn’t make sense of it. “Fickle and sentimental, yet weak and incompetent — why would you look twice at someone like that?”

“There’s no particular reason.” Chen Baoxiang took a sip of wine, a flush rising to her cheeks. “He just…I suppose I need him.”

A household that had barely begun to establish itself — what did it have that was worth needing?

The more Zhang Zhixu thought about it, the more agitated he became.

All excuses. This person simply liked Pei Ruheng. Even if she seemed not to anymore on the surface, she was still keeping him in her heart.

He had cared for her so thoroughly — given her gold, hired renowned physicians on her behalf, even gone to such lengths to find Mafei grass just so she wouldn’t have to suffer.

And she hadn’t remembered a single bit of his kindness.

Turning his head away in quiet indignation, Zhang Zhixu thought: heartless creature, you deserve to be blown to death by the night wind.

Chen Baoxiang, drunk, lost her balance for a moment and pitched forward.

He shot out his hand and yanked the hem of her robe taut, arresting her downward momentum, then pulled her back into his arms.

The roast chicken she hadn’t managed to hold onto rolled and tumbled down the seven-floor eave, bouncing all the way to the ground.

Zhang Zhixu stared at that tumbling paper parcel and the white mist below the eaves, and felt a cold sweat break out on his back. His hands locked around Chen Baoxiang in a vice grip, and he opened his mouth, ready to scold her.

But this person, in her dazed and muddled state, suddenly reached up and cupped his face in her hands.

He looked up in confusion, and found her straddling his lap, looking down at him, her eyes wide with genuine astonishment. “These lashes — how can they possibly be longer than mine?”

And with that, she leaned in to get a better look.

Zhang Zhixu’s lashes trembled.

The pounding of his heart from the earlier fright hadn’t yet faded, and now a second, entirely different pounding welled up to take its place.

The women of Shangjing are full of tricks. Master, you must be on your guard.

The nursemaid’s voice rang out in his mind.

Let it ring. Zhang Zhixu held perfectly still and watched the person before him, thinking to himself: what kind of trick was this? Chen Baoxiang was only drunk — she had always been the sort who, when inebriated, liked to throw her arms around pillars. This was simply how she was.

The two of them were very close. Without quite thinking, he found his gaze drawn downward to those muttering lips of hers.

The pallor of illness hadn’t fully left them yet — they were still slightly wan, a little dry.

Without quite knowing what he intended, he instinctively lowered his head and leaned toward her, pulled by some impulse he couldn’t quite name.

The moonlight was dim. There was no one around. Conditions could not have been more perfect for the quiet stirring of something tender.

But Chen Baoxiang seemed to notice nothing at all. She finished examining his lashes and drew back, her eyes bright and gleaming. “Immortal! Let’s compose poetry together!”

The delicate mood dissolved. Up above, the moon resumed its clear, bright light.

Zhang Zhixu thought, with mild exasperation: only she could manage this. Still the same hopeless fool who couldn’t climb a branch even when it was practically thrust into her hands.

He shifted and sat apart from her, then asked, “Didn’t you say you’re illiterate?”

“I am.” The person beside him seemed to remember something and looked rather put out. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t compose my own poetry, does it? I don’t care — I want to.”

“All right, all right. Go ahead. I’m listening attentively.”

Chen Baoxiang, pleasantly tipsy, furrowed her brow in deep contemplation. After quite a long while, she swayed her head from side to side and recited: “The moon above… one great big plate!”

Zhang Zhixu calmly wiped his fingers with a cloth and replied off the top of his head: “Golden robes and jeweled fans in the cold dawn breeze.”

“I and Fengqing, sitting side by side——”

“Old dreams spin out their telling through a single night.”

“The roast chicken nearby smells so good——”

He shook his head at that, but answered all the same: “Long soaked in this night, so as never to forget.”

Chen Baoxiang swayed her feet as she listened to the end, then declared with great pride: “And we matched them all — aren’t we both incredibly talented!”