Gu Tingye took a sip of wine, then dipped his chopsticks into it and let the little chubby one suckle the droplets off the tips — Minglan twitched at the corners of her mouth and forced herself to endure it. He ate a bite of food, then ladled out a small half-spoonful of soup for the chubby one to taste. Minglan separately picked out soft, tender, easily digestible silken tofu and delicate fish meat, chewed them fine, and fed them to him. The chubby one ate with evident relish, sometimes smacking his little lips and begging for more.
The wet nurse smiled and chimed in cheerfully from the side: “The young master is bigger now, he can already eat rice porridge — his appetite keeps getting better and better.”
That meal took nearly half an hour to finish. Thanks to the dishes being kept warm over hot water constantly replenished at the bottom of the bowls, they finally finished eating. Tuan Ge’er — whether worn out from playing or tipsy from the wine — began yawning and growing drowsy. The wet nurse at last managed to carry the child away without incident.
After washing their hands and faces, rinsing and changing clothes, Gu Tingye settled himself in a loose, pale-colored inner robe of soft ink-black brocade cotton and sat upright at the writing desk reading, affecting an air of indifference: “I heard the Yu family sent someone today?”
Minglan glanced up at the ceiling and, stuttering slightly, gave a simple recounting of what the fourth young mistress of the Yu family had said that day.
“Oh, is that so?” Gu Tingye’s posture as he held his book was perfectly upright, his loosened hair draped softly down — he had quite the air of an elegantly sword-bearing scholar of the pre-Qin era. Regrettably, for all the time he’d been staring at it, he had not turned a single page.
Minglan looked at the water clock and said quietly: “It’s time to rest — does the Marquis plan to keep reading?”
“Even a rough military man like me can recognize a few characters. Reading more can only help — it might spare me from having you go and weave a feather fan.” Gu Tingye’s brow didn’t move, but the corners of his mouth curved ever so slightly upward, a faint teasing note threading through his voice.
Minglan pouted, strode over to Gu Tingye, yanked the book out of his hands, sat herself down on his knee, gave his earlobe a firm bite, and narrowed her eyes with a coy, sultry look. In a breathless, low voice she murmured: “Is a book better-looking than me?”
The collar of her snow-white silk inner robe had come loose, revealing a splash of vivid spring-green satin bodice-wrap, trimmed across it with a richly dark embroidered border of deep ink-green edging — which, set against the trembling valley between her full, snow-pale contours, lent her an air of alluring loveliness.
There is no harm in having many skills; the way things developed afterward fully vindicated every one of those ten gigabytes she hadn’t read in vain. Tasteful. Lights out.
“The Madam still hasn’t woven that feather fan.” The man lay on his side propped against the pillow, the corners of his mouth brimming with warmth, his brows and eyes at ease.
In truth Minglan had long since been aching — her waist and legs completely spent — but she was not one to lose face even while losing ground. She sprawled onto his chest and purred in a saccharine tone: “I only worry that even if I weave it, you won’t have the strength left to fan it.”
Gu Tingye hadn’t expected she still dared to provoke him. With a sudden roll he flipped over and pressed Minglan beneath him, laughing low: “Then let’s see about that.”
It was fortunate that this grand bed was the handiwork of the imperial palace’s master craftsmen — rosewood, four posts, four railings — built to withstand it. Through a dizzy, heavenless dark, with no knowing how many watch-drums had sounded outside, Minglan finally grew tired. Half-lost in a drowsy haze, she was still thinking: this man was becoming harder and harder to manage with each passing day.