A red-clothed guard explained in detail, and her gaze pierced me uncomfortably. This young lady was Princess Xia Zhiqian, who had requested Yuan Qing’s portrait from the Thirteenth Young Master. The man beside her was my husband, An Jin.
An Jin let out a light laugh, walking to Xia Zhiqian’s side. “Princess is kindhearted. Why bother arguing with a dog? I damaged the princess’s horse today and will find another fine steed to present to you another day,” he said gently, his voice magnetic.
Xia Zhiqian smiled shyly at him, “An Lang, you said it yourself.”
An Jin’s lips curved slightly. “This humble official never goes back on his word.”
Xia Zhiqian laughed triumphantly, then turned to me with a frosty expression. Her mood change was breathtaking.
“Although the dog can be spared, she cannot be forgiven for driving the dog to attack,” she raised her hand. “Slap her, twenty times.”
Just as the guard was about to step forward, An Jin quickly stood in front of me. “My unworthy wife has offended the princess and should be punished. I am willing to take the slaps in her place.”
I stared at An Jin, my mind blank.
The palace lantern hanging on the carriage cast a dim light, making Xia Zhiqian’s expression unpredictable. “An Lang, are you sure you want to protect her?”
“Yes,” An Jin said calmly.
Xia Zhiqian stared at me expressionlessly for a long time. I felt a chill rising from my feet, and Yuan Qiu shivered along with me.
An Jin put his arm around my shoulder, standing close. Yuan Qiu’s big head was sandwiched between us, looking left and right, seemingly understanding the situation.
“Please spare my wife for my sake,” An Jin spoke again, his voice magnetic but cold.
Xia Zhiqian lowered her eyes, contemplating. Moments later, she slowly smiled like a spring flower. “Fine.”
There was an inexplicable chill, like a poisonous snake climbing up my leg. An Jin’s hand on my shoulder felt like iron armor protecting me—this must be the so-called sense of security.
Xia Zhiqian turned and entered the carriage without looking back. The vermilion door closed, hiding her elegant face. The coachmen drove four white horses toward the imperial palace, followed neatly by the guards.
I took a breath, realizing I was covered in cold sweat. Yuan Qiu let out a low whimper and collapsed at my feet.
An Jin sighed. I expected him to blame me for Yuan Qiu’s trouble, but instead he softly asked, “Were you scared?”
I shook my head, then nodded.
He laughed. “You weren’t afraid when you made Yuan Qiu bite the horse.”
I defensively argued, “I wanted it to escape. Who knew it would misunderstand me?” Yuan Qiu protested with a few whimpers and continued to play dead.
He sighed again, tightening his grip on my shoulder. “Let’s go home.”
I wanted to get lost in thought. An Jin remained silent, holding my hand as we walked. When we reached the bedroom, he stopped and let go of my hand. “Get some rest early,” he said, but I instinctively grabbed his arm.
He turned back, raising an eyebrow and looking at me, his beautifully shaped face seeming somewhat unreal under the moonlight.
“Stay,” I said earnestly. “I’m afraid of the dark.”
This reason felt shameless, but An Jin did not call me out on it. He calmly accepted my invitation, a composure I admired.
We lay side by side, and to my surprise, I drifted off to sleep. An Jin lay on the outer side, breathing softly, his hair brushing my face. The fresh soap scent enveloped me, and soon I was half-asleep.
When he mentioned the Seventh Princess, I jolted awake.
“The Seventh Princess is arrogant and willful, using any means necessary. She humiliated you in front of me to see my reaction,” he said softly. “I wanted to ignore it, hoping she’d stop, but I couldn’t.”
I wanted to ask if he regretted offending her, but my nose felt sore, preventing me from speaking.
“There might be trouble ahead. Be careful,” he turned away, leaving me with a slender back.
I moved closer and hugged his waist. His body stiffened briefly.
“I’m not afraid of her,” I said, contemplating his thin undergarment. “Do you—like her?”
He turned, pulling me into his embrace, and after a pause, said, “Silly monster.”
I felt reassured as my eyelids began to droop. An Jin’s hand gently patted my back, like a soothing lullaby.
That night, I slept well and vaguely remember dreaming of a sunny day from the summer when I was five, when An Jin and I went to catch frogs by a small stream in the forest. The weather was unbearably hot, and I was sweating as I saw the sparkling, clear stream and smooth, colorful pebbles. Excited, I took off my jacket and jumped in. The water was refreshingly cool, reaching my chest. I called for An Jin to join me.
He hesitated but was tempted by the water, slowly undressing to enter. His skin was white and tender, like freshly baked buns. We caught small fish and splashed water at each other. I played with him and secretly pulled down his pants underwater. Just as I was about to clap and mock him, I accidentally looked down and was heartbroken, continuously wiping tears.
An Jin panicked, patting my back and asking what was wrong.
I cried, “Brother Jin, you have a meat worm on you.”
An Jin blushed, hurriedly pulling up his pants and stammering that it wasn’t a worm.
Since I hadn’t bathed with my older brother before, this was my first time seeing such a “thing.” Although An Jin comforted me for a long time, I stubbornly believed he was seriously ill and might not live long.
Finally, An Jin held my hand, promised he would be fine, and bought me several sugar cakes with different fillings, making me laugh through my tears.
When I woke up, I found myself smiling, my mouth moist, as if something had passed over it. An Jin had probably been awake for a while, his face dark red and somewhat embarrassed.
I cleared my throat, casually wiping my lips: “Did I talk in my sleep?”
He shook his head.
“Did I steal the blanket?”
He shook his head again. I felt calm, suddenly aware that my right palm was burning hot. Opening my hand and lifting the blanket, I curled up, mortified. “I didn’t mean to…”
“I know,” An Jin’s voice was slightly hoarse. “Just a habit.”
An Jin rustled while getting dressed. I decided to be shameless, pulling out the handkerchief my mother embroidered and stuffing it into his arms without looking, then diving under the covers.
After a long silence, I thought he had left and poked my head out, but found his face inches from mine, looking strange.
“Did you embroider this?”
I was about to nod but shook my head. “It was my mother. You know I can’t embroider such things…”
He stared at the handkerchief’s flowers for a long time.
“Don’t embroider anymore.”
Chapter Seven: Old Acquaintance Duan Chang
Before coming to Yanfeng, my parents lived in a small town in the southern Qi Kingdom, bordering South Rui Kingdom. According to my mother, I was born when the distant flowers were blooming, filling the garden with fragrance. She named me “Yao.” I found this highly suspicious; given her personality, it was unlikely she was moved by seasonal sentiments. She probably just couldn’t be bothered to think of a name.
Although I didn’t care much about the distant flowers, An Jin’s words were disheartening, leaving me low-spirited. Sensing my mood, An Jin wanted to explain but didn’t know how. He suggested we go to East Street for breakfast after morning court, which cheered me up, and I went back to sleep.
I slept soundly, not waking until after the hour of chen. My mother-in-law lived a secluded life, rarely leaving her room. During the early days of my marriage, I followed the custom of morning and evening greetings but was coldly rejected and told never to enter her space without permission.
