Chapter 48

At the moment her name was spoken—Du Jin—the hands wrapped around Qing Wu’s waist tightened abruptly, the slow, gentle motion turning frantic.

Pei Mu Ci held her with a force that seemed ready to tear her apart and then meld her into his very flesh and blood.

Qing Wu gazed at his strikingly handsome face before her and saw the tenderness and sweetness shining in his eyes, mingled with his usual composed expression now laced with a rare possessiveness. Yet buried deep within his pupils was a profound loneliness that stirred an inexplicable pity in her heart.

The corners of Pei Mu Ci’s eyes were tinged with a red flush of desire, but his expression remained clear-headed, his attire neat as he led her toward surrender.

Qing Wu’s limbs grew weak; she lacked the strength to break free from his embrace. Half-closing her eyes, her entire being trembled in rhythm with his.

Pei Mu Ci withdrew and wiped away the glistening tears at the corner of her lips, brushing her cheek gently with a mixture of sigh and reproach: “Your Highness, I am Yuan Xi.”

Somehow, Qing Wu felt as if the softest part of her heart had suddenly been touched.

The days she first awoke in Peach Blossom Village had been hard. Du Jin’s medical skills were excellent—he could heal her wounds but not the sickness within her heart.

It wasn’t until she opened the chest her father had entrusted to her, filled with enough gold to ensure she would never want for food or clothing for three lifetimes, that she understood her father’s greatest hope was for her to live well.

Everyone around her—Du Jin, Ning Chun, Uncle Cheng—they were all willing to risk their lives so she could survive.

If she remained trapped in the sorrow of the past, truly, she would be letting them down.

Yet, during those days, she always felt as if she were missing something. Whenever she was about to remember, a sudden sharp pain struck the back of her head, as if her memories were being deliberately broken off.

“Yuan Xi.” Qing Wu, tipsy and slurring, reached out her finger to touch his nose.

When she first saw this man, her head had been splitting with pain. But over the few encounters since, the pain had gradually eased, replaced now by a strange sense of familiarity.

Pei Mu Ci lowered his head, letting her fingertip rest upon the bridge of his nose.

Qing Wu blinked, tracing the contours of his features.

Pei Mu Ci leaned forward slightly, allowing her to move freely.

His closeness sent an inexplicable warmth fluttering in her abdomen, like countless insects nibbling at her. “Yuan Xi, did I know you before?”

Before he could answer, Qing Wu suddenly screamed.

“Ah—”

Not just a headache now, but a sharp stabbing pain that seemed to pierce her very heart, intensifying to agony that cleared her mind somewhat.

Why had she recalled the scene of her father’s suicide upon the city’s fall?

Or was this man somehow connected to the siege that had happened more than half a year ago?

Pei Mu Ci didn’t want to press her. Wiping the cold sweat from her brow with his sleeve, he murmured, “If you can’t remember, then so be it. I will make you remember me again.”

——

Gu Han Jiang emerged from Du Jin’s tent and went to speak with the bearded general.

By chance, several deputy generals were with him, and the group agreed to patrol together.

When they reached the kitchen, lights were on and smoke curled from the stove—someone was clearly practicing their culinary skills.

“Well, sneaking around to eat meat in secret! Whichever camp you belong to, if I catch you, there’ll be trouble.” The bearded general was quick-tempered and loud-voiced; ordinary soldiers would have confessed out of fright at the noise.

Yet inside stood a figure both graceful and unhurried, calmly ladling something from the pot.

His fluid movements cast shadows on the paper window like a high-quality shadow puppet show.

Gu Han Jiang took the lead, pushing open the door to find a small figure leaning against the stove, spinning a hollow piece of dry grass like a bamboo dragonfly.

He shut the door without hesitation.

Annoying.

He was glad he didn’t look up; otherwise, seeing the one who should have been studying military reports now cooking in the kitchen would have been even more vexing.

——

“What’s going on? Is Master Gu trying to protect this person?” The deputies were puzzled by his silence.

Gu Han Jiang leaned against the doorframe, teasingly raising his chin to signal them in.

The bearded general, hot-tempered, burst through the door.

“Who gave you permission—ah, my, my lord!” He stammered, tracing a circle with his toe on the ground, turning to leave, but Gu Han Jiang shoved him forward. Standing before Pei Mu Ci, he gave a proper salute. “My lord.”

The deputies slipped away quickly, but Gu Han Jiang called them back, pushing them all into the kitchen.

Pei Mu Ci glanced at the straight, relaxed line of men before him, kindly took a basket of wrapped glutinous rice balls from the cook behind him, and dropped a few into the pot.

“I’ll be heading back now.”

He lifted the bowl, pinky hooked around the wrapped hangover soup, and with his usual calm expression, took Qing Wu’s hand and avoided the others as he left.

The line of men stood rigidly in place, nodding obediently.

On the way back, Qing Wu stumbled several times on the trailing hem of her cloak, nearly falling.

She tried to lift her skirt, instinctively loosening their clasped hands.

Pei Mu Ci looked back at her. “What’s wrong?”

“Got it dirty.” She hurried to avoid the potholes, her steps quick and light like a hopping rabbit.

He handed her the hangover soup, squatted, and let her sit in his arms, carrying her back.

Though drunk, Qing Wu did not admit it. Apart from some shocking words spoken by the fire earlier, she was otherwise well-behaved, her head drooping drowsily, not resisting even when Pei Mu Ci held her.

“I’ll hold the rice balls too.” She reached for them, mainly to prevent him from dropping her if he were injured and could only hold her with one arm.

“They’re so hot.” She touched the edge of the bowl and immediately pulled back her hand, covering her earlobe.

Her dazed gaze was soft and thick with intoxication, as if she hadn’t fully woken from sleep.

“We’re almost there. Let me hold it.” Pei Mu Ci moved the bowl away from her.

A soldier guarding the tent pulled aside the curtain. Pei Mu Ci entered, not forgetting to turn and say, “No need to stand out here. Go rest.”

After a few steps, Qing Wu’s head felt as heavy as if filled with lead, so she leaned sideways against the nearest person’s shoulder.

Her faint breath brushed against his neck; Pei Mu Ci let her sit on his lap, reluctant to set her down.

Though drunk, Qing Wu mistook him for Du Jin but had ceased to look at him with unfamiliar bewilderment, which made him feel as though they had returned to their days of endless intimacy at the princess’s mansion.

“The Emperor calls you Princess Rong Zhao, Physician Du calls you A Wu. Then what should I call you?” Pei Mu Ci murmured to himself, unable to find an answer. He shook his head helplessly and fed her spoonfuls of hangover soup. “Drinking so much—aren’t you afraid of a headache tomorrow?”

Qing Wu was especially obedient now, resting her cheek on his shoulder, her face flushed as if still under the spell of the wine.

Pei Mu Ci pulled a blanket over her, wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, and held her there.

Who knew how much time passed before Qing Wu suddenly shivered and rose to fetch the bowl of cooked rice balls.

The steaming white dumplings had cooled long enough to be just the right temperature.

“I’ll feed you.” Pei Mu Ci took the bowl first, scooping a dumpling to her lips.

Qing Wu refused to eat, insisting on feeding herself.

She stood, arguing with him, her left foot stepping on the right, wobbling as if about to fall.

Pei Mu Ci handed her the bowl. She naturally sat back down, leaning obediently into his embrace.

The first bite was to taste. Qing Wu bit the sticky rice skin and, burned by the heat, dropped the spoon. After Pei Mu Ci blew on it twice, she slowly took a half mouthful, chewing carefully.

The dark filling dripped into the spoon, releasing a rich sesame fragrance.

“Delicious?” Pei Mu Ci watched her profile intently.

He loosened his tied-up hair, letting his jet-black locks fall freely, some strands brushing against Qing Wu’s chest, tickling and teasing.

She nestled fully into his broad shoulders, her toes swinging in the air, unable to reach the ground.

Hearing his question, she instinctively passed him the spoon with the remaining half of her dumpling.

“Careful, it’s hot.” She blew gently on the leaking filling.

Just as the porcelain spoon neared his lips, she realized it might be inappropriate and tried to pull back her hand.

Pei Mu Ci grasped her wrist and took the spoon in his mouth.

He only tasted a sweetness.

After two more bites, Qing Wu stopped eating and casually handed the rest to him, as if this were something they had done many times before.

His eyes darkened. She used to know he disliked sweets and would even instruct others not to add sugar to his porridge. Yet now, unknowingly, she gave him something overly sweet.

Still, since she offered it, even if he disliked sweets, he accepted it without hesitation, bringing it to his mouth as if nothing was amiss.

Qing Wu leaned against his chest again, feeling his Adam’s apple move rhythmically—a sound that oddly comforted and tempted her.

It made her want to lean up and take a bite.

Outside, two voices quarrelled noisily. With the guards around the main tent withdrawn by Pei Mu Ci, footsteps approached swiftly.

“I already told you, Pei Yuan Xi doesn’t like sweets. No need to give him any.” Gu Han Jiang seemed to be admonishing someone, his tone impatient.

The bearded general, honest and simple, scratched his head. “The lord only wrapped ten dumplings. Not enough to go around.”

Gu Han Jiang couldn’t argue with the stubborn man and let him pull back the tent flap.

Pei Mu Ci lifted his gaze, his dark eyes like beams of tangible light shooting straight ahead.

“I-I’m just here to remind you to take your medicine.”

A cold wind collided with Gu Han Jiang, causing him to pivot and push the bearded general out, their voices fading in the distance, echoing on the breeze.

“I told you, no need to give him any. He’s happy to eat the leftovers.”

The quarrel gradually disappeared. Qing Wu asked, “What medicine?”

Pei Mu Ci brought back a bowl of medicinal broth from the table.

The deep brown concoction swirled, thick and black as ink, emitting a suffocating odor.

Qing Wu touched the porcelain edge. “Cold?”

She wondered how long it had been left untouched.

“Mm.” Pei Mu Ci’s eyebrows didn’t move as he drank it down in one gulp.

“Not bitter?” Qing Wu’s throat tightened at the memory of Du Jin forcing her to take medicine.

“No bitter.” Pei Mu Ci’s expression softened, serene as clear skies after rain.

“How could it not be bitter?” Qing Wu hated being lied to, but as he finished the medicine and she had no way to verify, she only widened her eyes and stared at him suspiciously.

Seeing her disbelief, Pei Mu Ci leaned over, pried open her tightly closed lips.

The astringent taste burst wildly in her mouth; her features contorted as she gathered all her strength to push him away.

“Bitter!”

Pei Mu Ci smiled. “Sweet.”