The main courtyard of Prince Min Mansion was utterly silent.
In the inner chamber of the main bedroom, a spacious carved dragon-and-phoenix canopy bed hung with festive red gauze curtains; on the desk in the room, a pair of dragon-and-phoenix candles as thick as a baby's arm spat out a lump of wick, crackling as it burned.
On the canopy bed lay two people, staring blankly at the top of the curtain—Chu Ze and the Princess Consort, who had been schemed against and packed together onto this big bed.
The two lay side by side without a word, the atmosphere, surprisingly, almost harmonious.
"If I were not Chu Ze, and you not Chongyang, if it were just two ordinary people, then this scene right now would probably be very festive."
Chu Ze finally broke the silence.
The Princess Consort's voice was a little hoarse. "You are right."
"What a pity, you and I are nothing more than a joke." Chu Ze sat up, the satin-like quilt slipping down to reveal his thin upper body.
