Across the village, Cāng Jì was having a similar crisis.
He was perched on a fallen log at the edge of the eastern fields, his golden robes carefully arranged, his expression one of profound suffering. The morning sun was warm on his scales. The birds were singing. The world was beautiful.
He hated everything.
"Seven days," he muttered to himself. "Seven days she has been avoiding me."
"You're brooding."
He looked up. Gū Gū was standing in front of him, her iron-wood stick planted firmly in the dirt, her sharp eyes fixed on his face with an expression of deep satisfaction.
"I am not brooding," he said stiffly. "I am contemplating. There's a difference."
"There's no difference." She sat down on a nearby rock, making herself comfortable. "You're brooding because the pretty teacher has been running away from you."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Liar."
"I am a Prince of the First Generation. I do not lie."
