Chapter Sixty-Five: A Contest of Acting Skills

“Your master is a miracle-working physician—don’t tarnish his reputation.” Young Lord Gong’s lips curled into a smile, as radiant as a hundred flowers in bloom.

He was a man of surpassing beauty, and that smile was dazzling, bewitching in its allure. If An Yi truly were only nine years old, she would surely be unable to resist such charm. Unfortunately for him, she possessed a mature soul. She caught the chill in his eyes and instantly saw through his false smile. Lowering her gaze to hide the flicker of amusement in her eyes, she thought: to get her to help, this man not only invoked her master’s name, but even resorted to flaunting his beauty.

Seeing her reaction, Young Lord Gong mistook her composure for bashfulness. He sighed inwardly, lamenting that he had sunk to using his looks to sway others—if word of this reached the martial world, he’d have no face left to show.

An Yi cared little for her master’s reputation at this moment—her life was her only concern. Without a word, she turned and strode to the side room where herbs were stored.

Young Lord Gong’s smile faded as soon as she turned away. Pressing a hand to his chest, his expression grew pained. He had aggravated his injury by forcibly channeling his inner strength earlier. Now, all his hopes rested on this little girl; otherwise, he would surely perish here.

An Yi selected twelve medicinal herbs: smilax, honeysuckle, prepared rehmannia, morinda root, cornus fruit, peony bark, safflower, peach kernel, and others. She packed them into a medicine pot and carried it off to the kitchen to brew.

Half an hour later, she brought the finished medicine to the main hall. The decoction was meant to treat cinnabar poisoning when ingested; she could only hope it would work on poisoning from external wounds.

Young Lord Gong lifted the bowl, tested its warmth, and downed it in one gulp.

An Yi was a little surprised by his lack of hesitation. Was he not afraid she might have poisoned the brew to kill him?

“If you don’t help me neutralize the poison, I’ll die anyway. Even if you did add poison, I have to take my chances—it might even be possible to fight poison with poison. And if that fails, I’ll still have enough strength to kill you before I die,” Young Lord Gong said, as if reading her thoughts.

Her eyes flickered, but she turned away and brought the medicine pot into the kitchen, covering it with a cloth scalded in hot water. “Young Lord Gong, unfasten your clothes. I’ll apply the medicine.”

“This remedy is for both internal and external use?” he asked, arching an eyebrow.

“If the poison can invade from outside in, so can the medicine.”

“That makes sense.” He smiled, drew a dagger from his sleeve, set it on the table, and loosened his clothes again.

An Yi poured out half a bowl, soaked the cloth, and dabbed it on the purple-red handprint marring his back.

The warmth of the medicine soothed his skin, and Young Lord Gong’s narrow eyes drifted half shut in comfort.

After seven applications, the bowl was empty. “You can dress now,” An Yi said.

He redressed, about to speak, when a series of knocks sounded at the door.

His eyes turned cold in an instant, hand darting to the dagger.

“It’s probably my second brother—he’s bringing me lunch,” An Yi said quickly, tense.

Before the words left her mouth, An Jian’s voice rang out from outside. “Sister, sister, open up!”

“Just a moment, Second Brother!” She looked at Young Lord Gong. “Could you go into the inner room?”

He gave her a long look, then slipped away.

An Yi let out a soft breath, quickly hid the medicine pot and bowl in the kitchen, and hurried to open the door.

An Jian stood outside, holding a bamboo lunchbox wrapped in a small quilt. An Yi often forgot the time while brewing medicine and had to be called home to eat, only to rush back to the Lu family’s house. To spare her the trouble and prevent her from catching cold, Mrs. Luo had An Jian bring her meals instead.

“Thank you, Second Brother.” She took the box but, unlike previous days, didn’t let him carry it to the kitchen.

“No need to thank me. Come home early; the road’s not safe after dark.” An Jian, less sharp than An Kang, didn’t notice the subtle change.

“Got it, you can go back.” An Yi set the box down, closed and barred the door, then carried it into the hall.

Young Lord Gong emerged from the inner room.

“Come eat,” An Yi said, taking out a bowl and lifting the lid: white rice topped with a fried egg and some greens with tofu. With the slaughter ban still in effect for a few days, they could only eat vegetarian fare during the forty-nine days of mourning.

“If I eat this, what will you have?” Young Lord Gong asked.

“I’ll eat at home later.” She set the chopsticks on the bowl and went into the inner room.

He hadn’t eaten all day—there was nothing edible in the Lu house but herbs—and his hunger was keen. Without further pretense, he began to eat.

When An Yi came out, she said, “I’ve laid out some of Master’s clothes on the bed. When you finish eating, change into them—your own clothes are filthy.”

“Alright.” He ate quickly but elegantly, though only half full.

She took the dishes to the kitchen, washed them, then sat on a small stool by the stove to warm herself. With Young Lord Gong present, she could accomplish nothing else today.

He changed into the clothes, but as he was a head taller than Dr. Lu, they were a poor fit, too short at the cuffs, exposing his black boots. He carried a bench into the kitchen and sat beside her.

They sat in silence, warming themselves by the fire. Now and then, An Yi fed more twigs into the flames.

She was unsure how much time had passed, but her hunger reminded her it was time to leave. She poured a large bowl of water into the medicine pot and set it on the stove, adding a thick log to the fire.

The second batch of medicine didn’t take as long to brew. Once ready and drunk, she applied more to his wound, noting that the deep handprint had faded—proof the treatment was working. “Three or four more doses should do it.”

Young Lord Gong’s lips curved faintly. This girl’s medical skills exceeded his expectations; the burning pain in his abdomen had lessened. A fortunate accident indeed.

“Once I’ve cured you, will you silence me to keep your secret?” An Yi suddenly asked, looking at his profile.

He was startled by her directness, then turned to face her. “The Saintly Garment Sect is an upright school. I would never repay kindness with treachery.”

“Does being upright mean being a good person?” she asked, feigning ignorance.

He smiled, his eyes deep as a pool beneath his dark lashes, voice gentle. “You know your master—is he a good man?”

“Of course,” she replied with conviction.

“Then so am I.”

An Yi resisted the urge to roll her eyes and instead smiled, her gaze clear and bright. “I believe you.”

His smile deepened. In peaceful, simple days, people became less guarded; unfamiliar with human coldness and the dangers of the world, they could so easily claim to trust others. He had overestimated her composure—she had merely been too stunned to react.

“It’s getting late. I should go home.” He bent closer. “Xier, don’t tell anyone I’m here, will you?”

“I won’t tell a soul,” she replied, blinking.

“I believe you.”

“Get some rest. I’ll bring you food tomorrow morning.” With a sweet smile and light steps, she carried out the pot and bowl.

He watched her disappear, a complex light flickering in his eyes before calm returned. He leaned back, eyes half closed.

In the kitchen, An Yi massaged her stiff cheeks—she hadn’t acted in a long time and found it exhausting. She cleaned the pot, picked up the lunchbox, and called from the door, “There’s hot water on the stove. Wash your face and soak your feet before bed—you’ll feel better. I’m leaving now. See you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow,” he replied with a smile.

She smiled back, left, closed and locked the door without a hint of fluster, returned home, and said nothing about the dangerous guest at the Lu house. She was as calm as ever—except that at dinner, she ate an extra bowl.

In winter, people slept early. For her health, An Yi usually ate little, so tonight’s appetite surprised Mrs. Luo and An Kang.

Sensing their looks, An Yi pouted before they could ask. “Ma, you sent too little for lunch. I was starving. Send some more tomorrow, I’m still growing and need to eat more.”

A reasonable explanation—Mrs. Luo nodded. “I’ll have your second brother bring extra tomorrow.”

After dinner, they tidied up, An Kang and An Jian read a few pages, An Yi practiced calligraphy, and the family washed up and went to bed.

The oil lamp went out. After a brief rustle of movement, the house grew quiet. About the time an incense stick takes to burn, a shadow flitted across the rooftop and vanished.

The next morning, An Yi rose before Mrs. Luo, secretly packed a small cloth bag of white rice, and tucked it into her clothes. She dared not take eggs—her mother kept careful count.

After breakfast, she claimed not to be full, wrapped two wheat cakes in oiled paper, and went to the Lu house.

The main hall door was ajar. She entered but didn’t see Young Lord Gong. In the inner room, the bed drapes were lowered, a figure faintly visible within.

“Miss An,” a hoarse voice called.

Something sounded off. “Young Lord Gong, what’s wrong?”

“I think I’m ill.”

Ill? She frowned slightly and lifted the drapes. He lay curled under the quilt, cheeks flushed, lips dry, eyes listless. Poisoned and wounded, now sick—no iron man could withstand this.

She bent to feel his forehead—burning hot. A pulse check confirmed it: he’d caught cold. “What did you do last night?”

He looked uncomfortable. “I took a cold bath.”

Her lips twitched. If you’re bent on dying, at least pick your day—who bathes in cold water in winter? “If you must bathe in this weather, use hot water. Why cold?”

“There wasn’t enough hot water. I was covered in dust and didn’t want to soil the bed.”

Her eyes glimmered. “I’ll go brew some medicine.”

He watched the drapes fall, a bitter smile on his lips. The cold bath was a clumsy excuse to hide the fact that, uneasy about her, he’d followed her home and watched from the rooftop for nearly an hour. He’d underestimated the cold and overestimated his poisoned body, ending up sick in bed.

An Yi drew water from the well, boiled porridge to settle his stomach, then picked more herbs—adding remedies for wind-cold to the twelve she’d used before. Luckily, there were no dangerous combinations among them.

That noon, An Jian brought more food than usual, but An Yi forbade Young Lord Gong to eat it, insisting he stick to porridge.

“I want real food—porridge isn’t filling,” he said, blinking his long lashes, black eyes shimmering, face full of grievance, his tone accusing her of cruelty.

An Yi was taken aback. Not only did he use his looks, but now he was acting spoiled to get what he wanted. She lowered her gaze, refusing to meet his eyes, and said softly, “You’re taking medicine; just bear with it till dinner. You can have real food tonight.”

After a pause, he said, “Then I want three bowls of porridge.”

“Alright, I’ll get them.” She hurried to fetch more, almost tripping on the threshold in her haste.

A faint smile played on his lips as he lay back. The flush had faded; there was no sign of grievance on his face. This girl was simple and naïve—so easy to fluster. He could rest easy recovering here.

An Yi stood by the stove, watching the bubbling porridge, sighing softly. She hadn’t played this kind of game in ages, and it was tiring. But this god of misfortune wouldn’t heal quickly, and she could only brace herself. She just hoped he’d keep his word and not silence her.

She stayed at the Lu house until sunset before returning home, only to hear bad news as she entered.

“Xier, your third aunt has passed away. Tomorrow, we’ll go pay our respects,” Mrs. Luo said, eyes red. Though she hadn’t been close to Madam Cui, she was still family and couldn’t help but grieve.

A chill settled in An Yi’s heart. Seeing Madam Cui’s fate, she dared not imagine what would happen if Madam Zhou gave birth to a deformed child.

She spent the night in a daze. At dawn, remembering something, she quickly packed a small bag of rice and hurried to the Lu house. “Young Lord Gong, my third aunt has died. I have to attend the mourning today. Can you cook and brew medicine for yourself?”

“And if I said I couldn’t—would you stay and do it for me?” he asked, arching a brow.

She dropped her head, twisting the cord of the cloth bag with both hands, looking troubled.

He watched her tangled fingers, a smile tugging at his lips. “Go on, then. Come back earlier tomorrow.”

She looked up and smiled, radiant as spring. Leaving the bag behind, she turned and left.

At her own gate, she nearly ran into An Jian, rushing out. “Second Brother, where are you off to in such a hurry?”

“Where else? I was looking for you. Where did you run off to so early?” he retorted.

She blinked and lied, “I went to Master’s house. I forgot my purse there yesterday.”

“It’s not like it would be lost, why go so early?” He believed her.

“Because I wanted to,” she pouted.

Mrs. Luo saw her return and said nothing, only telling her to wash up and eat breakfast.

After breakfast, the family rode to Shangtang Village in an ox cart.