Upon hearing the word "eunuch," Meng Fuyao's heart ached. She slammed the bowl on the table and turned to the ladies having the meal with her. "Such disgusting food. I wouldn't force you guys, go back to your own residences to have your meal."
The concubines dropped their filled bowls like a hot potato, as they gave their thanks as though they were granted amnesty, scurrying out of the palace.
After a while, in the opened doors, a tall, skinny figure appeared. Little Seven trudged over with his head hung down.
Meng Fuyao stared at his shadow—she couldn't look straight at him; her heart would hurt so bad.
It was all her fault. Why was she being so petulant? To act out over something like this? The consequence of this joke was beyond imagination.
