The next day.
The wind on this clear morning was much gentler than before the turn of the year. Yan Xuan was organising the bookshelf, and the once messy room had been tidied up leaving no trace of disarray.
Wang Ying was helping out, occasionally glancing at the Prince who was calmly arranging the scattered books, as if nothing had happened last night.
Only the slender fingers of his right hand were wrapped halfway in white gauze, the palm was tightly bandaged.
The wound was indeed deep, you could vaguely see the white bone when it was being dressed. He felt pain just looking at the wound, but for the Prince, it seemed like nothing more than a mosquito bite.
"Wang Ying, send someone to return these two volumes to Marquis Zhaoren," said Yan Xuan.
These two books were borrowed from Marquis Zhaoren, who was distressed when they were taken from him.
