Zhu Jiao nodded to the maid, implying that they would speak later. She then followed Su Qing, turning seven or eight corners until they stood in front of a quiet, artificial hill in the Marquis Huaiyuan residence.
It was already autumn. The trees in the courtyard were wilting and decaying, lifeless.
On the artificial hill, only a few strands of hardy moss had survived, their meager presence stubborn like stubborn blotches on the rocks. There were no maids or servants in sight, this corner seemed forgotten.
It made an appropriate setting for a secret exchange, Zhu Jiao thought to herself.
After making sure they were alone, Su Qing took a step towards Zhu Jiao.
Zhu Jiao's heart pounded in her chest.
Her mind raced. How would she respond if he moved toward intimacy?
He was about to leave for the battlefield; she shouldn't reject his gestures, should she?
But wouldn't submitting to it reflect badly on her, making her seem frivolous?
