The flowers in the Imperial Garden were in full bloom, a riot of vibrant colors competing for attention, yet Song Ling merely glanced at them indifferently.
In his view, although the flowers in the palace bloomed beautifully, they were too orderly to his taste, beautiful but devoid of vitality.
He rather preferred those planted haphazardly by Qi Yu in the Prince Qiu Residence, growing every which way. The sight of them swaying in the wind, a bit lacking in aesthetic appeal, was nonetheless quite entertaining to behold.
Shen Xiheng teased that flowers emulate their owner.
His point was that Qi Yu's flowers grew as crooked as she did.
Yet Qi Yu had unabashedly nodded in agreement.
Her meaning was simple,—my flowers naturally follow my lead. Pretty!
Recalling that scene, Song Ling's lips curved upwards into a smile, his eyes softer than he could have anticipated.
He seemed to have truly fallen in love with that kind of life.
