Safe and comfortable, Fan Xian lay down on his bed. His face was pale. He looked like a young man yet to recover from a hangover. Next to his bed was a copper basin, but it was clean because the vomit had already been washed out of it.
He had already dismissed Ruoruo from the room; a different servant-girl was looking after him. Fan Xian's pale face was not a pretense, and the vomit was not brought about by drugs - rather, the force of Yan Xiaoyi's arrow really had damaged his organs. His chest and stomach felt heavy, and it would probably be a number of days before he could fully recover.
