“I noticed you saved a portion of yesterday’s lunch. Are you leaving another today?”
Lady Feng Wanzhen asked as Aman, before starting her meal, had already set aside a portion. She had told Master Shu beforehand; if he objected, he could deduct some of her pay.
After all, the food came from him, and taking both wages and extra meals without notice would be improper.
Aman tensed at the question.
“I… I have a sick older brother at home. He’s paralyzed and bedridden, so I need to bring him meals every day…”
As she spoke, her nervous fingers fiddled with her hands. The palms were calloused from work, and she scraped the skin raw while picking at them—Lady Feng noticed.
“You’re a kind girl,” she said gently.
“Since your brother has difficulty moving, make your dishes richer in oil and fat so he can get more nourishment—that will help him recover faster.”
Aman’s eyes lit up. “Lady Feng, you really are a good person!”
If Aman weren’t so honest—and if her master hadn’t mentioned she was probably a displaced noble from the capital—Lady Feng might not have been so trusting.
“Times are tough. Whatever help I can give, I will.”
Aman carried the meals and her basket full of pig intestines home.
Zhao Ye had stayed indoors all morning, but he knew Aman was back when he heard her steps.
“Zhao Ye!”
Her voice rang out. Zhao Ye’s lips curved slightly. “I’m here.”
Aman sighed in relief; he was alive and well.
She constantly worried Zhao Ye might get hurt easily. Right now, he was fragile, like a delicate piece—anyone could injure him.
So, the first thing Aman did upon returning was to make sure he was still alive.
“Didn’t you eat breakfast?”
Before she left, she had placed a bowl of wild vegetable porridge beside his bed. Since he was awake and able to move his hands, he could have eaten it—but it remained untouched.
“Ah, Aman,” Zhao Ye twisted his neck to look at her. “I feel uncomfortable lying down.”
Aman quickly set down her things and lifted him to sit in the half-finished bamboo chair she had woven.
She then opened the lunchbox and took out today’s meal.
“Master Shu was generous today, gave me a large slab of pork, so I set aside some extra for you,” she said.
“It’s still warm; eat it while it’s hot.”
Aman handed him the bowl and chopsticks while she started drinking her now-cold wild vegetable porridge.
“Aman!” Zhao Ye exclaimed.
She waved him off. “I ate at Master Shu’s. This porridge would’ve gone to waste otherwise, so I’m finishing it.”
“Eat your own. Don’t worry about me.”
She really meant it—children who had grown up poor hated to waste food. Even a simple bowl of wild porridge was precious.
Zhao Ye looked at the meal before him: a generous bowl of millet rice, mostly covered with meat.
He realized Aman had held back the best parts for him, not wanting to eat them herself. Otherwise, where would so much meat come from? And why would she claim it was just Master Shu being generous?
In this era, even landlords and wealthy merchants squeezed every bit from the poor. A slaughterhouse owner being so generous was unlikely.
“Aman,” he said, looking at her. “Come here.”
Aman obediently moved over. Zhao Ye took her bowl of porridge, shared half of the meat and vegetables from his own bowl, then divided some porridge and millet rice to her.
He carefully distributed everything. His long, lean fingers were surprisingly nimble now.
“I can’t eat much,” he said.
“You’re busy outside all day; you need to eat more. I stay indoors and barely move, so even if I eat all this, it doesn’t matter much,” Aman replied.
He mixed the porridge with millet rice and began eating.
Looking up at her, his dark eyes now sparkled with life, no longer dull and listless.
“Wild porridge with millet rice is good too. Aman, try it.”
Aman paused for a long moment.
Actually… she was already full.
But seeing Zhao Ye so earnest, she didn’t argue. She sat on a small stool and began eating.
The meat was fragrant; the millet rice—not so much.
Millet, or sorghum, wasn’t easy to cook and was coarse in texture. Aman had soaked it for an hour and steamed it for another half hour to soften it slightly.
Still, in Ningzhou, having a bowl of millet rice was a rare treat.
Back in the capital, her family only used millet for New Year’s Laba porridge—a fragrant pot she would drool over.
“Aman,” Zhao Ye said after she finished the bowl. He knew she had lied about being hungry.
“I know you have things to do soon,” he added.
The message was clear: “If you need help, just say so.”
“Think of it… as rehabilitation,” Aman said, referring to having him weave bamboo.
Zhao Ye understood: she wanted his hands to recover more quickly.
He would not let her efforts go to waste.
“So… how about washing the dishes today?” Aman asked, glancing at him nervously.
For the former crown prince to wash dishes—what a scandalous thing!
If Zhao Ye hadn’t been deposed, Aman wouldn’t dare even suggest it.
Zhao Ye’s lips curved. He seemed to smile. Though thin and gaunt, his handsome features remained beneath.
He smiled. He really smiled!
Aman’s heart leapt. Even washing dishes could make him happy.
“Good,” she said.
When Aman had returned, she had also seen where Li Guaitie’s wife was disposed—thrown into the ravine wrapped in a tattered mat. She even checked in the weeds herself and wasn’t afraid at all.