The young lady's voice trailed off in a soft, sweet lilt, her words sweeter than even malt sugar.
Zhao Yuanheng, however, didn't wait for her and strode forward quickly.
"Mother."
Ji Qingwu smiled and nodded. Then, covering her mouth, she whispered, "Does this mean that young lady will be calling me Mother soon, too?"
Seeing her teasing expression, Zhao Yuanheng said helplessly, "Mother, let's talk inside."
Inside the room, Empress Chenzhao had not yet arrived.
A large, square table was covered with a coarse indigo cloth, and wisps of steam rose from celadon teacups.
A few rays of the setting sun slipped through the carved wooden window, landing perfectly on the frosting of the osmanthus cakes.
An earthenware pot beside Ji Qingwu still gave off a medicinal aroma. She and Zhao Mingyan sat in the hosts' seats, directly facing the entrance.
