Gu Baozhu and Gu Jinghong woke up an hour later and stood at the courtyard entrance. Under the osmanthus tree, Song Anhao swung his sword in a downpour of sweat, his face and neck drenched.
Seeing a maid carrying the morning meal past them, Gu Baozhu casually asked, “When did your young master wake up?”
The maid paused and replied respectfully, “He rose an hour ago.”
Calculating the time, the two figured Song Anhao had gotten up before the hour of Mao (around five to seven in the morning).
The door to the adjacent study opened, and Song Jinzhao, along with three others, emerged.
As they reached the courtyard entrance, they spotted Gu Baozhu and Gu Jinghong standing ahead.
“What are you standing here for? The morning meal is ready in the inner hall.”
In the rear courtyard of the government office, guards and maids were stationed every ten steps. Apart from when they stayed in their rooms, Song Jinzhao was aware of every move the aunt and nephew made.
The two turned around. In the courtyard, Song Anhao had stopped his sword practice. He handed his blade to Yao Ying and returned to his room to wash up.
Quarter of an hour later, at the dining table, Gu Jinghong said to Song Qiming, “My aunt and I will stay in Suining for a few more days. Let the constables take the threshing machine with them, and I’d trouble you, Brother Song, to deliver my letter as well.”
Last night, no matter how hard he tried, Gu Baozhu refused to leave. And since he couldn’t bear to leave her alone, Gu Jinghong had to compromise.
Gu Baozhu, with a wonton in her mouth, watched Gu Jinghong speak without making a sound.
After breakfast, Song Anhao took Song Jinzhao’s hand.
“Elder Sister, I’m going to the bookshop today. Do you want to come with me?” He couldn’t wait to dive into things.
Song Jinzhao wiped a grain of rice from the corner of his mouth with her handkerchief.
“Can it be this afternoon?”
Song Anhao nodded without hesitation.
“Alright, I’ll go to the academy this morning then.”
The assignments given by the academy tutor were completed by Song Anhao, but he rarely attended classes.
He mostly met the tutor alone, and in the evenings, Song Qiming would often test his knowledge.
They demanded that even if he were to go into business later in life, his scholarly achievements should not be lacking.
When Song Jinzhao and Song Shixue arrived at the inn, the physician brought by Zeng Boyan had already been waiting for some time.
Knowing that Yang Cennan’s follow-up treatment would be handed over to him, the physician felt as if a mountain were pressing down on him, the pressure surging.
First, he examined the three wounds.
“The recovery is going quite well. The sutures can be removed in three days.”
Yang Cennan couldn’t make facial expressions, but his eyes betrayed his mood.
“I would appreciate it if the County Lady teaches him properly. If the subsequent recovery is not satisfactory, it would still be an inconvenience to trouble you again.”
His tone was gentle, yet it carried a faint hint of threat.
Song Jinzhao pulled off her gloves expressionlessly.
The farmer and the snake—if not for having to save him, she would really want to finish him off now.
“Don’t worry, any doctor can learn this.”
She took out a needle case from the medicine box. The slender silver needles glinted, their tips enough to send chills down one’s spine.
Song Jinzhao turned to the physician. “Come here.”
Song Shixue stepped aside to make way for him, eager to stand by and watch. They both couldn’t wait to see the man sent off as soon as possible.
The physician shuffled slowly to Song Jinzhao’s right, his heartbeat thundering like a drum.
According to his diagnosis, there was no chance of recovery for Yang Cennan.
But Song Jinzhao claimed there was. If the recovery went poorly back in Panzhou, with five hundred miles between Panzhou and Suining, she wouldn’t be held responsible—he would be the one to suffer.
“My skills are shallow, so I beg the County Lady to speak slowly. I’ll write everything down.”
Catching the reluctance in his tone, Song Jinzhao said, “Don’t sell yourself short. If your skills were truly shallow, the Pacification Commissioner of Panzhou wouldn’t have sent you here. He surely doesn’t want his son to die.”
The physician looked at Song Jinzhao in disbelief, nearly dropping his paper and brush.
He swallowed nervously, utterly unable to respond.
Yang Cennan lay quietly against the bed, his expression unreadable. No one could guess what he was thinking.
