After The Coquettish Fake Master Was Driven Away - Chapter 17

The gurgling in his stomach scattered the faint sorrow. Xie Jinning shoved the jade pendant back under his pillow and slowly sat up.

He was hungry.

His ink-black hair tumbled down as he rose, a few strands caught by the breeze slipping through the window crack. They brushed across his lashes and cheek, stirring an itchy tickle.

Xie Jinning lifted his hand to sweep them away, rubbed at the spot a few times until the irritation faded.

Ever since being confined, he had left his hair loose for days. Alone it was fine, but facing others just now, he had felt rather ill at ease.

Normally he used hairpins and ribbons to tie his hair, especially jade pins. He rarely used wooden ones, disliking their rustic plainness—even the most precious wood felt too old-fashioned to wear.

Hair ribbons were another matter entirely: gold-inlaid brocades, Shu-embroidered silk, pearl-studded gauze… Every morning a maid would bring a tray for him to choose from. His clothes went without saying.

But now? He was left with nothing but coarse cloth that chafed his skin and strips of rag from who-knows-where.

Hit once more by the contrast, Xie Jinning sighed. He felt he had sighed more in the past few days than in all sixteen years of his life.

Taking up the strip of cloth, he began tying his hair.

His hands were clumsy and he had no technique, while his thick black hair refused to be tamed. After much effort he managed to gather it together and wind the cloth around, but his arms grew sore and limp, and the knot wouldn’t hold. As soon as his fingers loosened, it all spilled down like drifting clouds.

“I don’t believe I can’t even tie up my own hair!”

He shook out his arms, wrinkled his nose, his expression full of stubborn defiance. Yet his eyes shone brightly—he had turned it into a challenge.

Only when his hollow stomach rumbled again did he finally manage to bind his hair into a high ponytail at the back of his head.

Though a few strands still hung loose, overall it was a success—fresh and lively.

When he gave a little shake of his head, the dark hair swayed lightly. From the front, it was just like a cat’s tail flicking playfully.

Xie Jinning stepped into the courtyard, looked up at the sky, guessing it was nearly noon. Yan Yi had still not returned.

“Not even a word about where he’s gone. Yesterday he was talking about taking responsibility, and now there’s not even a shadow of him.”

He pursed his lips.

When Yan Yi came back, he was definitely going to scold him.

What Xie Jinning didn’t realize was that it had already been a full day since the night of his fever.

…

Yan Yi was sitting beneath the tree he had once smashed through.

One knee raised, his hand resting on it, the dried bl00d at his knuckles cracked open, leaving dark stains around the wounds—gruesome to behold.

Withered leaves covered him, but he never brushed them away. Sunlight spilled through the branches, casting mottled shadows across his brow, like cracks splitting his face in two.

Like dull blades, slicing at his sanity.

The night before, he had indeed climbed into the Xie household. Seeing Jinning’s pallor, he slipped through the window without hesitation. One touch confirmed it—burning with fever.

He slid an arm under him and lifted him from the bed. But the waistband of Jinning’s trousers was far too loose; they slipped right off onto the bedding. Two pale, slender legs were revealed in full.

And because of the way he held him, Jinning’s robe rode up to his chest. From his side, Yan Yi could see nearly everything except the boy’s front.

The fever-flushed youth’s whole body was tinged with pink, his moonlit skin delicate as fine gauze, soft and enticing. His limbs limp, body sliding down like a jade doll for anyone to handle.

The scent around him grew heady. Yan Yi’s heart pounded violently, like war drums in his chest, a strange panic flooding him.

He didn’t dare linger. He found a pair of trousers in the wardrobe and dressed him quickly before carrying him on his back.

Even through the cloth, holding those thighs was like pressing into a cloud. With the boy’s weight, it seemed to spill even between his fingers.

Worried the night chill would worsen the fever, Yan Yi wrapped a quilt around him and hurried off.

By the time they reached the neighboring village it was cockcrow. The doctor, roused from sleep, was annoyed—until he saw double the usual fee.

The diagnosis: agitation and a chill entering the body, hence the fever. Fortunately, the boy had long been nourished with rare herbs, so though frail, his balance of yin and yang was intact. Nothing serious—sweat it out with a few doses of medicine.

He also looked at the wound on his backside. It looked severe because of Jinning’s tender skin, but it was only superficial. More ointment would suffice.

Yan Yi paid for a private room, settled Jinning there, and even cooked the medicine himself while the doctor went back to bed.

When the decoction was ready, Yan Yi propped Jinning up against his chest.

One hand holding his head, the other bringing the bowl to his lips, he tried to feed him as he had with porridge. But this time the boy resisted.

Even asleep, at the faintest whiff of bitterness, Jinning’s brows knit, his lips clamped shut.

Yan Yi gently pressed his cheeks, but his teeth stayed tight. What little he forced in dribbled back out, trickling down his neck to pool at his collarbone.

Only after pressing until his jaw ached did the lips part slightly. He managed a mouthful—promptly spat back out with a sleepy murmur of “bitter, don’t want it.”

In the end…

Yan Yi’s fingers brushed his lips. He swore he could still feel the soft, damp warmth.

That faint tongue pushing weakly, then being pressed down by his own intrusion until the boy choked and swallowed.

Only the first few mouthfuls were given this way. After that, Yan Yi tilted the bowl and let the liquid flow slowly, and the boy swallowed on his own.

The medicine was bitter, but to him it carried a trace of sweetness.

He didn’t know if it came from that mouth—or that lingering fragrance.

And then there had been the shameful dream…

…

Now, back in the courtyard, Jinning was struggling with a bowl of medicine on his own.

Beside the pot of warm chicken rice soup sat the dark, murky brew.

He had no idea how Yan Yi had fed him before, but unconscious, it hadn’t felt so hard.

Now awake, with the bitter bowl right before him and no candied fruit to chase it down, Jinning’s face scrunched up miserably. He raised the bowl, then set it down again—unable to get it to his lips.

Was drinking medicine worse than relieving himself, he wondered?

Either way, both were unbearable.

At last, bracing himself, he pinched his nose and gulped.

“Glug…”

Bupleurum, scutellaria, ginger… It was Xiao Chaihu Tang.

His tongue was sensitive, and he had drunk many medicines as a child, so he could recognize a few herbs.

Perhaps with some calming herbs added, the bitterness was even stronger than usual, with a grassy stench that clung to his mouth. Half a bowl in, he couldn’t go on, clutching his lips as tears welled again.

Quickly, he grabbed the chicken rice soup, spooned a mouthful in.

The rich, savory flavor instantly soothed his abused taste buds. The rice, soft and soaked with broth, eased the bitterness in his throat. His frown relaxed.

One bowl filled his stomach. When he finished, he dumped the rest of the medicine under a tree, carefully covering his tracks. Then, bored and unwilling to leave the house, he strolled the courtyard.

It was small, divided into front and back. The front for cooking and washing, the back for the latrine.

Unable to hold it, he lifted the stinking curtain again—only to find the stench much lighter, the boards freshly rinsed. Practically spotless.

Boiling medicine, feeding him, cooking, cleaning, going out early in the morning… Didn’t Yan Yi ever need to rest?

His energy was endless.

After washing his hands, Jinning heard a few clucks and turned toward the sound.

In the corner of the back yard was a chicken coop fenced with reeds.

Inside were only two skinny birds. One hen sat motionless on a straw nest, wings folded, clearly guarding some treasure.

The rooster, larger and comb bright, paced slowly around like a patrolling guard.

Jinning’s only impression of chickens was as dishes on the table—or those sleek, strutting gamecocks in the fighting pits.

He hated such bloody spectacles: feathers flying, crowds shouting, wagers lost. He had gone a few times with others, bet and lost, and never wanted to go again.

Pulled back from his thoughts, his gaze drifted past the rooster. He leaned, trying to see if the hen was brooding eggs. The straw blocked his view.

Curious, he bent closer, legs apart, head tilted. At last he glimpsed the gleam of a white shell beneath the feathers.

Satisfied, he smiled faintly—unaware that his upper body had leaned over the fence.

Something red-brown flashed in the corner of his eye. He turned—face to face with the rooster.

“!”

The sharp beak darting at him made him startle back, but the rooster, having marked him as an intruder, was relentless.

Its tiny eyes gleamed, wings flapped—and it vaulted the fence straight at him, beak aimed to strike.

“Ah!”

Injured and slow, Jinning couldn’t dodge. The beak jabbed his leg through the cloth, pain sharp and stinging.

He gasped, wide-eyed, scrambling away. But the rooster, fierce in defense of its mate and eggs, came again.

“I just wanted to look! I’m not stealing your babies, don’t peck me!”

“Cluck-cluck-cluck!”

The beak lunged once more. Jinning gave up—he turned and ran.

Man and chicken tore around the yard, but it was the man being chased.

Behind him, the rooster crowed and lunged with fierce energy, pecking at him whenever he stumbled.

“No—help! Save me!”

His freshly tied hair came loose again, strands tangled with chicken feathers. Both legs throbbed.

Old wounds not healed, new ones added.

Sitting on the bed, lifting his trouser leg to reveal the red welts, Jinning couldn’t hold back—two tears slid from his eyes.

Why did even chickens have to bully him?