Sang Yan felt she had made a confidante in the inner chambers.
Each day after He Ying finished taking his medicine and rested, she would visit Sister Hong Zhao's courtyard.
Sometimes, they would chat.
Sometimes, she would help her sort the herbs.
Most of the time, Hong Zhao did not talk much, just staring dreamily at Sang Yan's back.
Qing Wu, caught between them, felt her heart almost shattering in fright.
One evening,
As Sang Yan picked up a basket to gather herbs, Qing Wu could no longer contain herself, "Miss, what are you thinking? With what we're doing, how can you still allow the Empress to come here so often?"
She was too anxious: If they carelessly revealed anything, both of them would be doomed.
Hong Zhao's cold fingers fumbled with the warm teacup, her gaze indifferent.
She did not answer Qing Wu's question but seemed to talk to herself in a murmur, "Why?"
Qing Wu's eyes filled with confusion, "What do you mean 'why'?"
