I transmigrated into a novel as a princess consort sent to bring good fortune to a prince. My husband was a crippled prince who had been bedridden for three years.
On our wedding night, I cried as I ate the funeral feast. “Your Highness, rest in peace. I'll make sure to sample all the delicacies in the capital for you!”
Suddenly, a furious shout came from inside the coffin: “Keep the wailing down! And... save a drumstick for me!”
It turned out he'd been pretending to be crippled for three years to avoid disaster.
Now that his legs were healed, he stuck to me. “My princess consort, you're such a good actress. Why don't we keep pretending I'm gravely ill?”
By day, we played the miserable couple. At night, we grilled skewers and ate hot pot.
The Empress Dowager sent people to watch us, so we dragged the old matron into a rehabilitation-style square dance.
When the emperor arranged for him to take a secondary consort, the prince had a “seizure” on the spot. I added to the performance through tears: “The good-luck ritual worked too well! This is going to cost extra!”
Then, at a palace banquet, the emperor asked the prince to perform a sword dance.
With no way out, the prince watched as I pinched my thigh and pretended my old ailment had flared up.
He scooped me up and ran. “My princess consort has had a sudden attack. We must return to the manor for ‘acupuncture’ immediately!”
The whole capital started saying: Ever since Prince Jing received his good-luck bride, his legs had healed, but his mind had gone bad.
