Bai Zhiyi opened her eyes and saw a red tent ceiling embroidered with bats and longevity patterns. In her ears, she heard an unfamiliar Manchu voice crying: "Gege, Gege, wake up!"
She moved her fingers, which were as small as lotus root joints.
Fetal wear. Guarga's. Forty-one years of Kangxi reign.
In her previous life, she stayed up late to write the Qing Palace script and died suddenly. At this moment, she just wants to say: God, you are really my good friend.
——
Sixteen years later, the draft.
She deliberately put yellow powder on her face and walked with the same hands and feet, fully expecting to lose. The imperial eunuch called out in a shrill voice: "Guarjia Zhiyi, sixteen years old."
There was silence for a moment, and then he suddenly asked: "Did you move this pot of 'green plum' to the sunshine just now?"
Zhiyi's heart sank. If I had known, I should have endured the occupational disease - that potted flower would die if it didn't see the light.
"Keep your head up."
She raised her head and met those eyes as deep as cold pools. The young emperor narrowed his eyes slightly, and the corners of his mouth turned up in an almost invisible arc.
"No one dares to touch a single plant or tree in my royal garden."
Zhiyi's heart thumped: It's over.
"Leave a sign."
