Meng Zhao said no more. A guest followed the host's lead; after sitting upright, he closed his eyes and regulated his breathing, remaining peacefully still.
Before long, a pretty young maid came to report that the evening meal was ready and respectfully invited the two of them to dine.
As she spoke, she kept stealing curious glances at Meng Zhao. Her face was flushed, her heart thumping wildly, the very picture of a young girl's first stirrings of love. She had most likely been struck dumb by Meng Zhao's youthful handsomeness and extraordinary bearing.
Good heavens, she looked like such an innocent girl. Could my guess have been wrong? Were these women not gathered by Hong Tianzheng for his own enjoyment?
Meng Zhao pondered inwardly. After all, no matter how brainless someone was, they would not casually swoon over another man right in front of their own husband, would they?
No matter how lacking in manners they were, they should at least possess some sense of shame.
Hong Tianzheng did not mind. Leisurely setting down the bamboo scroll in his hand, he called Meng Zhao out with him and headed for the dining hall.
The dining hall was not large, but it had been arranged with quiet elegance. Amid the snowy mountain cold, there were many potted flowers and plants, their blossoms red and leaves green, a most pleasing sight.
The main table was not large either. Only a dozen or so dishes had been laid out, and there was no separate dining.
What surprised Meng Zhao was that there was another woman at the table—a woman who was strikingly beautiful, yet carried a trace of sickly pallor.
She appeared to be about Hong Tianzheng's age. Her hair was gathered in a married woman's coiffure, her features delicate and fair,