The maids filed in, carrying painting supplies.
Even Zhai Huan couldn't help but change expression. He set down his wine cup with a dark look and started to rise, ready to speak up. This wasn't some lighthearted drinking party where guests floated cups along a winding stream. If they truly admired Mister Qi's paintings, they could wait until the banquet was over, then bring a generous gift to his door and ask for one. They shouldn't treat him so flippantly, as though he were a mere entertainer...
Was the prefect making sport of Qi Shan?
Those thoughts circled through his mind, but he didn't voice them. Halfway through, he caught Qi Shan's meaningful glance, telling him not to interfere. Zhai Huan hesitated for a moment, pressed his lips together, drained his cup, then made an excuse to step outside the hall for some air.
The prefect had taken it all in.
He sneered to himself. "Young people really are too impatient."
Seeing Qi Shan hold the brush in his right hand, his posture practiced and natural, his strokes decisive and fluid, he asked, "Can you paint with your left hand, too?"
Qi Shan answered calmly, "I can. I was curious when I was young, so I practiced for a while. I'm just not as nimble with it as I am with my right."
In the tone of someone idly reminiscing, the prefect said, "When I was young, I also knew a friend who could paint with his left hand. But he hadn't learned out of curiosity; he was born that way. His left hand was far more useful to him than his right. As it happens, he shared your name, surname, and courtesy name."
Qi Shan replied blandly, "Oh? What a coincidence."
The prefect looked a little embarrassed. "When I