One afternoon a few days later, a servant from the Mo Residence was at the medicine shop on Qingyuan Street, buying sour plums to ease Madam Mo's morning sickness.
At the teahouse diagonally across the street, a waiter was calling out at the top of his lungs.
"Storytelling-come hear a story!"
After those two or three calls, customers soon began arriving at the teahouse, whose entrance had previously been so deserted that sparrows could have gathered there.
Ordinary people had few amusements in those days, and watching operas or listening to songs was not something they could often do. Storytelling naturally offered entertainment for young and old alike.
As the storyteller's clear, powerful voice rang out from inside, more and more customers gathered around the teahouse.
Soon, every seat inside was taken, yet the listeners kept coming. They crowded outside to listen for free, while some brought stools and bought a pot of tea.
The storyteller's skill astonished everyone present. As his tale unfolded, even Qingyuan Street began to look cramped.
After buying the sour plums, the Mo Residence's servant could not resist stopping outside the teahouse to listen for a while.
In the front courtyard's hall at the Mo Residence, Madam Mo sat on a cushioned couch, having just vomited up every bit of her lunch.
Beside her, the old madam was both anxious and distressed.
"Wanrong, take a moment to recover, then eat a little more. You mustn't leave your stomach empty!"
Madam Mo wiped her mouth with a handkerchief and nodded.
"Mother, I know."
"Ah, our Mo Household is expecting a Qilin Child, but you, his mother, are the one suffering for it!"
Madam Mo smiled and was about to speak when another wave of nausea struck. Seeing her press a hand to her chest, the