The river wind blew strong. Old Toad stood on the prow, his webbed claws clasped behind his back as he paced around the deck, sighing and fretting. Now and then he tilted his head to the sky and recited lines of verse.
“Lord Toad, why so restless?”
Long E'ying asked. Liang Qu drummed his fingers on the railing.
“Deep smoke at the lane's mouth, candlelight dim behind the window—at first glance, the heart shrinks back in fear. How then can one pour out farewells with earnest devotion?”
“So Lord Liang is seized by poetic inspiration again, is he?”
Liang Qu shut his mouth and said nothing.
“I suspect”—Long E'ying tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear—“it is not simply a matter of hometown jitters, is it?”
Hearing this, Liang Qu nodded.
“It may be that the toad of his heart has already passed from this world.”
“…”
Having received yet another eye-roll from his wife, Liang Qu remained unbothered.
“Truth is seldom pleasant to hear.”