Maomao wasn’t any smarter than the average person, just a little more...dedicated. And when it came to emotion, that she actually had less of than most people. She felt sadness and happiness, anger and joy—less acutely than ordinary people, but they were there. But there were other emotions that people allegedly possessed which Maomao still didn’t understand.
She could feel Jinshi’s pulse in the palm of his hand. He had started to sweat, and the place where their hands joined was slick. She looked up to see long eyelashes lying low over eyes the color of obsidian. Those eyes watched her intently, from so close that she could see herself reflected in them.
The courtesans had a saying: once you know it, it’s hell.
But the men, too, had a saying: to know it was exactly why they went there.
That word, that simple four-letter word with its o and its e, was sometimes called vulgar, and sometimes turned out to be nothing more than a game—but some people said it was impossible to live without it.
Jinshi’s free hand reached for Maomao’s head, his fingers stroking her hair—but they stopped behind her head. “You’re actually wearing it,” he said. His hand had found the hair stick, the silver piece with the moon and the poppy. Maomao had thought maybe it had come from Lahan—but apparently not. No wonder everyone had seemed so intrigued by it.