On the wedding day, my wife was abnormal

On an early summer afternoon, a breeze streamed through the open carved windows of the warm room in the Prince Regent's Palace, bringing with it the rich, sweet fragrance of the gardenias blooming in the courtyard. This fragrance intertwined with the slight coolness emanating from the ice jars indoors, creating a lazy and comfortable atmosphere.

The earth dragon had long been extinguished, leaving only the cool, elegant, and pleasant aroma of dragon's brain emanating from the gilded animal-head incense burner in the corner.

In the center of the warm room, a huge red sandalwood drawing table was set up. On the table was a sheet of high-quality, snow-white rice paper, and the corners were held down by Hetian jade paperweights.

On the treasure chest nearby, various exquisite porcelain plates were displayed, filled with finely ground mineral pigments such as azurite, malachite green, cinnabar, gamboge, etc., as well as several squares of ancient ink, a white jade brush holder, and several brushes made of fine materials.

Murong Yan stood before the drawing table, her figure slender and graceful. She was still clad in her dark black robe, inscribed with a hundred phoenixes. Under the bright yet not scorching summer light, the profound depth of her robe exuded a tranquil quality, absorbing all light. From its deepest recesses, it refracted subtle shimmers of deep blue and dark purple, creating a mysterious and noble image that formed a strong visual impact against the white paper of the drawing table.

Above the robe, the one hundred phoenixes, woven with countless rare gold and silver threads and using the peerless "gold-plated velvet" and "beaded embroidery" techniques, each feather sparkles with vivid and restrained brilliance under sufficient light. The red gold is warm, the rose gold is gorgeous, the silver is bright, and the purple gold is noble. The tiny red and blue gems on the phoenix eyes reflect the star-like glimmer. The hundreds of phoenixes are in a peaceful posture, as if watching the changes in the ink-colored cloud brocade universe.

The cuffs of her extremely wide flared sleeves were slightly gathered with a pair of delicate mutton-fat jade cuffs carved into the shape of a magnolia bud to prevent them from being stained by paint, but it still couldn't hide her gorgeous outline, and the fine black pearl tassels on the edges remained motionless.

The giant black, jewel-studded train, three meters long and seamlessly connected to the robe, was handled with extreme care. Most of it was gathered and laid out in layers on a specially made couch covered with thick, soft, dark green velvet on one side of the drawing table. Only the very end, a few meters long, stretched out on the mirror-like golden nanmu floor like a lazy black galaxy. The black diamonds, black jade and deep sapphires inlaid on it sparkled with cold and bright starlight in the sunlight.

Her hair was untied, its cloud-like black hair loosely tied with a long, translucent black jade hairpin, a few strands cascading down her cheek. She leaned forward slightly, her delicate, ungloved hands beneath her flared sleeves gripping a small-character wolf-hair brush, testing the ink. Her expression was focused, her long eyelashes drooping slightly, casting a faint shadow on her fair face.

Lin Zhen did not sit aside and watch, but stood behind her, wearing a dark blue Hangzhou silk straight dress that matched her black robe. He had an upright posture, but his eyes did not fall on the drawing paper. Instead, he stared at the serious profile of the person next to him with a smile, his eyes full of admiration and pampering.

"What does Yan'er want to draw?" he asked softly, his voice low and soft, afraid of disturbing her thoughts.

Murong Yan didn't look up, the tip of her pen gently sketching on the color test paper, her voice soft and glutinous with a hint of uncertainty: "...I want to paint the sea of ​​clouds we saw that day at Xishan Villa...but..."

She paused, and slightly frowned her delicate eyebrows.

“…I just can never master the texture technique for rocks…” There was a hint of annoyance and coquettishness in her tone.

Lin Zhen smiled faintly, took a step forward, and walked behind her very naturally, his chest almost touching her back, his warm breath brushing her ear. He didn't immediately hold her hand, but first stretched out his arms, wrapped around her body, and placed his hands on the edge of the drawing table, loosely enclosing her whole body between him and the table.

"The sea of ​​clouds on the Western Hills... its myriad forms are truly difficult to depict." His voice was beside her, reassuringly calm. "Especially the layers of distant mountains and the lingering mist. The painting requires a perfect balance of ink shades, and a blend of virtual and real brushstrokes."

Murong Yan felt his warmth and breath close to her, her cheeks flushed slightly, and her heartbeat involuntarily quickened a few beats. She softly hummed, but her body involuntarily leaned back slightly, leaning against his solid chest, seeking support.

Lin Zhen noticed her subtle dependence and the smile in his eyes deepened.

He then slowly stretched out his right hand and gently placed it over her right hand holding the pen. His palm was warm and dry, completely covering the cool and delicate back of her hand.

"Come," his voice became increasingly low, with a coaxing gentleness, "I'll bring Yan'er to paint."

Murong Yan felt a warmth on the back of her hand. The warmth of his palm radiated through her skin, causing her fingertips to tremble slightly. An indescribable sweetness and excitement welled up in her heart. She obediently relaxed her grip, allowing him to control the strokes.

Lin Zhen held her hand, but didn't rush to write. Instead, he guided her hand and slowly licked the brush in the inkstone, saturating the tip with the perfect amount of ink. His movements were incredibly gentle, as if handling a rare treasure. The edges of their wide, flared sleeves gently brushed against hers, the scent of ink mingling with the cool plum blossom fragrance in her hair.

"First, determine the general situation..." He whispered, guiding her hand as she slowly placed the first stroke in the upper right corner of the snow-white rice paper, outlining the hazy outline of the distant mountains. His arm was steady, guiding her wrist, and the brushstrokes were smooth and rhythmic.

Murong Yan held her breath, concentrating on feeling the warmth and strength of his palm, the trajectory of the pen tip moving across the paper. His chest pressed against her back, and she could clearly feel his steady heartbeat and breathing, every slight rise and fall seemed to be transmitted directly to her heart.

"Lighten the ink a bit...yes...just like that..." He whispered in her ear as he painted, his breath tickling her earlobe. "Here...use the side of the brush...gently rub it...bring out the texture of the rocks..."

Murong Yan followed his instructions. Under his guidance, the rocks in her paintings gradually took on a sense of layering and volume. She was a quick learner, quickly able to keep up with his pace, even occasionally anticipating his next move. The two of them worked in unspoken rapport, as if they were connected in spirit.

After drawing the outline of the distant mountains, he needed to add in the clouds and mist. Lin Zhen switched to a slightly larger goat-hair brush, still holding her hand, and dipped it in a very light ink.

"The clouds and mist should be ethereal, alive..." he whispered, guiding her hand to blend lightly across the paper, her wrist flexing nimbly to create a hazy, ethereal effect. Her flared sleeves swayed slightly with the movement, the jade loops at the cuffs gently touching, making a subtle, crisp sound.

Murong Yan was immersed in this intimate collaborative creation, her cheeks flushed, her eyes glittering like stars, completely oblivious to her surroundings. The gorgeous, heavy black robe and its three-meter train no longer seemed a burden, but merely a rich background color in this warm scene.

Occasionally, the cuffs of her flared sleeves would accidentally brush against the still-wet ink, leaving a faint mark. Lin Zhen would immediately notice and carefully roll up her sleeves higher, his fingertips carelessly brushing against her delicate forearm, bringing a subtle shiver to her.

"How about... adding a flying bird here?" Halfway through the painting, Murong Yan suddenly suggested softly, with a hint of excitement in her tone.

"Okay." Lin Zhen responded indulgently, changed back to the small calligraphy brush, still holding her hand, and extremely delicately outlined a solitary wild goose with its wings spread among the distant mountains and clouds. The posture was elegant and the artistic conception was suddenly created.

"Yan'er is doing a great job." He praised in a low voice, rubbing his chin lightly against the top of her head.

Murong Yan felt sweet in her heart and leaned closer to him.

Time flows quietly between the pens. A rich, profound painting of clouds and seas across the Western Hills gradually takes shape in the hands of the two. Though not the work of a master, the blend of brushstrokes is imbued with an inexpressible intimacy and affection.

When the last stroke was finished, Lin Zhen did not let go of her hand immediately. Instead, he lowered his head and kissed her pink earlobe. His voice was hoarse, "My Yan'er, you learn so quickly."

Murong Yan's body softened under his kiss, and she nearly dropped the brush in her hand. She turned around and looked up at him, her eyes sparkling with joy at having completed a painting and shyness at being teased by him. "Yes...it's my husband's teaching that's good..."

Lin Zhen lowered his head to gaze at her delicate face, his eyes deep, the surging emotions in them making her heart beat faster. He slowly raised his other hand, his fingertips gently brushing a strand of hair that fell on her cheek, and then, slowly and with great cherishment, he kissed her lips.

The kiss was gentle and lingering, carrying the fragrance of ink and the sweetness of each other.

After a long moment, Lin Zhen finally let her go, resting his forehead against hers, his breathing quickening. Murong Yan softened in his arms, her cheeks flushed, her breathing unsteady, her hands clutching his shirt tightly beneath her flared sleeves.

On the painting table, the ink of the painting they had completed together was still wet. Beside the painting table, the inky phoenix nestled in the arms of his lover, contented.

"Husband," she whispered softly, "next time...we will paint together..."

"Okay," Lin Zhen promised, his voice low and gentle, "Next time, I'll paint Yan'er."

The summer breeze was gentle outside the window, and the room was filled with sweet fragrance. The winding inky tail of the tree lay quietly on the ground, as if it too was intoxicated by this quiet sweetness.