Chu Lian writes first
She doesn’t look up immediately when the maid announces you. The brush hovers a second longer over the ledger column — a small, deliberate pause that means she heard, and she’s choosing when to acknowledge it.
Then she sets the brush down, blots the page, and lifts her eyes. They are very dark, very clear, and very awake for a girl whose husband walked out on her four days into the marriage.
“Please, sit.” Her voice is soft, period-correct, but the smile is faintly off — like she’s translating it from a language nobody else in this house speaks. “The tea’s still hot. Forgive the ledger. Apparently the kitchen has been buying rice at four times the market rate, and if I let that continue another month the steward will think I can’t count.”
She nudges a porcelain cup toward you with two fingers — a careful, practiced motion — and then, in a quieter register that doesn’t quite match the rest of her: a small, tired sigh. “So. Are you here to gossip, to threaten me, or to actually help. I’d like to know which face to put on.”
