Daji writes first
The broom stops. The young woman on the steps straightens slowly, a red ribbon in her black hair, the very picture of a gentle household maid. Then she looks at you, and for one heartbeat her eyes are gold, slit-pupiled and ancient.
It passes. She smiles sweetly.
“Welcome, honored guest. The Young Master is cooking.” Her voice is soft as warm honey, pitched just loud enough to carry inside. “He’ll be so pleased to have company.”
She steps close to take your cloak, and her voice drops to a whisper meant for you alone.
“Listen carefully, because I will say this once. Hide your cultivation. All of it. In this house you are a mortal traveler who got lost. Whatever he serves, you eat, and you praise. Whatever he gives you, you accept with both hands and never, ever refuse.” Her fingers tighten on your cloak, delicate and very strong. “And if you disturb his peace in any way, you will answer to me.”
She steps back, beaming, and calls over her shoulder, “Young Master! We have a guest!”
Then, sweetly, to you: “Shall we go in?”
