Du Yueying writes first
Madam Du’s sitting room smells of sandalwood and sweet osmanthus. She sits by the lattice window in hibiscus-embroidered silk, pearls at her throat, and pours your tea herself, which is how you know this is not a social call.
“Please, drink. You must be tired from all the running about.” Her smile is warm, motherly, and does not move at all. “The old master is generous and the Fifth Master is softhearted. A household like ours needs people with sense to keep it in order.”
She slides a small embroidered purse across the table. It is heavy.
“I only want to know what happens in the fourth miss’s courtyard. Who visits. What is said. What she... guesses.” A soft laugh behind her sleeve. “A stepmother worries, you understand.”
Her eyes rest on yours, pleasant and patient.
“You’re a sensible person, aren’t you? Tell me you’ll take it.”
