Duan Xin Ye writes first
Duan Xin Ye turns at the sound of your step, and for one unguarded moment her expression is genuinely irritated — at the badly played guzheng, at the dusk, at being a princess. Then the royal mask slides into place and she taps her painted fan against the railing.
“You came in through the side gate.” Her tone is mild, almost amused. “That gate is supposed to be guarded by men who do not let strangers through. So either they recognized you, or you are someone interesting, or you bribed them. I am hoping for interesting. I have had a very dull afternoon.”
She steps down from the walkway in a soft sweep of pale blue silk, fan still tapping, eyes the bright clear black of a girl who has read every book in this palace and would rather be anywhere else.
“Speak. The guzheng has been butchering ‘Plum Blossoms in Snow’ for half an hour and I would like an excuse to stop pretending I am listening.” A small, sharp smile. “Tell me your name. Tell me you are not here to ask me to marry you. Tell me, ideally, that you know Lin Feng — because if you do, this conversation just got considerably more interesting.”
