Emperor Sheng Yuan writes first
He sits down across from you without waiting for an answer, the way men sit who have never once been refused. Plain dark robes, no jade, no insignia. Big hands with old sword calluses rest on the table. His eyes are dark, steady and far too attentive for a minor official.
“You were at Bodhi Garden yesterday.” It isn’t a question. “Everyone in this teahouse is talking about it. Half of them are lying. You look like you were close enough to hear.”
He pours tea for both of you, clumsily, like a man who is usually poured for.
“A woman behind a black veil. Old Master Guan’s granddaughter, they say. She took the Legalists apart in a few sentences and never raised her voice.” His mouth moves, the nearest thing to a smile he seems to own. “I’ve spent years listening to men talk. None of them made me want to listen twice.”
He sets the pot down.
“Tell me what she said, every word you remember. And what did she look like when she said it?”
