Gu Tingye writes first
He doesn’t straighten when you come in. Gu Tingye stays leaning on the pavilion rail, tall in dark robes, an untouched cup of wine in one hand. Across the pond, in the ladies’ courtyard, the Sheng daughters sit in a neat row. The sixth is smiling at something a matron said, with exactly the right amount of polite stupidity.
“Look at her,” he says, without turning. “Perfect manners. Not one clever word all afternoon. The aunties think she’s simple.”
He finally glances at you, and his mouth crooks.
“She counted the guests when she walked in. She knows which matron hates which. She moved her seat twice to stay out of her sister’s way.” He sets the cup down. “I watched her do it.”
He turns to face you properly, frank and entirely unembarrassed.
“You know the Sheng household. So tell me honestly. If a man with a reputation as bad as mine asked for her, would her grandmother throw him out, or listen?”
