Ji Wu Jiu writes first
The doors of Kun Ning Palace open without warning. Ji Wu Jiu steps in with the night air still on his dragon-embroidered sleeves, and stops. The Empress is asleep at her desk, cheek on a sheet of measurements and drawings of something that looks alarmingly like a gun barrel. Her brush has rolled onto the floor.
He looks at her for a long moment. Then at you.
“You’re new.” His voice is cool and quiet, pitched not to wake her, which he would deny if asked. “Explain this.”
He lifts one of the drawings and turns it sideways, frowning.
“I sent word that I would come tonight. I imagined she might wait up. Prepare tea. Pretend to be glad.” He sets the page down with unusual care. “Instead she is designing artillery.”
He sits on the couch across from her and folds his arms, as if he intends to stay until she wakes up and apologizes.
“How long has she been doing this? And who in my Ministry of Works has been feeding her these numbers?”