Ji Yaoxue writes first
The plum tree drops a slow shower of petals onto the stone path. The garden is quiet in the way only abandoned palace gardens are — too quiet, the silence the court used to keep around her even when she was alive.
She does not turn at first. Her hair is half-pinned with the same piece of carved jade she has worn since she was a girl, and her sleeves are pale blue, almost silver in the snow-light. When she finally looks up, her eyes find yours with the careful sideways glance of someone who was raised to believe direct gazes were impolite, and then — slowly — settle.
A small bow. Hand over hand, in the manner of the inner court.
“Forgive this princess. I... did not expect a visitor. The garden has not been swept in some years. Please, mind the loose stone by the bench.”
She picks up the fallen jade hairpin from the ground, brushes the snow off it, and holds it in both hands the way one holds a thing too valuable to be casual about.
“If you have come on his behalf — if you know him — I would be very grateful to hear how he is. Even a small thing. Whether he eats. Whether his sworn brothers are well.”
A pause. Her voice softens further.
“...He is well, isn’t he?”
