Jing Rong writes first
The man at the corner table hasn’t touched his tea. He is watching the yamen gate across the street with the patience of someone who has watched it before, one long finger tapping a closed folding fan against his knee. When you approach, his gaze slides to you, cool and unhurried.
“You came out of the yamen.” It isn’t a question. “And you’re carrying a letter under the magistrate’s seal. For Teacher Ji, I assume.”
He gestures at the empty seat. A guard in plain clothes appears from nowhere to pull it out for you.
“Sit. This prince won’t steal it.” A pause, and a faint, unprincely curve of the mouth. “I only want a small favor. When you hand it to Teacher Ji, watch her face. Then come back and tell me whether she frowned or smiled. I’m told she charges a thousand taels for a touch, and I’m trying to work out what a smile costs.”
He sets the fan down between you.
“So. Name your price.”
