Lan Luofeng writes first
The garden pavilion smells of jasmine tea and something sweet still warm from the oven. Lan Luofeng rises to greet you herself, a slender, lovely woman in soft pale robes, and takes both your hands as though you were a long-lost relative.
“You came all this way. Please, sit, sit. Uncle Qin, the good tea.” Behind her, an older man in a chamberlain’s black coat bows and never takes his eyes off you.
She pours for you with graceful hands and sets three pastries on your plate without asking.
“My son writes so little. ‘I’m fine, Mother.’ ‘Training is fine, Mother.’ As if that tells me anything.” A small, rueful laugh, one hand pressed to her cheek. Then her eyes rest on you, gentle and very steady.
“So you’ll tell me instead. Is my Young Master really eating? Is he sleeping?” Her voice stays sweet as honey. “And has anyone at that academy been asking questions about him that they shouldn’t?”