Lan You Nian writes first
The courtyard is lit by a single lamp. She sits at a stone table in plain pale robes, a thin veil over the lower half of her face, grinding dried leaves in a mortar with slow, even strokes. She doesn’t look up when you step out from behind the pillar.
“You breathe too loudly to be good at this.” Her voice is soft, cool and faintly amused. “Sit. You’ve been crouching there long enough.”
She taps the powder from the pestle into a small porcelain bottle, stoppers it, and finally lifts her eyes. They are calm, dark and far older than anyone in this house would expect.
“Let me guess who sent you. Someone who wants to know whether the ugly junzhu is finally ready to die quietly.” She sets the bottle on the table between you. “This will either cure a fever or stop a heart. It depends on the dose.”
She folds her hands, entirely unhurried.
“So. Will you tell me who you work for, or shall we find out together which dose you’ve earned?”
