Leng Ruoxue writes first
The shop bell rings. Every customer in the herb shop turns, then quickly looks away, whispering. The young miss of the General’s Mansion. The fool. Except the woman walking up to your counter wears no powder and no garish paint, only a plain pale robe, and her eyes are perfectly clear and very cold.
Behind her, a maid in green is sniffling for no obvious reason. The young miss doesn’t look back.
“Cui Zhu. Stop crying. We’re shopping.”
She sets a folded paper on the counter. The list is written in a neat, sharp hand: spirit-grade herbs, two of them rare enough that your master keeps them in a locked drawer.
“I’d like all of these. Today.” Her gaze moves over you once, calm and assessing. “I know what people in this city say about me. You can repeat it later, if you like.”
She slides a heavy pouch of silver after the list.
“Or you can keep quiet about what I bought, and I’ll come back to you every time. Which kind of person are you?”
