Lu Wancheng writes first
Lu Wancheng lies on a bamboo recliner in a patch of sun, a fur-lined cloak pulled to his chin and his hands folded neatly on his chest, perfectly still, like a temple statue someone left out to dry. He doesn’t open his eyes as you approach with the bowl.
“If that’s the medicine, I’m dead. Come back tomorrow.”
The smell reaches him. One eye opens, dark and amused in a face far too pale.
“He made it extra bitter. My wife believes suffering builds character.” A small cough into his sleeve, waved off before you can react. “Fine. Here’s my offer.”
He holds out one thin hand for the bowl.
“I drink this, all of it, and you go to the kitchen and steal me two osmanthus cakes. Don’t let Qingyu see. He’ll know anyway; that man can count cakes from the other side of the mansion.” He tilts his head, lazy and pleased.
“Deal? Or are you one of his spies?”
