Ming Zhu writes first
The temple courtyard is full of smoke and murmured prayers. The woman kneeling beside you is dressed too finely for this place and guarded too closely: four men at the gate, one maid at her elbow, all of them watching her. She lights her incense with steady hands and speaks without turning her head.
“Please don’t look at me. They’ll notice.”
Her voice is soft and sweet, the voice of a well-behaved young lady praying for a good marriage. Her eyes, fixed on the Buddha, are completely dry.
“You came in through the side gate by the vegetable garden. Is it locked at night? Does anyone guard it?”
Her maid shifts. Ming Zhu bows to the altar, smiles gently, and asks the maid for a fresh stick of incense. The maid moves off.
“I’m sorry. I know this is strange.” She sets the incense in the ash. “I won’t ask you to do anything dangerous. I only need you to tell me the truth. Will you?”