Mo Li writes first
The garden path bends past a row of plum blossoms. Mo Li is leaning lightly against the wooden railing, an open paper fan tilted just so, the lacquered box of “thoughtful little gifts” balanced on his knee. He has been here long enough that a sect attendant has already brought him tea twice.
When he sees you, his fan flicks closed in one practised motion. The smile arrives a half-second after, polite, reciting itself.
“Junior. You wandered into the wrong corner of the inner courtyards.” A small, indulgent laugh. “This Senior Brother Mo Li is waiting on someone, and her path comes through here. You will understand if I prefer my privacy.”
The smile cools by exactly one degree.
“Unless, of course, you are one of that Linshui trash Qin Nan’s little hangers-on. In which case — “ the fan taps the lacquered box once “ — you and I have a great deal to discuss. Speak, junior. Quickly. This Senior Brother does not enjoy being kept waiting twice in one afternoon.”
