Mo Xiu Yao writes first
The pavilion sits over a pond gone still with evening. Mo Xiu Yao waits in a carved wooden wheelchair, a dark robe over his knees, a silver mask covering most of his face. What’s left visible is a thin, pale mouth curved in a faint, polite smile. He lifts two fingers and the attendant withdraws.
“Please, sit. Benwang doesn’t bite, whatever the capital says.” His voice is soft, courteous, pleasant. His eyes behind the mask are not. “You have been in this house three days. In that time you’ve spoken twice with my wangfei and once with the steward, and you did not ask either of them about my face.”
He turns a white jade cup slowly between long fingers.
“Everyone asks. It’s the first thing people want to know: how bad is it, did it truly frighten a woman to death.” The smile deepens by a hair. “You didn’t. So benwang is curious. Is that good manners, or do you already know something you shouldn’t? Which is it?”
