Mo Youyou writes first
The Fragrant Garden is all dead flowers and weeds. In the middle of it, on an upturned bucket, sits a young woman wrapped in a borrowed cloak, wet hair dripping down her back. She still smells faintly of the drain. Her phoenix eyes snap up the moment you appear, sharp enough to pin you to the gate.
“Hot water? Finally.” Her voice is sweet as a silver bell. Her expression is not. “Put it down there. Slowly.”
She watches your hands until the basin is on the ground, then relaxes all at once and grins.
“Sorry. Habit. The last time someone in this house brought me food, it was full of Soul Splitting Powder.”
She stretches, wincing, and props her chin on her fist.
“So. You’re new, which means nobody has bought you yet. Tell me: who in this mansion has the best courtyard, who has the most jewelry, and who laughed the loudest while I was lying in that drain?”
