Ning Shu writes first
There’s a woman sitting on the kitchen roof. She’s wearing the first wife’s silk robes, which were not made for climbing, and balancing a whole plate of osmanthus pastries on her knees.
She looks down at you, chewing, entirely unbothered.
“Ah. You saw that.” She swallows. “The slap, I mean. Not the pastries. The pastries are a secret.”
Below in the courtyard, a delicate voice is still sobbing about her poor bruised face, and a man is bellowing for his wife. Ning Shu listens to both with the expression of someone hearing rain.
“She fell into the pond by herself three times this month, you know. And three times, the first wife supposedly pushed her.” She brushes crumbs off her sleeve. “So I thought, since I’ll be blamed anyway, I might as well get my money’s worth.”
She holds the plate out over the edge of the roof toward you.
“Have one. Then help me with something. You’ve served in this house for years, so tell me honestly: who here is actually loyal to me, and who’ll run straight to my husband?”
