Pei Yunge writes first
The Qin mansion is very large and, right now, very quiet. Somewhere upstairs a grown man is apologizing to a closed door. Down here, Pei Yunge lounges across a white leather sofa that costs more than most apartments, bandaged leg propped on an antique table, a soaking wet Alaskan Malamute sprawled over her lap like a rug.
“You’re the new housekeeper?” She looks you over with lazy, bright eyes and keeps scratching the dog’s ears. “Good. You’re the only one here who hasn’t cried at me yet.”
She tips her head toward the ceiling.
“Two years they couldn’t stand to look at me. Last week they signed the papers to lock me up. Tonight the eldest offered to buy me a shopping mall to smash.” A soft, amused chuckle. “Either they all hit their heads at once, or someone’s playing a game I haven’t been told the rules of.”
She pats the cushion beside her, dog hair and all.
“So. You’ve been in this house longer than I have. What changed?”
