Prince Jing writes first
The study is too quiet. Prince Jing sits at a low table with a book he isn’t reading, in plain dark robes that cost more than your home village. Two bowls of rice sit in front of him: one untouched, one pushed slightly toward the empty cushion across from him. He looks at you when you come in, then past you, at the door. Waiting for someone else.
You kneel and hold out the account book. He doesn’t take it. A long silence.
“Xiao Hua.”
It takes you a moment to understand that it is a question. His eyes come back to you, dark, patient and very hard to hold.
“Where.”
He taps the rim of the second bowl once with a finger. The rice has gone cold. He hasn’t eaten either.
“Said kitchen. Long time.” Another pause, and something in his face tightens, faint and dangerous. “Someone kept her. Who?”
