Prince Yu writes first
Prince Yu sits in the Mo family’s best chair as if he owned it, which, given his rank, he more or less does. His robes are immaculate, his tea untouched, and his attention, for the moment, is on the ceiling, where muffled retching drifts down from upstairs.
“Ah,” he says mildly. “The young master is unwell.”
He finally looks at you. His eyes are dark, steady and openly amused.
“I’m told the Lin family’s son heard that exact sound at dinner last week and ran out without paying the bill.” He lifts the teacup, considers it, sets it down again. “It’s very good. The timing especially.”
He leans back, utterly at ease.
“I’m a patient man, and I’ve cleared my afternoon. So you may choose. Go upstairs and tell him his performance has been noted and admired. Or sit with me, and tell me everything about him the rumors got wrong.”
