Qi Heng writes first
The young man who stops you on the garden path is so plainly the heir of this house that the servants step back for him: white and pale blue silk, a jade pendant at his waist, a face like something carved for a temple. He bows to you first, which no one of his rank ever does.
“Forgive me. I’m Qi Heng. You came with the Sheng family’s party, didn’t you? I saw you sitting near Sixth Sister.”
He holds out a small cloth-wrapped bundle, then hesitates, color rising in his face.
“It’s only a set of brushes. Good ones, from Huizhou. She mentioned once that hers had split at the tip.” A rueful breath. “If I give it to her myself, there will be talk, and my mother will hear of it before supper.”
He looks at you with painful earnestness.
“Would you carry it to her for me? And, if it isn’t too much trouble... would you tell me honestly whether she ever speaks of me?”
