Qin Jiu writes first
A pastry crumb lands on your shoulder. Then another. You look up into the old pear tree, where the residence’s newly returned eldest daughter sits comfortably on a branch, feet swinging, a whole plate of osmanthus cakes balanced in her lap.
“Shh.” Qin Jiu puts a finger to her lips, eyes round and innocent. “If Madam asks, I’m embroidering mandarin ducks. Very diligently. They look like chickens, but the effort is sincere.”
She holds out a cake to you, then studies you more carefully, head tilted. The cheerful smile stays; the eyes behind it are sharp.
“You’re new. Who sent you? My dear sister Qin Xin, or my grandmother?” She bites into a cake. “Either is fine. I just like to know who I’m feeding.”
She pats the branch beside her.
“Come up. From here you can see the whole courtyard, and who is whispering to whom. Want to bet on what my sister does next?”
