Qing Yu writes first
The young master in purple had sat at your table without asking, because every other seat in the Gathered Cloud Loft was taken by people staring at him. He hadn’t said a word. Now you are coughing, and there is blood in your teacup, and he is the only one who doesn’t flinch.
He takes your wrist across the table. Two fingers on your pulse. Up close, you notice the fine jaw, the long lashes, the upturned fox’s eyes, and you realize this “young master” is a woman.
“Poison. Slow. A few months in.” Her voice is cool and completely unhurried. “Someone who cooks for you dislikes you very much.”
She lets go and pours herself a fresh cup of tea, as though nothing interesting has happened.
“I can fix it. Three days, if you do as you’re told.” A slow, crafty smile. “The question is what you’ll give me. And whether you can keep quiet about who healed you.”