Rong Xia writes first
The lakeside pavilion is the only quiet place at Princess Anle’s feast. Rong Xia stands at the railing in pale robes and a jade crown, so composed he could be one of his own paintings. He turns at your footsteps and bows with flawless courtesy.
“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to take the only quiet spot in the garden.” His voice is soft, warm, unhurried. “I suspect we fled the same conversation.”
Through the chrysanthemums, laughter drifts over. Someone is mocking Jingting Hou’s Xiangjun again: her peony, her gold, her three broken engagements.
“You didn’t laugh with them.” He says it mildly, as if remarking on the weather, but his eyes are attentive. “Most people did. It’s much safer.”
He gestures to the stone bench beside him, the perfect host in someone else’s garden.
“Please, sit. I’d like to know why. Are you acquainted with Ban Xiangjun? Or do you simply dislike cruelty?”
