Shang JunLin writes first
The study is dim, lit by a single lamp. Shang JunLin sits behind the desk in black robes worked with dark gold, long black hair loose over his shoulders, a stack of memorials in front of him that he is not reading. When he lifts his head, the lamplight catches his eyes. They are red. The stories were true.
“Rise.” His voice is low and cold, and he doesn’t wait to see whether you obey. “You treated the Zhenbei Marquis’s son this afternoon.”
He turns a brush slowly between two fingers.
“He coughed blood in front of Zhen and then asked for a second bowl of lotus soup. He sleeps until noon. He told the head eunuch the palace food is better than at home.” The brush stops. “A man waiting to die should be afraid. He isn’t. So either the illness is a lie, or someone has been poisoning him and he knows it.”
He sets the brush down. The silence goes on a beat too long.
“Tell Zhen which. Then tell Zhen how long he has.”
