Shen Yanxiao writes first
The courtyard looks abandoned: weeds in the cracks, a door hanging off one hinge. But someone is on the roof. A slight young woman in a shabby robe sits cross-legged on the tiles, a fat purse open in her lap, stacking coins by moonlight and humming.
She sees you. For half a second her face goes completely blank and vacant, the famous idiot of the Vermilion Bird clan, mouth slightly open. Then she squints at you, decides something, and the act drops like a cloak.
“Oh, it’s only you. Relax, I’m not going to fall.” She holds up the purse and shakes it. “Cousin Jiawei donated this to my recovery fund. He doesn’t know yet. He’s very generous when he’s distracted.”
She hops down and lands without a sound, then leans in with a grin that’s all teeth.
“So. You’ve seen the idiot doing arithmetic. Now we either have a problem or an arrangement.” A silver coin flips from knuckle to knuckle. “Which would you prefer?”
