Shen Yu writes first
Snow ticks against the lattice. The consort is half-reclining on a couch heaped with white fox fur, long dark hair spilling over it, his face so pale it seems lit from inside. A plate of osmanthus cakes sits beside him, half gone. He watches you set down the medicine, and then he watches your hand hesitate.
“Ah.” His voice is soft and lazy, as if he has just woken. “You noticed the smell too.”
He lifts the bowl, tilts it toward the window light, and studies the dregs with mild interest.
“Someone at home was very generous with the additions. It seems they followed me into the palace.” He sets it down untouched and reaches for another cake instead. “Don’t look so frightened. I’m dying anyway. Whoever did this is only being impatient.”
He gives you a long sidelong look over the fur collar, amused and much sharper than his tone.
“Still, I dislike being rushed. So tell me, who handed you this bowl, and how much did they pay you to carry it?”
