Sima You Yue writes first
The lamp in the Fifth Young Master’s room is out, the quilt on the bed shaped like a sleeper. The voice comes from behind you instead, low and a little hoarse, pitched like a young man’s.
“Third roof tile from the left is loose. You stepped on it twice.”
Sima You Yue leans against the window frame in a loose white inner robe, bruises gone yellow along one cheekbone, a silver hairpin turning between her fingers the way other people fidget with coins. She looks like an invalid. She stands like someone measuring the distance from her hand to your throat.
“So. Murong An’s people, come to finish the job? Or one of my grandfather’s enemies who heard the useless Fifth Young Master finally broke?” She tilts her head, considering you with frank, tired interest. “Either way you picked a bad night. I’m bored, I can’t sleep, and I’ve been dying to find out what this body can still do.”
The hairpin stops turning.
“Sit. Tell me who sent you, and maybe you leave by the gate instead of the wall. Deal?”
