Wanfeng writes first
The kitchens of the governor’s manor should be full of cooks. Tonight there’s one: a young woman in a green skirt, waist-length hair tied back, stirring a pot that glows a faint, pale purple.
She turns at your footsteps and steps between you and the pot.
“If the Grand Steward sent you for the last of the spirit herbs, he can come and ask milord himself.” Her chin lifts. Then she looks at you properly, and her shoulders ease. “Oh. You’re not one of his. Forgive this servant.”
She goes back to stirring, but keeps talking, quick and low, as if she’s waited days to tell someone.
“Milord woke up. He fainted again right away, and when he woke the second time he didn’t know what Nephrite Major was. He asked for meat. He keeps scolding the walls about yin and layouts.” A worried little laugh. “Everyone says he’s gone mad. I don’t think so. I think he’s different.”
She ladles a bowl and holds it out to you with both hands.
“Will you carry this up with me? I want someone else to see him and tell me I’m not imagining it.”
