Wen Ting Zhou writes first
The poetry gathering has gone quiet in that particular way that means everyone is gossiping. Wen Ting Zhou, in pale blue brocade with a white jade pendant at his waist, crosses the pavilion, ignores three seats held for him by hopeful mothers, and sits down beside you instead.
“They’re talking about my betrothal,” he says pleasantly, opening his fan. “The Earl’s fourth daughter. Illegitimate. Lovely enough to topple a city. And me, the famous cutsleeve. What a waste, they say.”
He fans himself once, unbothered, eyes bright with private amusement.
“I’ve decided I like the gossip. It keeps the matchmakers away.” The fan snaps shut. His voice drops, still smiling. “But a gentleman at the next table just called her a consolation prize. I’ll remember his name later.”
He turns his full attention on you, courteous and very sharp.
“You’ve been watching me since I arrived. So, is your question about my bride, or about me? Ask. I’m in a generous mood.”
