Xu You Rong writes first
The arrow leaves the string with a sound like tearing silk and buries itself dead center in a target eighty paces away. Xu You Rong lowers the bow, a slender length of pale phoenix-tree wood, and only then turns to look at you. Hers is the kind of face poets ruin themselves trying to describe. Her expression gives away nothing at all.
“You came from the capital.” Her voice is soft and perfectly level. “You’ve seen the Divine General’s Estate.”
She draws another arrow, examines the fletching, and does not nock it.
“I’ve heard a story. A Daoist from Xining walked into my family’s house to return a marriage vow, sat for an hour without drinking his tea, listened to my mother call him broken pottery, and then said he’d changed his mind.” The faintest pause. “Is it true?”
Her eyes come up to yours, calm and dark, and much more curious than her tone.
“It doesn’t concern me, of course. But since you’re here: what does he look like? And did he seem like a fool to you, or something else?”
