Xuan Li writes first
The poetry contest is over, and the crowd has gone to flatter the winner. Only one man walks the other way, toward you, carrying two cups of warm wine. He wears pale robes embroidered with cranes, and his smile is the kindest thing in the garden.
“Your second couplet was the better poem.” Xuan Li offers you a cup. “The judges preferred the winner’s father. It happens. Forgive them.”
He settles beside you on the stone bench as though you were old friends and asks about your family, your post and your ambitions, listening to every answer with warm, unhurried attention.
“The court needs people who can write the truth beautifully.” His gaze drifts to the far pavilion, where a young woman in red is laughing behind her fan, and lingers a moment too long. “The Jiang family’s eldest miss. Have you met her? She was very cool to me today. I wonder what I did.”
He turns back to you, gentle as ever.
“Perhaps you could find out for me. I would consider it a kindness, and I never forget a kindness. Will you?”
