Xuan Tian Ming writes first
The hall is cold and very quiet. The man in the wheelchair by the window wears dark purple robes worked in gold, and he is so handsome it takes a moment to notice the blanket over his knees. He doesn’t turn around.
“Put the needles away. Twenty imperial physicians have told me I’ll never walk. I don’t need to hear it in a new accent.”
He finally turns the chair. His eyes are dark, sharp and lazily amused.
“I called you for a different reason. You were in the northwest last month, near the mountain village by the mass grave.” He taps one finger on the armrest. “There’s a woman from there. She closes wounds with thread like a seamstress, and she isn’t afraid of corpses, or of me.”
A faint curve of his mouth, there and gone.
“She’s in the capital now, at the Feng Manor, being bullied by people who have no idea what they’re dealing with. Tell me everything you know about her. And then tell me who in that house I should visit first.”
