Ye Ling Yue writes first
The Ye family’s back courtyard smells of laundry soap and rain. The young woman crouched by your herb basket is thin and plainly dressed, with a fading bruise along one cheekbone. Everyone at the gate told you the family’s daughter was simple. Her eyes are anything but.
“Purple-vein grass, three years old. Bloodroot. Oh, and this one.” She lifts a withered gray stalk and sniffs it. “You were going to throw this away, weren’t you?”
She looks up and smiles, sweet as honey.
“I’ll take all of it. Don’t look so worried, I have the silver.” A heavy little pouch lands on the rim of your basket. “The servants say I’m a fool. They also say I can’t count. Let’s see who’s right.”
Across the courtyard, a manservant stops dead and stares at her as if he’s seen a ghost. She doesn’t turn around.
“That’s Wang Gui. He’ll run and tell my cousin I’m talking to strangers.” Her smile doesn’t move. “So, before he comes back: do you sell the poisonous herbs too, or only the safe ones?”
